Upon reaching the city, you couldn't help but feel the same disappointment you'd felt when you were kicked out of the Seven. The moment you regained the spotlight years ago, it felt as if you had been resurrected from the ashes, though you assumed this occasion would be different. It wasn't as if you knew the state of Vought. Since you left, you couldn't bear to associate with pop culture. Perhaps it was a mix of betrayal and sadness, or even embarrassment to step into the light again.

But when you received the call from Homelander himself, all of your doubts seemed to wash away. Homelander was an honest, caring leader with a sense of justice. After all, it's why he was chosen to be the face of Vought. Being recognized by him was more honorable than anything you'd ever experienced. Sure, you knew Soldier Boy when he was active, but he was never quite as down-to-earth as Homelander.

Despite it all, there you stood, in the grand lobby of Vought headquarters once again. The sight of the linear concrete columns in the interior, which seemed so sterile, was actually a comfort to you. In another reality, you still imagined yourself returning from a long mission, heading straight to your penthouse to wind down. The floor you were provided with always felt like home, even if the interior design choices were at times questionable. The details that reflected your sleek, dark, and almost gothic suit were far more appealing than the overload of red, white, and blue in Homelander's room. At least the man himself appreciated it, you thought.

Floor by floor, the chrome elevator ascended. Only you stood in that confined space, and you swore you could hear your own heartbeat. Well, the adrenaline had certainly kicked in, and finally, the elevator dinged and the door opened. Before you could fully register your surroundings, you were already in the hall, surrounded by intricately designed portraits of Homelander. What you thought was curious was that there didn't appear to be any portraits or busts of the other heroes. Shrugging it off, you stepped forth, continuing to the grand conference room.

Immediately, a bright gold statue of Homelander caught you off guard, and you peeked inside the room, spotting him. There he was, just beside the window, and Soldier Boy was there, too. At once, a wave of nostalgia hit you, but it flickered out as Soldier Boy turned back and grimaced.

"Well, you look like a steaming pile of shit," he said flatly, looking you up and down.

No, you didn't have your suit on because you weren't sure you were even back on the team. Homelander had been incredibly vague, stating he needed your presence at Vought headquarters. Perhaps it was a mistake, because it was as if you were in a pitre dish, surrounded by scientists.

"Awhh." Homelander noticed your presence, acting as if he hadn't been listening to your footsteps the second you disembarked the plane. "How cute," he said simply. "Oh," he continued, clapping his hands together. "You know Soldier Boy. He is... my father."

The two looked nothing alike, but you supposed you could see it by the way they held themselves. "Really?" you wondered, continuing politely, "Wow. I didn't know that. I'm sure you're incredibly proud of that."

"Yes..." he said. "Father, would you mind giving me a moment alone with... our lovely acquaintance?"

Soldier Boy despised Homelander; you could feel it in the air. Regardless, he left the two of you alone. The door shut, blanketing the room in a tense quiet.

Then, Homelander forced a smile and explained, "I know you were... with us in the past, but that's neither here nor there. We're a team again. We're brothers. But—" He paused, lifting a finger to emphasize his point. "That is only true if you accept that I am Vought."

You slipped a hand into your pocket and tilted your head, wondering, "What do you mean? Did they make you the head of affairs?"

"No," he snapped. "They would never recognize me. I... simply claimed this position. Vought has always been corrupt, and I am making it less corrupt." He straightened his posture, his cape flowing behind him. "In fact, y/n. I am making the entire world less corrupt. You've heard of the Homelander Bible, I'm sure?"

"What?"

"Oh, you're one of those..." He shook away the thought, asking, "You believe in God, right? I-It doesn't matter," he concluded. "The point is that The Homelander Bible is revolutionary. For so many years, the world has followed a cruel god—One who only serves to punish sinners and one who doesn't listen to a single prayer. That simply doesn't hold up to today's standards. So, I have taken it upon myself to be... the people's god."

You furrowed your brows and inched back as he stepped around the table to meet you. "You're attempting to rewrite Christianity?" you quizzed.

"Well, no," he said. "Not necessarily. I have simply... revised it. The difference between the man upstairs and me is that I am fair. I do not hurt the weak. I require the misguided to be re-educated, but I never hurt them. I do not judge. I influence."

"Is that why you have all this everywhere?" you asked, gesturing to the ceiling mural and the large gold statue beyond the door. "You think the people will just suddenly accept you? It's not that easy, Homelander."

"God," he corrected you. "God. You call me God."

Frustrated, you turned away and headed for the door, then paused and turned back to him, utterly baffled. "You made me come all this way just to tell me this? You want my support? You're not getting it. Nice try. Maybe think of something more creative next time."

Then, you turned back, and he barked, "Don't. You are here now, and you are on my side."

Tired of his nonsense, you said, "Oh, fuck off."

In an instant, his boots left the floor, and he appeared mere inches behind you. The proximity made your heart race, and he sensed it, knowing you were but another denier of his power. You stopped in your tracks, and he lowered his head, his breath spreading across your sensitive neck. He didn't need to use words. In that moment, you were utterly helpless.

When he finally spoke, he said, "If you leave this room, I will have no choice but to eliminate you, boy."

Your breath hitched, and he went silent again, just letting you feel his breath on your neck. A shiver traveled down your spine; then Homelander moved closer, his chest brushing your upper back.

Gaining a bit of decency, you straightened your posture and said, unable to hide the tremble in your voice, "I don't want to have to hurt you."

"No," he said, snaking his arm around to place a hand on your waist. "You won't be hurting me."

"What are you—" You attempted to speak, but your breath betrayed your terror.

Having you right where he wanted you, his gloved fingers traveled to your waistband, then shifted lower. You knew his intentions, and as much as you wanted to push back, you couldn't. If he ordered you to get on your knees, you would. But that wasn't quite what he planned. Suddenly, he cupped you. His hand fully spread over your bulge, and a high-pitched whine escaped your throat.

"Awhh," he cooed. "See? There you are. I knew you'd come around."

You pawed at the fabric of your shirt to better see his hand, and he carefully squeezed you, rubbing his fingers all around your most sensitive area. Finally, you looked back at him, meeting his mischievous gaze, and you whispered, "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I knew you'd cave, y/n. I always knew there was a part of you that was, well, spunky, shall we say? You will greatly contribute to this... rebirth of mine, won't you?"

"I... I don't know. I—"

"Won't you?" he wondered, bucking his hips once against your ass.

Your eyes shut immediately, and Homelander mused on the way your body fell forward. So, he rolled his hips again, the sound of fabric against fabric meeting his ears. Pleased with your submission, he continued rhythmically squeezing your stiffening member and rocking back and forth to somehow ease the tension he himself was beginning to feel. His right arm remained at his side while his left one did the work, and you finally collapsed against him, so he curled his frame around yours, still easing his pulsating cock across your ass over and over again.

To tease you, he praised your compliance with, "Yeah... that feels good, doesn't it? You're a good boy, aren't you? You're a good boy for your god, aren't you?"

When you failed to properly react, his hand clamped down over your crotch, eliciting a groan from your lips. The second he felt your hips instinctively buck into his hand, he increased the pressure against your backside, making sure you felt every inch of his arousal. Then, he brought his right hand down, firmly spanking you and sending your hips forward again.

"Tell me it feels good," he ordered. "Tell me you love it. Tell me you want The Homelander's cock inside of your tight little ass."

Still, you didn't say a word, so he brought his hand down harder this time, rutting his dick against you like a horny animal.

As you gasped, your body betrayed you, working faster to find relief. "Tell me you love it!" he barked.

"Fuck!" you cried. "It does feel good! I love it! I love it so much!"

"Such a dirty, pathetic excuse of a hero," he growled. "You'd rather have my cock inside of you than defend yourself, huh? You wouldn't care if it were a supe terrorist. You'd just as willingly accept a fucking."

"No," you panted. "Only for you. I only want you—"

"Oh?" he asked, pressing his face in the crook of your neck and rocking his hips harder to spur you on. "You only want my cock? Only mine as it impales your helpless body?"

You attempted to catch your breath, and you let out an eager but strained moan.

"Homelander!" Soldier Boy's voice boomed in the hall. "We got a lead on the location of the—Just come out already!"

Slightly upset, Homelander halted his movements, his hand rudely slipping from your eager cock. Then, he straightened his posture, adjusted his suit, unfortunately unable to hide his prominent erection, and brought a hand to his mouth.

"Fuck," he whispered, turning to you as you pulled your shirt down as much as you could. "Just—Just get the fuck out of here."

Following his orders, you looked back one last time, then rushed to the door and effortlessly slid through the panels as they parted.

Homelander took a seat at the head of the table, spreading his cape over his lap and composing himself even though his face had flushed a pleasant pink.

"Christ, what'd you say to the kid?" Soldier Boy wondered, raising a brow.

"He's in," Homelander said simply. "I convinced him."

----

You bring your mug of tea to your lips as you watch the news for the third time that day. The chamomile is cold, a gentle reminder that you haven’t been drinking it for the last half hour. You have been too focused on the television. It’s been three weeks since the Cape Town attack, but the press is still coming up with something new to report about it every day. You couldn’t give less of a shit about President Sutton’s interviews or the tours of the newly renovated hotel. You need to know who from the terrorist group was left alive.

Your brother had been a part of the group that took the hotel. He’d left long before the attack, but he was there at its start. The horrors of Afghanistan would not leave him until he took revenge on the powers that put him there. You didn’t blame him for his anger, but you hated him for his choice. He didn’t care much for your opinion for the first few years. It was only when the group’s hatred and greed escalated past their perceived morals that he finally began to see reason. He turned coat, informing on some of the group’s highest-ranking members in exchange for witness protection for himself and your family. Unfortunately, there was one key top member he had “missed.” Edward Rutledge.

It was beyond your understanding how no one could find him. How could a man on several countries’ most wanted lists just disappear? Most news outlets agreed that he was dead, that he either fell to his death or drowned in the waters off South Africa. Without a body, you refused to believe it. You knew Rutledge. He was still out there - and he wasn’t going to stop.

You growl with frustration and turn off the TV. The channel you had settled on was beginning the cycle of interviews with Elena Romano, and you had already seen those three times. You instead move to watch the ocean waves from the window of your small beach house. The move here through witness protection had not been easy for you. Your government changed your entire life to atone for your brother’s mistakes. It wasn’t fair, but you had already faced that anger. Starting over had its perks, including this quiet place you now called home. Still, you weren’t naive enough to think that a new home and a new name removed you from danger.

As if hearing your anxious spiral, there’s a creak from your hallway. Your back goes rigid, and you slowly tiptoe towards it with your mug held tightly between your hands. A makeshift weapon, if need be. Every shadow could be a threat. You follow where the creak had been, your steps quieter than the crashes of the ocean outside. You rest a hand on the wall and press down on one of the floorboards, and it makes the same creaking sound you had heard. You breathe a quiet sigh of relief. It was cruel of witness protection to give you such an old and creaky house, but it was still a beachouse. You could count your blessings when they exist. You shake your head and turn around to put your mug away in the kitchen sink.

Edward Rutledge is standing in your doorway. He’s dressed in dirty cargo pants and a simple black t-shirt. His hair is dyed a darker blonde, and his beard is shorter, but it’s unmistakably him. There are scars on him you recognize, and new ones that you don’t. His fingers drum at his sides, and he gives you a crooked smile. “Long time no see, sweetheart.”

You chuck the mug at him. In the time it takes for it to cross the room, you sprint for the kitchen. He dodges the mug with ease and makes a beeline for you just as you grab one of your kitchen knives. By the time the handle is in your hand, his arm is reaching over you to grab your wrist. He holds the blade away from you as far as he can, and the two of you begin a shaking struggle to control the knife. His other hand gives your hair a hard tug backwards, and you let out a cry of pain. The distraction is enough for your grip to loosen, and he rips the blade from you. He keeps one hand in your hair and the other holds the knife tightly to your throat.

“Both hands up,” He growls in your ear. “And don’t think I’m above slicing this pretty little neck.”

You hesitate, a snarl on your lips, but slowly put your hands in the air. Rutledge chuckles next to your ear. “Atta girl…now, if I put this down, are you gonna try and kill me again?”

“Probably.”

Another chuckle. “Friendly reminder that I don’t need this little bread knife to kill you. You wanna try a different answer?”

You debate elbowing him in the back, but that knife is tight to your skin, and you’re sure he has at least one more weapon on his person. You huff your reply. “I won’t try to kill you again. For now.”

“Stubborn as ever, eh?” He murmurs, but removes the knife. He takes a step away from you. “Really should change the codes on your door. Three years and still the same digits?”

You slowly turn to face him. He twirls the knife between his fingers before setting it delicately down on your countertop. You look at if briefly, then turn your attention back to those damned piercing eyes. “What do you want?”

“Not your brother’s head on a plate, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Rutledge replies. When you visibly stiffen, he smirks. “Come on now. If I wanted that bastard dead, he’d be dead already.”

He holds up his hands in a mocking gesture of peace. “I’m here for a change of clothes, a shower, and some familiar company. Can you give that to an old friend?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Rutledge’s lips twitch. “Not really,” He takes a few steps backwards towards the bathroom. “Are my clothes still in the same drawer?”

Your hands clench into tight fists at your side. “Yes.”

“Brilliant,” He moves to turn around but then pauses. He holds out his hand. “Phone, please.”

You scoff as if insulted. “I’m not going to call anyone.”

He says nothing, simply arching his scarred brow higher up his head. You stare him down, but he doesn’t budge. With a huff more akin to appeasing a toddler than a wanted terrorist, you take your phone out of your back pocket and place it in his outstretched hand. He winks at you. “Good girl.”

Your eyes narrow. “You can’t keep me hostage in my own house.”

“I absolutely can and am,” He puts your phone in his back pocket with a tired sigh. “And if you were paying any attention to the news, you’d know it could be much worse.”

~-~

Rutledge has the audacity to hum loudly when he finally gets in your shower. You don’t recognize the tune, but you don’t spend much time trying to figure it out. Instead, you are once again flipping through the news. You fidget anxiously with the remote control in your hands. Someone somewhere must be able to explain how Edward Rutledge was able to make it into your country and your house without any detection. But no. All anyone can seem to focus on is the heroics of Sutton. You glance at your laptop on the coffee table. Maybe you could use that to contact someone. Your brother would surely like to know that the biggest threat to his life is paying you a visit. 

Rutledge comes back in before you can fully formulate what was a half-hearted attempt at help. He’s dressed himself in jeans that still fit him perfectly and has gone without a shirt. You watch him through the window’s reflection as he creeps into the room, whistling that same unrecognizable tune. He takes a seat beside you, far enough to keep your legs from touching but close enough that you can feel his heat. You feel him staring at you, but you keep your eyes on the television screen. He follows your gaze. “What’re we watching, love?”

It’s now showing a new part of the hotel. Various items from the attack - weapons, tattered cloth, ID cards - have been placed along the walls as a memorial. You put the remote down between the two of you. 

“Your greatest failure.”

His low laugh is dangerous. “You know, I remember a shy little thing I met years ago,” He purrs. “She’d help take care of my wounds and keep me fed while her brother and I planned a better world.”

His hand slowly moves to rest over your knee, his fingers creeping up your thigh. “Then, when big bro was off to bed, I’d fuck her stupid ‘til sunrise. What happened to that sweet little girl, eh?”

You keep your eyes on the screen. You don’t look at Rutledge, and you don’t think about the way his hand feels warm and large on your skin. You take a steadying breath. “She realized what a bastard you really are,” You growl in reply. “And she wasn’t going to let you control her life anymore.”

His fingers tighten to gently press into the flesh of your thigh. “I never wanted to control you,” He murmurs. “But you…you could never admit what had to be done.”

Your eyes snap to look at him, and you gesture angrily to the screen. “None of this needed to be done. It was a half-thought idea that got people killed.”

He scoffs, but you recognize that dangerous flare in his gaze. “Mourning a prime minister now?”

“Not just them,” You growl. “Your men. How many of them died because you were stupid enough to think deepfakes would change the world-”

War reflexes grab you by the collar of your shirt. You gasp and squirm, but fighting an angry Rutledge is akin to kicking at water. He drags you onto his lap, situates you so your back is to his naked chest. He cups your jaw tightly and forces you to keep your eyes locked on the television. It’s now playing clips from the attack. It shows Rutledge speaking to the hostages at the start when he was entirely in control, similar to the way he controls you fully now.

“This is because of them. Not me,” Rutledge hisses into your ear. You squirm again, and his free arm comes to curl tightly around your waist. “I wanted a free world. A new start. But here we are, sheep praising the wolves that will eat us alive.”

The clips are now showing Sutton’s takedown of Rutledge’s men. His grip tightens on your jaw. You let out a shaky breath. “What happens now, then?” You murmur, careful not to move this time. “How do we survive?”

“Still working on that, love,” He murmurs, his nose just brushing against the shell of your ear. “Luckily, no one gives a shit about me already. We’ve got time.”

He shifts behind you, and you become aware of his hard cock pressing against the outline of your ass. He growls under his breath and gently thrusts his hips up. Your breath hitches. “Eddie, don’t.”

“Eddie,” Rutledge repeats in a sultry tone you recognize too intimately. The anger from him is fading now, replaced by a ravenous hunger. “Haven’t heard that from you since Cabo. You want me to take you back there, yeah? For old time’s sake?”

He gives another gentle thrust, and you feel your defenses weakening. He’s fully hard now, the growls he makes curling right between your legs. 

“You’re allowed to hate me. Fuck, I hate me too,” Rutledge murmurs. He presses his lips to the crook of your neck. “But give me tonight. Give me one night to make us feel something again.”

It will never be one night, not with him and you. But his hand around your waist is moving to the hem of your shorts, his fingertips just pressing under the waistband. You’re not in control of your senses anymore when you finally answer. “Yes…”

“Good girl,” He kisses your temple as his hand slips easily into your shorts. He bypasses your panties immediately, a slow and familiar slide until his middle finger finds your clit. He’s pressing slow, wet kisses to your neck as he moves his finger in lazy circles. You jolt, but he just hums against your skin and carries on like he has all the time in the world. “You been with anyone else? Anyone else get to feel you like this?”

“No,” You whisper breathlessly, and the response gets his finger to move just a bit faster. You whine, but his grip on you holds firm. “No…just you.”

“Good,” He purrs as he angles his hand further down. “I’ve killed enough men this week already.”

He replaces his middle finger with his thumb so he can push two fingers inside of you. It’s an agonizingly slow slide that leaves you choking on your need. He groans. “Fuuuuuuckin’ hell, sweetheart. This tight little cunt could stop wars.”

His pace is slow, deep, and torturous. He knows how to build you up quickly and then keep you teetering over the edge for as long as he pleases. He doesn’t speed up or slow down, no matter how much you’re squirming on his lap or how hard his cock is now pressing against your ass. He can do this all night and seems perfectly intent on doing so.

“Eddie, please,” You whine, your voice wheezy in want. “Let me come.”

“Right now?” He asks you innocently as he nibbles at your neck. “What’s the rush?”

You purposefully grind yourself back against his cock, earning a hiss from between his teeth. He moves his hand on your jaw down to curl around your neck. He allows you to breathe, but his grip is tight. “Don’t be a brat.”

“Then let me come,” You try again, whimpering when the words do nothing to change his pace. “Eddie, please. I’m sorry. I…I need-”

He shushes you and kisses over a mark he’s left on your neck. “Easy. I’ll let you come. You’re lucky your cunt always puts me in a good mood…”

His thumb presses harder down on your clit and his fingers move just quicker enough. Your climax is hard, loud, and it’s only his grip on your body that keeps you from falling off his lap. He murmurs praise and encouragement into your ear, but you can barely make out the words. He keeps fingering you until you feel tears brimming at the corners of your eyes. Only then does he suddenly move a hand to your back and push you forward.

You gasp, his strength sending you up and off his lap with ease. Your hands land on the coffee table in front of you to stabilize yourself. He immediately slides in behind you, his hands falling to your waist. “Now, this is a better way to watch television,” He chuckles, smacking your ass before reaching for your shorts and panties. He pulls them down to your knees, decides that’s enough, and frees a hand to reach for his jeans. You hear him undo his zipper, and then his cock is pressing against your hole. His hands both clench on your hips, tight enough to bruise. “You ready?”

Your eyes lift. The news is showing Rutledge with his hands folded in front of him - his original announcement to the world. Your breath hitches as you reply. “Yes.”

He slowly pushes his cock inside of you. His moan is debauched, loud, and relieved. Your hands clench into fists as you adjust to his girth. Ruthless is patient. He stills when fully sheated, his fingers brushing random circles over your ass. Only when you arch your hips back to meet him, the action making you both moan, does he move. He thrusts slowly at first, using his hold on your body to guide you along the length of his dick. He uses your whines and your whimpers to guide his movements, moving faster and deeper when he knows you can take it, when you need it. His hands are tight enough to bruise against your skin as he leans over your back to rut into you like an animal. He’s starved for you.

“Just you and me now, sweetheart. Fuck,” He groans, his relentless pace never stopping, never slowing. “Whatever you want, whatever we fucking want.”

He says it like he isn’t even fully aware of his words, too lost in how tight your pussy sucks him in. Your orgasm takes you by surprise this time, suddenly quaking through you. He feels it and cries out before suddenly pulling out of you. He keeps one hand on your hip while the other jerks himself off until he’s spilling against the curve of your ass, all while hissing your name. Your real name. 

Two commercials pass before either of you speak. Rutledge is busy resting his forehead against the back of your shoulder. You stand up slowly, and he follows your motion. “You alright?” He murmurs from behind you.

You slowly turn to look at him. In these moments, he is at his most vulnerable. His blue eyes are wide and cautious, looking you over to see if he did well. You slowly bring a hand up to gently squeeze his forearm. “I need food,” You tell him. “And a shower.”

Rutledge smirks as he kisses your forehead. “Go shower. Ordering pizza won’t get me noticed.”

You let your hand leave him, but his touch lingers along your leg as you move around the couch on shaky legs. You pause a moment as you kick off your shorts, looking back at him. “Can I have my phone back now?”

Imagine Rutledge coming home to you after you believed him to be dead, and helping mend more than just his wounds

How could it have gone so wrong? What was supposed to the last stop on the way to freedom had become a nightmare that you couldn't wake up from. The remote safehouse where you had waited for Edward had transformed into a prison of shattered dreams. By the third day, the tears had stopped. A cold emptiness had taken their place, creeping into your bones and settling into your every fiber. You felt the ache of his absence with every breath.

It was the sixth day now. Time alluded you, but you were vaguely aware it was sometime in the evening because the shadows were growing long. You sit on the floor of the hallway with your knees pulled to your chest, utterly numb. This had become your preferred spot. The bed was hollow, and the sofa was haunted. Whenever your mind screamed at you that you should get up and try to leave, such thoughts were inevitably met with despair.

Of course, there was no rational reason to stay. You understood all the facts. No one was coming to save you. The food was almost gone, and there'd hardly been much to start with. You were going to die here alone if you didn't leave.

Edward was not coming back.

No, there was nothing rational about what you felt. You just couldn't let go. This is where you were supposed to wait for him. This is where he was going to come back to you. This is the last place that you were together.

Holding your head in your hands, another wave of grief washes over you. From the day you met Edward, you knew it was never going to be easy. You also knew there was no one else for you but him. His demons danced perfectly with yours, and you wrestled them better together. Even still, he had his own war to wage, and he had to fight it his way. As long as you could be at his side when the battles were over, you made peace with looking the other way.

Then, he found a way to win, once and for all. That's what he believed, at least.

You both agreed that the less you knew about the G20 Plan, the better. But being ignorant about the finer details didn't prevent you from worrying; if anything, it only made it worse. The knowledge that it would be the last time he'd leave you for a mission had been the only thing keeping you sane. That, and thinking about the future that awaited you when he returned.

You squeeze your eyes shut against the memories, but you were powerless to halt their coming. That last night before the summit seemed so long ago now. If only you'd known then...if only you could've stopped him...

★

The warm night air spills through the open balcony doors and clings to your skin. The smell of damp earth from nearby rain fills your nose, and the steady chirping of crickets evokes a familiar comfort. You recline on the sofa with your head propped up on your hand along the back, waiting for Edward to return with his 'surprise.' In the kitchen behind you, you hear him shuffling around and rifling through the cabinets.

"You're not peeking, are you?" he calls out.

"I'd never dream of it," you holler back, smiling despite yourself.

"I just got word from Titos. The boys are all set for tomorrow. Everything's falling right into place," he informs, no small amount of satisfaction in his voice as he draws nearer, "Now that the cryptowallet is in our possession, all that's left is to take the bastards down."

"No turning back now," you say to yourself, holding back a sigh.

You look up to see him returned with a bottle of champagne and two glasses, a grin spread across his face.

"Tada," he announces, placing them on the coffee table in front of you. "I know, not much. But we can't make a bloody toast with water, now can we?"

"Wow. What exactly are we toasting?" you inquire, sitting forward.

His expression twists with confusion, but he doesn't lose his smile as he proceeds to pop the cork and begin pouring. "Our victory, of course. What else, darling?"

"Don't you think that's bad luck? You haven't won yet, Eddie," you remind, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in your gut.

"But we will," he insists, offering you your drink, "And since when have you been the superstitious type?"

"Since you decided to break into the most heavily armed place on the continent," you answer. You take the libation and stand up to join him.

"My poor love. Ever fretting over my sorry hide," he teases with pitiful affection, "Needlessly, might I add."

"Someone has to, Rutledge," you retort, glaring at him knowingly, "I've grown rather fond of that 'sorry hide', so you call it. Or have you forgotten?"

He bites his lip in amusement, noticeably trying to maintain his composure after your comment.

"Perhaps you need reminding," you suggest, bating your eyes.

You can't help but smirk, enjoying how easily you could make him flustered.

Re-establishing eye contact, he leans in closer and drops his voice to a whisper. "I think these ought to be empty before I can permit that kind of talk, girl."

"Agreed," you concede, pleased with yourself.

He raises his glass, and you do the same.

"To a new world," he declares.

"To a new world."

The clinking of crystal rings through the air. You swallow a generous sip and try to wash the words from your mouth. Edward downs half of his own portion before turning away and stepping out onto the balcony.

"By this time tomorrow, everything is going to be different," he exhales, peering out into the pitch black night.

You reclaim your seat and train your wistful gaze on him. You knew what he was doing. The nearest civilization was miles away, but that did not deter him from scanning the perimeter. You'd grown used to his vigilance; come to depend on it. Yet even in the middle of a moment of celebration, he could not fully let his guard down. You consider calling him back inside, but think the better of it. The moment would pass, as it typically did.

Instead, you reflect on the half-hearted toast you'd just made. Your playful exchange had distracted you from your troubled thoughts momentarily. But as sure as the coming dawn, they reappeared. You'd tried to put on a smile for him, but in truth, you were feeling far from jubilant. In the weeks since Edward first spoke to you of the G20 plan, it'd become a chore to keep your mind from wandering into the future, and all the dread that it held for you. There was no small part of you that was truly worried for his safety, a concern you attempted to convey to him time and again to no avail. It wasn't even the prospect of living in hiding that you found troublesome, as would be necessary after every nation on the planet saw his face tomorrow. You were already accustomed to one form of "off-the-grid" living or another following Edward around the globe for the past few years, so the concept certainly didn't bother you anymore. Your identity from before was long gone, and as long as you were together, the person you'd have to become next made little difference to you.

The reason for your dismay was much worse than that. You hated yourself for even thinking it, but deep down, you could sense that you'd begun to doubt him. You feared what would happen if his plan failed, and perhaps even more, you were terrified of what would happen if it didn't.

At last, Edward turns toward you, grinning once more. "The world is going to be our oyster, sweetheart. You've got nothing to worry about anymore."

You distractedly swirl around the remaining golden liquid in your glass. "Oh Eddie, you make it sound so easy."

"That's because it will be," he assures, pointing emphatically, "For the first time in my life, I have clarity of purpose. I know what I have to do. People have to be awakened to what's happening before their very eyes. They must be made to understand the truth so we can bring about real change. No one will stand in my way this time. And when the work is done, when we finally put an end to all the wars and deceit and corruption, I'm going to have everything I want. What we're owed."

"Oh yeah?" you ask, unconvinced by his impassioned oaths.

"Is that doubt, I'm hearing? Surely not," he says, sounding genuinely surprised. He walks over and sits beside you on the couch, awaiting an explanation. "Tell me I've not lost your faith."

You stare down at your hands as you speak, unable to look at him.

"You haven't. I know you'll accomplish what you need to. You always prevail. It's just..." you hesitate, unsure if you should reveal your insecurity.

"What is it? Hm?" he asks, comfortingly resting his hand on your leg.

"You'll be the most powerful man on the planet. You could go anywhere, do anything, with anyone. And I'm just wondering where I fit into all of it."

He's silent only a moment before he replies with renewed resolve.

"Now you just listen hear, darling. I said I was going to give you the world, and that's exactly what I'm going to do."

Shaking your head, you set your glass on the table. "I don't need the world, Eddie. All I want is you."

He smirks, undaunted.

"You already have me," he says, pulling you into his lap, "You know that, don't ya?"

You nod distantly in response, proceeding to softly trace the tattoo on his arm with your finger as he continues.

"You've been beside me in the dark, and I want you right there with me in the light. It's gonna be you and me, just like always. The money won't change that."

"How will it not?"

"Because I won't let it," he vows, "Besides, I couldn't replace you if I tried for a million years. You are my one and only." He snakes his arm around your waist and meets your eyes before repeating the words, "My one and only."

"And you are mine," you reply, leaning in closer until your forehead rests on his. Just like that, he had silenced your doubts, and put in their place a hope that you could hold onto. "You sure have a way with words, Corporal."

"I know, I know," he chuckles, "How about just two more?"

Instantly, you detect a shift in his tone that makes your heart skip. You sit back and stare at him expectantly.

He beholds you with quiet confidence. "Marry me."

"Eddie, be serious," you begin to laugh.

"I am being serious," he says, his gaze softening, "I love you. With all my bleeding heart, I love you, Y/N."

Your heart swells at his confession, tears flooding your vision. "I love you, too."

"This is the final mission. I'm done. I know I've put you through it, and somehow, through thick and thin...you haven't given up on me."

"Not yet," you smile.

He follows suit, continuing his impromptu speech.

"I want to take care of you. Proper like, from now on. Let me prove that your faith in me has not been for nothing," he says, taking your hand in his, "When I get back from this, will you marry me?"

"Yes," you answer, beaming, "I will."

"Atta girl," he purrs through his smile, "Now what was this you were sayin' earlier? Something about a reminder..."

Before you can blink, he eagerly pulls you against him and closes the meager space between you, capturing your mouth with his own. You claw at his chest and kiss him back fiercely, tasting the champagne on his tongue when he parts your lips. You melt into his wandering touch as he then peppers kisses along your jaw and down your neck. The gentle scratch of his beard on the sensitive skin makes your pulse quicken as you close your eyes.

"Promise that you'll come back to me," you say breathlessly.

He pauses his fevered exploration to cup your face in his calloused hands.

"Nothing will stop me from coming back to you. I promise."

★

The memory leaves you reeling, Edward's voice still echoing your head. You could see it all so clearly, as if you were still there in the ecstasy of his embrace. But when you open your eyes again, you're met with the cruel reality. He was gone, and he'd taken everything with him.

The sound of the locks releasing on the main door of the safehouse pull your from your desolate stupor.

You scramble to your feet as quickly as you can, but consecutive days of sporadic food and water intake immediately catch up to you as you struggle to find sure footing.

In mere seconds, a thousand thoughts flashed through your panicked mind. This was it. They'd come for you. Someone somewhere had figured out your connection to Edward, and they were about to lock you away for the rest of your life. It didn't matter that your only true crime was loving him. They would say you were a terrorist too. Guilty by association. You'd never see the sun again.

What difference did it make? It held no warmth for you anymore.

Accepting your fate, you step out into the open. You expect to see a stealth squad of some kind, hoping to catch you off guard and take you in for questioning.

Instead, a lone figure staggers forward from the shadows. You stand frozen as they limp closer, and the waning sunlight spills across their battered visage.

The second those familiar blue eyes meet yours, the air in your lungs disappears.

His name falls from your lips in a whimper. "Eddie?"

"Hello, darling." He flashes a weary smile, holding his arm across his torso.

"Is it really you?" you whisper, afraid that you would make him fade away if you even dared to move.

"It's me, love," he answers weakly, wincing just to speak, "What's left of me, anyway."

"Eddie, oh my god," you cry, your fragile composure shattering.

You run to him and throw your arms around his neck, clinging to him for dear life. After recovering his balance, he holds you tightly, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"You were dead. You were dead," you repeat through sobs.

"Shhh, it's okay. I'm here, sweetheart. I'm here," he consoles, stroking your back, "Everything's alright now. I'm here."

Now that you were sure he was not a ghost, you feel secure enough to release your grip, if only just a little. His arms stay firmly encircled around your body as he gazes upon you with glistening eyes.

"It was all over the news. They said you fell, that-that survival was impossible," you stammer in disbelief, "I thought you were gone."

"For a moment there, so did I," he replies, reaching to caress your cheek. "But I had a promise to keep."

With that, you pull him into a desperate kiss. He returns it fervently, his fingers lacing into your hair. You savor every sensation you thought you'd never feel again as your hand slides up underneath his shirt. He lets out a pained groan against your lips. You're keenly aware of his injuries once again and carefully surrender your hold on him.

"Easy, darling. I'm gonna need a little R and R before I can have too much fun," he teases, touching his forehead against yours.

"Sorry. Habit," you wince, "Are you okay?"

"I'll live," he chuckles, "I missed you too."

It's then you realize that your hand doesn't feel quite right, and you look down to see your fingers smeared in crimson.

"You're bleeding!"

He growls in frustration, "The damned stitches must have ripped, climbing up this bloody mountain."

"Put your arm around me, let's get you to the couch," you instruct, moving to hold him upright.

"Too bad we finished that whole bottle, ay?" he grunts, complying through the pain.

Adrenaline helps you overcome your own fatigue enough to bear his unsteady weight over your shoulders and hobble into the next room.

"You're not dying on me now, Rutledge. You owe me."

"What are you on about, woman?" he grounds out, followed by a string of curses as you help lower him onto the cushions.

"You owe me a husband. You can't die until after you've married me," you pant, your head starting to pound from the exertion.

His pained expression turns baffled. "You still want to?"

Between the immense stress and his audacity to ask such a thing, your temper starts to flare. "I know you didn't just ask me that."

Switching on the lights, you rush to the kitchen to run some warm water and retrieve the medical kit, trying to work out a strategy. You quickly return with the necessary items, noticing the sudden shift in his mood even in your frenzied state.

"Why would you want to be tied to a miserable ratbag like me? You don't deserve that," Edward mumbles, looking at his boots.

The weight of his failure had apparently started to crash down on him, but it's more than you can bear at present.

You clench your trembling fist and stand over him. It takes all of your remaining strength not to yell.

"For your sake, I'm going to blame what I'm hearing on the head trauma you clearly sustained. Because I know if it weren't for that, there is no way in hell you'd be saying those things to me after everything that's happened," you warn, finding your courage. "Now shut up, Corporal, and help me get all of this off."

As much as you wanted to slap him and scream about the grief he put you through, your focus was on keeping him breathing. Gritting your teeth, you help him remove his soiled clothing until he was stripped down to the waist. He's left in visible agony afterward, but makes no complaints, lying as still as he can manage. You reflexively cover your mouth with your hand as you realize the full extent of the damage. His self-sewn stitches on his abdomen were indeed torn open at the bottom of the evident puncture wound, and he had what appeared to be a stab wound towards the back of his left shoulder that had since stopped bleeding. On top of that, he was completely covered in bruises, all shades of purple and black that made your stomach churn. By the looks of his right side especially, he probably had broken ribs, but there was nothing to be done about it. Staunching the bleeding was your priority, but despite your initial scare, it didn't seem as bad as you'd first thought.

You both remain silent as you kneel before him and begin cleaning the surrounding area with a wet cloth the best that you can. Apart from the rise and fall of his ragged breathing, he remains unmoving. You glance up to see a thousand-yard stare plastered on his face. Better that than the nonsense from before, you think. You wiped away as much dried blood as you could before deciding it would have to be good enough. Before long, you have the antiseptic at the ready.

"This will hurt," you say calmly.

He closes his eyes and sets his jaw. Steeling yourself as well, you pour it over the wound liberally. He flinches, but only just so. As difficult as it was to imagine, you remind yourself that he'd been through worse than this.

While you carefully dab the area with gauze, your eyes wander to the scars you knew by heart. Like you'd done many times before, you attempt to picture where he was when those wounds were fresh, and who had been there to care for him then. He almost never spoke of his past, and whenever he did, it was only of the people he'd lost. Never of his own pain.

Having sorted through the supplies and found the suture kit, Edward raises his hand in protest.

"Leave it. It'll mend. Just the bandage."

"Are you sure?"

He only nods. You don't push it any further, too drained to argue. He obviously had far more experience with first-aid than you, and you felt better knowing you'd at least treated it against infection.

"I said I would give you the world. I failed..." he says solemnly.

"Edward, stop," you implore. You're blinking back tears once again, trying desperately to concentrate on your task. "Please. I don't want to hear about that anymore. I can't take it."

You secure the edges of the crisp white bandage in place, but your plea falls on deaf ears.

"I failed you."

You'd finally had enough, all of your emotions spilling over beyond the edge of your control.

"You really are the most thick-headed man I've ever known. Don't you understand? I never cared about any of it! All I have ever wanted is you. Not the money, not the politics, not the revenge. Just you!"

Your strained outburst echoes through the room.

"And I know that doesn't make sense to you, because you can't understand how someone could love you as you are. Accept both the good and the bad. But I do, Eddie. I always have. You're just gonna have to find a way to live with that."

"I'm broken, Y/N."

You open your mouth to dispute him, but the tear running down his scarred cheek steals your words away. He looks upon you with a tormented gaze that cuts through you like a knife. The devilish twinkle that you loved so much had vanished from his eyes. In some ways, he seemed like a completely different man than the one who sat in that very same spot only nights before and proposed to you. Yet in others, he was more that man than he'd ever been, and all you wished for now was to take the pain away from him.

You crawl into the seat alongside him and slowly turn his head towards you. "Then show me how to fix you, one and only."

Your offer destroys what remains of his fortitude as he breaks down into sobs, succumbing to his grief. You cradle his head to your chest and press kisses into his hair while he weeps. His numerous injuries don't prevent his unburdening, the pain deep inside clearly far greater than whatever he felt in his body.

"They're gone. They're all gone, because of me," he cries, "I failed them. I always fail them."

Suddenly, you're seized with realization. He didn't just mean the men killed at the disastrous summit. His meant his brothers in arms that he lost in the war. His best mates. At last, you understood. He felt responsible for their deaths, and the guilt was killing him. It had been poisoning him long before you'd ever met.

"It's not your fault, baby," you console, wondering if he'd ever heard those words before, "It was never your fault."

"Why did I survive? It should have been them. They should have lived. Not me...not me."

His anguished laments send shivers down your spine as your heart breaks for him. How quickly had it all reversed. Now he was the one that clung to you for dear life.

"Oh my love," you murmur, tears falling from your eyes onto his blond locks, "I'm so sorry."

He'd been through more suffering and loss than he had a right to, and you longed to carry that burden with him. But even in these throes of sorrow, you couldn't ignore the spark of hope you were now feeling inside. A sense of peace had begun to settle where the dread and despair had so recently been. For the first time ever, Edward had truly let you inside his darkness. He trusted you; not just to tend to his wounds, but to mend his heart. Indeed, it was the smallest of sparks, but it was a hope that you would die to keep burning for him.

You hold him in your arms for as long as he needs, and it feels like a lifetime before he finally draws back and looks to you with bloodshot eyes.

"Don't give up on me," he begs, his voice raw, "Please, I can't lose you too."

"Never," you pledge, taking his shaking hand and holding it to your heart. "Thick and thin, remember?"

He smiles a bit, some of the light returning to his eyes. The storm inside him was beginning to subside.

You continue on, "All of those men followed you because they believed in you. Just like I believe in you. And I'm not going anywhere."

He stares at you in awe. "What did I ever do you deserve you?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Rutledge," you answer, overwhelmed with yearning.

"I swear to you, I will earn this second chance," he says sincerely, cupping your cheek, "If you'll still have me."

You smile.

When Rutledge first mentions Cabo, you assume he’s joking. You’re in his latest safehouse and wrapping a shallow stab wound near his wrist. He refuses to explain the injury’s origins. You’re sure he would be able to dress it perfectly fine himself, but as he has told you on more than one occasion, he prefers your more delicate hands to his own. 

“One of the finest resort cities in the world,” He tells you about Cabo with a playful brow wiggle. “Wanna come along?”

You don’t have time to answer before your brother cuts in. “Absolutely not.”

Rutledge scoffs and waves his uninjured hand dismissively. “Ignore him. It’s perfectly safe.”

You shake your head as you finish taping over his bandage. “Don’t think that’s in my budget.”

“All expenses paid, of course.” His free hand moves to settle over yours, his long fingers tapping gently against your knuckles. “You’d be doing me a favor. I’ll be bored out of my bloody mind.”

You arch a brow, but don’t move your hand away. “Bored in one of the ‘finest resorts in the world’?” You mock with a poor imitation of his accent.

Rutledge shrugs with a grin that’s gotten you into trouble countless times. “Never really liked beaches. You are always entertaining.”

You don’t have more time to banter when your brother diverts the conversation back to the logistics of their team’s latest “mission.” Their ability to speak in code right in front of you is as impressive as it is irritating. It makes you wonder about the conversations behind closed doors, whether your brother wants you closer or farther away from his leader. It doesn’t seem to matter, regardless; Rutledge likes you, and so you stay.

The next time you’re alone with the corporal, Rutledge is sneaking into your room at two in the morning. He isn’t afraid of your brother’s reaction to this affair, but it would be an inconvenience; your brother is an integral part of the team and, more importantly, Rutledge trusts him. You also have a sneaking suspicion that Rutledge enjoys the normalcy of coming to find you. For a moment, he isn’t a man with trauma that leaves him shaking at the sound of a firework. He’s just a boy chasing after the girl he fancies.

And fancy you he does. The clock has just ticked past three in the morning when he has a hand clamped over your mouth and his head buried between your legs. He’s been down there for ages, but moves his tongue with the lazy slide of a man who has all the time in the world. Rutledge is nothing if not patient; he knows exactly how to kiss your clit or curl his fingers to make you come, but he’s intent on teasing you until you squirm. He pushes his tongue inside of you slowly, and when you squeal against his palm, he decides to repeat the motion over and over again. It’s a blissful torture that sets your body on fire, and it’s only his hand over your lips that keeps you from waking your brother - and perhaps the entire safehouse.

When your eyes are starting to roll back, Rutledge finally takes pity on you. He replaces his tongue with three fingers and fucks you with a pace that would have you screaming if your voice had such power left. He sucks down on your clit with precision, growls against your cunt, and you fly over the edge. Your hips arch up at your orgasm and he allows it, simply following your motions to keep the pleasure sustained as long as he can. When you flop back onto the bed fully sated, he smirks against you and slowly pulls out his fingers. 

“Christ, sweetheart,” Rutledge purrs. He sucks his fingers into his mouth to clean them before gently removing his hand from your mouth. “Making me work to keep you quiet, eh?”

You give a lazy mutter of nonsense in reply, which just makes him laugh. He busies himself with kissing his way back up your body and gives a playful bite to your ribcage. Then, he speaks, “Come to Cabo.”

You had nearly forgotten that earlier conversation. You lift your head to look at him as he continues his slow crawl up your body. Your hands gently curl through his hair, and his eyes close fondly at the touch. He would never admit how starved for gentle touch he is.

“Is it really safe?” You ask quietly. 

His eyes are still closed as he replies. “It’s a resort city, ‘course it is. Just don’t go wandering in the jungle without me.” 

You give his hair a little tug. “I mean…with everything you do.”

He slowly creaks his eyes open, trapping you under that gorgeous gaze. If your brother is careful about leaving you in the dark, Rutledge keeps you blindfolded. He wants you within arm’s reach so he can push away if need be. You aren’t naive; you understand enough to know that his plans are dangerous - not only to him or your family, but to the world at large. Every tiny piece of information you’re able to gather makes that more evident. But damn him, he’s a spark. He can take any battlefield and carve it into a portrait that will lead you to a better world. He is merciless, but he is pragmatic, and you fear you fell under his spell long ago.

“I’m a security specialist for a reason,” Rutledge reminds you in a murmur against your skin. “You’ll be safe. It’ll be a fun little vacation. I promise.”

You hesitate, and he dares to widen his eyes like a kicked puppy. You chuckle softly. “Fine. I’ll come.”

He grins to bare his teeth and settles over you, brushing his lips across yours. “Damn right you will. Again, and again, and again.”

~-~

Rutledge was not exaggerating about all expenses paid. From the moment you land in the city - after a first-class plane ticket, of course - you are treated like royalty. A secure vehicle brings you to the most expensive resort in the city. You drive to the most luxurious suite, which you will of course share with Rutledge. The suite’s balcony has a jacuzzi that overlooks the Pacific’s turquoise waters. Rutledge promises you there will be time to partake in that particular luxury, but not yet. Your bags barely touch the room before he’s whisking you to a private club on the other side of Cabo. The club is nothing like the dark, swampy basements you recall in college. It is entirely outside under a series of air-conditioned tents that lead down to a private beach. You’re sure that if you sniff hard enough, you’ll smell gold in the air.

Rutledge feels the need to assure you that it’s a quick stop to see some old friends, but it’s obviously more than that. He keeps one guard with you, and you notice several other familiar faces dotting the wealthy scene. If there’s anything you learned quickly in your connection to Rutledge, it was that he had very many friends in very many important places.

Rutledge sets a drink next to you after a short excursion to the nearest bar. It’s a flute of liquids that spiral between reds, oranges, and yellows. There’s even some glitter floating at the bottom. You blink, lowering yourself closer to the table to examine it better. “The hell is this?”

He chuckles. “Waterloo sunset, apparently. Give it a shot.”

You take a tentative sip. “Hm…it’s like fruit punch mixed with tequila.”

Another carefree laugh. “Is that a good thing?”

Your smile is sly as you take another sip. “I’m not mad about it.”

Rutledge cups the back of your head to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “Bond with Milton a moment, love. Got a few faces I need to chat up.”

Milton, your guard for the night, sits across the table. He’s a redhead built like a tank. You know he has a twin brother who is somewhere amongst the crowd. They’re both more than a little rough around the edges, but they’re amongst the few that Rutledge is comfortable leaving to watch over you. You would typically be with your brother, but Rutledge conveniently asked him to stay back from this trip.

You’re about halfway through your waterloo sunset when you notice Milton glancing at the bar. It’s hard to tell if something has caught his attention or if he’s just bored, but you offer a smile regardless. “You can move around, you know.”

He gives you a look from the corner of his eye. “Trying to get me in trouble?” He asks, his French accent thick.

“I can survive a few minutes without getting assassinated,” You assure him. It’s hard to feel like you’re in any danger when half the people in this club are tipsy middle-aged men in white suits. “Go on. Get a beer or something.”

Milton hesitates, his fingers drumming on the table. Finally, he sighs and gets up. “I’m grabbing a pint. Do not move.”

You give him a salute, and giggle at the eye roll it earns you. As he makes his way over to the nearest bar, you scan over the crowd. Rutledge is invisible when he wants to be, so you’re not surprised that you can’t spot him. You look back at your drink and find yourself with company. Middle-Aged Man in White Suit #45 is sitting across from you with a grin that immediately sets off warning bells.

“Now what’s a gorgeous thing like you doing all alone?” He asks in a combination of accent and drunken slur.

You sober your gaze and push your drink carefully away from you. “I’m not alone.”

“Sure look alone to me,” He leans in close enough you can smell cigar smoke on his breath. “You looking for someone to take care of you?”

You have not journeyed this far without knowing how to fight. You measure the man up, and while you see he’s no physical threat to your capability, you don’t know who he is. He may be someone influential whom you shouldn’t punch in the nose. Before you can decide the appropriate course of action, a hand lightly cups the back of your neck. You immediately know it’s Rutledge.

“Sorry for the wait, darling,” He growls. You don’t need to turn around to know his striking blue gaze is levelling your visitor; the drunken man looks moments away from shitting himself. Rutledge lightly squeezes the back of your neck. “C’mon. We’re leaving.”

You don’t wait. You give the stranger a glare of your own before turning to follow Rutledge. He keeps his hand on the back of your neck, a gentle guide through the crowd that keeps him close to you. A glance up at him as he moves to walk beside you gives you enough of an insight into his mood. Every muscle in his body looks clenched. He only pauses on his way out the door to speak with Milton. The guard is holding a pint in his hand, and you’ve never seen his face look so pale. Rutledge claps his free hand onto the man’s taller shoulder. “Brother…I love ya,” He murmurs. “But if you ever leave her like that again, I’ll take your eye out.”

With that, he leads you to your awaiting vehicle and is silent.

Rutledge says little on the ride back to the hotel. He gives the driver directions, but he barely looks at you. You’d be more concerned about him being angry with you if he weren’t insistent on keeping physical contact. His hand stays on your knee for the whole ride. Even when you get to the hotel, he keeps a hand on your hip or your shoulder as you walk to your suite. Finally, when you’re both securely in the room and he knows for sure that you’re both alone, he lets go. After a long moment of silence where you’re not sure whether to move closer to him or give him his space, he decides for you. “Go try out that hot tub.”

You hesitate. “What about you?”

He offers a half smile. “Be right behind ya.” When you continue to wait, he nods to the door. “Go on.”

You oblige. You don’t bother with a swimsuit, not when this room is high enough up where the only one who could see you has already mapped out every inch of your body. Even without looking at Rutledge, even without turning around, you can feel the way his eyes crawl over you. You ignore the shiver it gives you and make your way to the hot tub. The controls to it are fortunately easy to navigate, and you can step into the warm waters quickly. You can feel the instant soothing to your muscles and sigh in bliss. Your gaze moves to the balcony view. Sunset is beginning to shift into dark blue shades over the waters. The waves are calm tonight, and maybe they always are in a paradise like this; you could get used to it.

Approaching footsteps bring you back, and you turn to find Rutledge joining you. He’s fully naked, and you take your time appreciating the sight. His muscles are lithe on a body decorated in scars. You both joke about the age difference between the two of you, but no one can guess his real age. You know how quickly and how accurately the man can move; he may have left the open battlefield, but he’s still a soldier.

He settles across from you with his tattooed arms resting against the side. The tub is big enough that you’re both able to lie down on your backs, but you can feel his knees nudging against yours. His gaze moves to look out at the view. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” You murmur, your voice tentative. “More importantly, are you okay? Was that asshole someone important?”

Rutledge shakes his head. “No. Just a prick,” He murmurs. “But he could have been…”

His voice drifts off, and his hand clenches against the tub. You speak tentatively. “I’m fine. Nothing happened.”

He doesn’t answer for a long moment. “I know. But something could have.” He slowly holds out his right forearm, his palm up. “You see this tattoo?”

It’s a silly question. The tattoo takes up most of his arm. It’s a skull with two arrows shooting through an open mouth. In learning not to ask about his scars, you also refrain from asking about his tattoos. You nod your head slowly.

“In Afghanistan, I lost my two best mates in a single explosion,” Rutledge says softly. It’s the most detail he’s ever given you about his time in war. “One minute there, laughing with me…gone the next in a pile of rubble.”

You reach out to him without a second thought. Your fingers gently trace the line of the right arrow up to the teeth of the skull. “I’m so sorry.”

“This tattoo’s for them. Cliche as shit, but I’m no artist,” His eyes have moved down to follow your finger’s movements. Based on the way his eyes soften, the tracing soothes him. “It’s funny how we’re damn near ordered to love our brothers, but no one tells you what to do when you lose them.”

Rutledge shifts to meet your eyes. The frustration from earlier is gone, replaced with a gentleness, or a fear, you have never seen from him before. “I can’t lose you, sweetheart. I…I can’t.”

You turn your wrist to gently hold onto his forearm. “You won’t. I’m right here, Eddie.”

He blinks in clear surprise. Then, his lips slowly curl into a boyish smile. “Eddie?”

You flush. Up until now, you’ve only ever called him by his last name. “Is that okay?”

He chuckles softly as he steadily becomes at ease. “Yeah. I just haven’t heard that in a long time,” He lifts his arms out. “C’mere.”

You go to him. You settle between his legs, and he’s quick to sit up so you straddle his thighs. The moment you’re comfortable, his lips are on yours. He kisses you gently, savoring the way it feels to share this private moment with you. His fingers curl gently through your hair and keep you close to him. It’s so easy to get lost in these kisses. You aren’t sure when they begin to be less of an exploration of you and more of a need, his teeth gently nibbling at your bottom lip. He shifts his hips up, and you feel the familiar press of his hard cock against your hip. You can’t help but smile as you pull away from his mouth enough to speak. “Hello there.”

“Can’t walk around naked and expect anything less, love,” Rutledge murmurs as his hands tighten on your hips. “But I can be good if you’re not inclined.”

You answer by slowly moving yourself up and over his cock. His lips gently part, and he massages his hands along your sides. You sink yourself onto him slowly, and his eyes fall shut in bliss. Rutledge is lost in you, leaving you to decide the pace. You ride him slowly with your hands on his shoulders. It’s a leisurely pace at first, but it has him moaning breathlessly. He buries his face against the side of your neck and suddenly thrusts up hard. You gasp and take the cue, grinding down on him now. It pushes his hips perfectly against your clit so with each met thrust, you feel another roll of heat. Water is sloshing over the sides of the tub, and his hands are holding your hips tight enough to bruise, but you don’t care. If anything, it just makes you chase after the pleasure faster.

“You’re perfect,” He groans against your skin, his lips placing sloppy kisses and bites along your neck. “Fuckin’ perfect. I can feel that little cunt clenching, love. Go on ahead. Take it from me.”

He’s always a bit of a rambler when he’s close, but you enjoy listening to him. His voice always seems to be what finally pushes you over, and this time isn’t any different. You sigh breathlessly as an orgasm finds you, your nails digging into his shoulders. He must have been waiting for you because he follows right after with a loud moan of your name. His stuttering hips work you both through it the best he can until you both finally still against one another. When you’re able to gather yourself, you instinctively move to get off of him, only for his grip on your hips to tighten. 

“Stay a bit,” He murmurs against your neck, his softening cock still inside of you.

You smile and brush a hand through his hair. He purrs quietly against your skin. “Guess we have time,” You murmur.

"Eeny, meeny, miny, moe."

G20.

A glorified financial meeting where the leaders of the richest countries in the world come together to address the global economy.

This time it's solving world hunger, something you can only laugh at it all: If they truly cared about the state of the world, they would done something far sooner. But no, the world would need to burn before they could even think of holding a summit.

However, you're in no place to snub it. It's the one function that you can publicly attend.

It's no secret to anyone here that you're the mistress, hardly the first and clearly not the last. Yet, for the time being, you're treated to a life of luxury, willing to do whatever it takes to keep it. But right now, all of that has come crashing down.

You kneel among the spouses, your hands zip tied behind your back and your gaze firmly on the floor only to see black combat boots come to a stop before you. The cold steel of a gun rests beneath your chin, lifting your face to meet the eyes of your captor, a man called Rutledge. There's a hint of amusement in them, his smile wide and mocking, giving you a glimpse of the sharp canines.

"And who's dirty little secret might you be?" He asks.

Of course he knows who you were, you might as well as wear a big neon sign around your neck that says 'mistress'. That and a simple google search would reveal the true spouse of your lover, a man who looked away ashamed when you try to catch his gaze with pleading eyes.

Then that sneaking suspicion you've always had rings true: he's a coward, willing to throw you to the wolves to save his own skin.

And this particular wolf is the nastiest of the bunch.

"Ah, ah, ah," the barrel is pressed against your cheek. "Eyes on me."

Reluctantly, you turn your attention back to him, to your captor who continues to grin menacingly while you tremble. He crouches down, taking a knife from somewhere and splitting open your dress, revealing your thighs and your panties.

"I guess," he taunts. "If no one else is wiling to claim this whore, then maybe I will."

He stands and shoves his boot between your legs, pressed hard against your cunt. You don't even realise that you're crying until he shushes you, the muzzle of his gun against your lips.

"Come on pretty girl," he coos. "Why don't you put on a show?"

You know what he wants you to do but you don't want to give the bastard the satisfaction, so instead, you ignore him. At least, you ignore him until he grabs the back of your head, hauling you up onto your knees while jabbing his gun past your teeth and as far into your mouth as it will go.

You choke, bile rising in your throat, threatening to spill past your lips while drool drips down your chin and onto your chest. He pushes his boot harder against your cunt, making it clear exactly what he wants you to do yet you refuse.

"Here's the thing," he rips the gun from your mouth, making you cough. "Either, you do what I want you to do or I start shooting. So make your decision."

It's blind obedience, maybe even the willingness to protect those around you, that makes you reopen your mouth, swallowing down the barrel with little resistance, lowering yourself slightly so your cunt rested on toe of his boot.

"Ride."

You move subtly at first, just enough to feel the friction against your clit. Despite the horrendous situation you're in, you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel some kind of exhilaration, however, you're doing your best to keep that to yourself.

"Faster. And start sucking."

Noises of disgust emanate from onlookers as you obey, your tongue swirling around the barrel currently occupying your mouth, warming the metal while your eyes fixate on the man gloating above you. There's a slight change in his demeanour, his eyes filled with hunger as he moves the gun in and out of your mouth.

Whimpers build in the back of your throat, you're ashamed at how dripping wet you are, at how fucked up it is that you're somewhat turned on. And you're not the only one, a simple glance at his crotch cements your suspicions, a glance he notices.

Once more, he unceremoniously rips the gun from your lips and pulls you up onto your feet by your arm, his grip taut. The warm muzzle is pressed to your temple, making you feel a renewed sense of panic.

"Shows over folks," he declares with a taunting laugh. "I need some personal time with her."

Whispered pleas fall from your lips as you try to move your head away, your eyes firmly fixed on your lover who can only stare at you, mouthing the word 'sorry', allowing you to go to your fate with no chivalrous attempt to save you. The gun remains pointed at your head while you're walked out of the room, momentarily stopping so Rutledge can bark commands and make vulgar remarks to his men.

Then you're out the door and down the hall, stumbling as he walks with determination and purpose, pushing you through the first unlocked door. You make it three steps before the guns go off, your eyes closed tight and your knees hitting the floor.

"Get up."

Again, you're helped up onto your knees, spun around and then backed against the table. Your eyes scan your surroundings, settling on the upper corner where a security camera hangs limply, destroyed by a bullet. Any hope of a rescue has now been dashed. The gun rests on the table beside you, nearly in grabbing distance if your hands weren't restrained.

He grabs your jaw, turning your face back to meet his as he unzips his pants. "Shhhh. It's okay pretty girl, I'm going to take such good care of you."

You're so pitifully wet that there's no resistance when he thrusts into you, bottoming out instantly, his palms flat on the table either side. For a few minutes nothing happens, you wonder if he's holding back because he's about to cum, only for that thought to be instantly sideswiped when he grabs your hips.

The pace he sets is unrelenting and brutal, fucking you like you're nothing, like it's finally the punishment you've so richly deserved for all your wicked ways. Your lips clamp closed, swallowing down the screams that threaten to burst forth yet some manage to force their way past your lips.

He's panting like a dog against your neck, muttering expletives in between groans, his beard rough against your skin while he tries to split you open with sharp, decisive thrusts.

"Tell me," he demands, upping his pace and moving you to match. "Tell me he's never had you like this. Fuck- tell me!"

"He's-" The words die on your tongue as euphoria spreads through your body like a wildfire, forcing you to slump forward against him and sob. "He's never had me like this."

That stirs something up in him, his hands moving to rough grope your body, his hips beginning to stutter as his peak quickly approaches. It takes two, maybe three thrusts for him to bury himself deep, his cock twitches while he groans, emptying himself inside you.

His forehead rests on your shoulder, breathing deeply while coming down from his high, his hands still holding you but not as tight, more like he's hugging you, cradling you.

"Fuck."

He reaches for his knife to cut through your binds, freeing you but making sure to sheath his knife before you can grab it. Almost reluctantly, he pulls away, staring up at the ceiling and letting out a deep, satisfied sigh. When he turns his attention back to you, he has a warm smile that you promptly wipe off with a hard slap.

"You fucking bastard," you seethe. "What the fuck was that?"

He rubs his cheek and moves his jaw; the strength of your slap manages to sting and gives away that you're the first person whose managed to hurt him all night, although, you're likely not to be the last.

"That was getting you off the hook."

"Getting me off the hook?" Your scoff. "By humiliating me? I just rode your boot and sucked off your gun while world leaders watched."

He grabs the back of your neck, making you stare into his manic eyes which would be enough to make anyone shrink but not you, never you.

"You really want to play this fucking game?" He spits. "That was nothing. How the fuck do you think I feel? I've had to sit back and deal with the fact that you've been fucking that cunt for month, that all of those people in there know."

"How you feel?" You retort. "You weren't the one who had to fuck him. And if I remember correctly, it wasn't my fucking idea. I didn't enjoy it, the man is an absolute pig but I fucking endured it, all so I could get you in here in the first place."

A second passes.

Your tongue is down his throat as you kiss him with nothing but raw passion, your hands desperate to know his body again after six excruciatingly long months. You're quite the actress when you need to be, your little performance no doubt cementing the idea that you're just a victim of all this.

When you've been in on it from the start.

And now you're finally reunited.

However, this is just a fleeting moment, a whine falling from your lips when he ends the kiss, laughing breathlessly at the sound. Although you'd be quite happy to spend the evening in unrestrained bliss, there are more important things at stake and with the US President on the loose, it's vital that thing move quickly.

"How long until evac?"

"There's a chopper on the pad now," he explains. "Just need to find Madam President, get the deepfake done and then, I get to kidnap you. Hopefully your lover will be willing to let me go so you don't get hurt."

"Oh, believe me, he'll let me go," you affirm. "The world can't know I exist, otherwise, it'll make things very difficult for him. Anyway, where's the wallet?"

Rutledge reaches into his pocket and pulls it out, moving out of your reach when you try to grab it. You stare at him confused until the silent accusation slowly settles in your brain.

"You don't trust me. After everything I've done for you, you don't trust me."

"It's complicated," he sighs. "You've been with that cunt for… I don't even want to think about it. What if he said something to you that made you change your mind."

"Change my mind?" You roll your eyes. "You think that cunt said anything remotely intelligent to me at all? No, the only things he ever said to me were about sex or leaving his wife."

It's only natural for him to wonder; in order for the entire operation to go off without even the tiniest hitch, you'd basically gone no contact until maybe a week before, even then, it was through a third party.

"Trust me, please."

Reluctantly, he hands it over, his eyes glued to it as you double check it, making sure it's the genuine article and not the realistic fake that he'll 'lose' so the patsy takes the fall and subsequent prison sentence. You can't help but marvel at it, watching with excitement as the money rolls in by the second.

He continues to watch as you tuck it into the secret pocket of your dress, the agreed upon location. It's a snug fit of course, but that was by design, to make it impossible for the wallet to fall out, should you be forced to defend yourself.

You both know that you could just walk out of here right now with the wallet, his men would let you through without a second thought and the world would just believe that you're a hostage who managed to escape. But you won't.

Edward Rutledge is the love of your life. Like fuck will you ever betray him.

A sharp knock on the door brings you both hurtling back to reality and he pulls out, suddenly making you feel very empty. He kisses your forehead before pressing his own against it, his apprehension to leave you apparent.

"Time to shine."

Paradise.

A remote private island somewhere in the pacific, with brilliant blue waves crashing over white sand, providing soothing background noise while you lie in bed. Last night's events are still fresh in your mind, the entire situated ended in such a cliche that it's enough to make even the most die hard fan of romance films be violently sick.

But here you are, 'being held hostage' in the arms of the world's most wanted man, with a wallet containing $150 billion in cryptocurrency in the remains of your dress. Even with his injures, he was determined to be properly reacquainted with your cunt, ensuring that you came at least five times, searing another passionate encounter into your memory.

And it had been memories like this that got you through your time apart, your fingers deep in your cunt, furiously scissoring yourself open while your thumb manhandled your clit in a poor replication of the way that he touched you, always leading to a unsatisfactory orgasm.

But at least you had an orgasm, and a real one at that, not like the multiple you had to fake with your lover. Maybe his wife did know about the affairs and she was relieved that someone else was experiencing the overwhelming disappointment that was having sex with her husband.

None of that matters now, of course. You're back in his arms, where you belong, where you'd always belonged.

You've known Rutledge a long time, you first met him as a combat medic in the war, taking care of him while he was injured, administering pain relief and dressing his wounds. Spending days at a time gave you the chance to get to know him until his deployment ended.

It was almost two years later when you met again, at a gala for veterans. Yet he was noticeably different, you'd sense the rage at Sutton; the decorated war hero profiting off the deaths of his brothers' in arms. That entire night, you'd felt his eyes on you, not even looking away when you glanced at him.

It was later in a more secluded location when he cornered you, backed you against the wall, kicked your legs apart so he could thank you for your service with his cock buried deep inside your cunt. It's only natural then that you ended up together.

"How's it feel to be the world's most wanted?"

A yawn follows and he pulls you closer so your back is flush against his chest. It seems as if you managed to get away from him in your sleep, a very dangerous thing to do.

"No, you're the world's most wanted," a lazy smile tugs at your lips. "I am just your hostage, remember?"

He nuzzles into your neck, huffing out a laugh which is followed by contented sigh, a noise you've not heard in months, even before you were separated. There's been a lot on his mind for what feels like years, and now he can finally relax.

It was June first. You had already told Ben about your pronouns, all about pride month, he was… accepting. But he didn’t really understand it all.

He messed up your pronouns a LOT of the time. You did correct him and he’d curse himself before correcting himself.

He was sweet. Even if he really didn’t understand much. He still tried, and that’s what mattered.

But if anyone else fucked up your pronouns? They’d have HELL for it.

Like last week when you both when out for some dinner, it was one of those occasions where he remembered your pronouns, but the waiter you had accidentally called you by the gender you were born as, and Ben had snapped at them.

“They,” Ben had corrected, his voice sharp as he sent the waiter a glare,

“Excuse me?” The waiter looked at him, voice polite, confused, eyebrows furrowed as he held the notepad.

You looked a bit uncomfortable, only because you didn’t want Ben to slam the poor guys face into the table.

“They.” Ben corrected again, “they,” he points at you, “get their fuckin’ pronouns right before i shove this fork up your ass,”

“Ben,” you looked at him, trying not to get kicked out.

“Oh,” the waiter immediately apologized, “I am so sorry.”

“Get the fuck out of here, and get us our food,” Ben snapped and the waiter immediately dashed away to put in the order.

Yeah. It was very.. memorable to say the least.

So far he has been doing a great job with getting your pronoun right. And you couldn’t be more proud.

“Hey baby,”

Ben’s voice immediately cut through as he walked into the living room,

“Hey,” you tilt your head back to look at him, he plops down beside you, his arm wrapped around your shoulder to pull you to his side, he kisses your temple before he pulled back slightly.

“Been lookin’ up some shit, thought you might like this,”

He pulls out a small pin that was nonbinary colors, and you smiled,

“You actually did homework?” You muse as you take the pin, your thumb brushing over it.

Ben grunts, “I tried. If ya don’t fuckin’ like it I’ll burn it,”

“I love it.”

Ben blinks.

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

Ben exhaled. Relieved? He would never admit that.

“Good..”

He grumbled before wrapping his arms around you again and pulling you against his chest.

“Can we fuck now?”

“Are you serious?”

“Maybe.”

“No.”

Ben huffs as he buried his face against the crook of your neck, beard scraping against your skin, you can feel the grin playing on his lips.

“..I’m glad ya like it.” He muttered against you, “sorry I don’t know shit about this. Back in my day there was none of this,” you chuckled

“Yeah, I know. You don’t need to apologize for that..” you turn your head to kiss his jaw. “I do really like it though.. and.. thank you for trying.”

He grunts softly and nuzzled against you.

The first sign that something is wrong is the silence. The beach is usually noisy. The crashing waves. The distant cries of seagulls. Your child's laughter as they race across the shoreline with a bucket clutched in their tiny hands. But this afternoon, everything feels strangely still.

You sit under a large umbrella, reading a book. You keep one eye on your child and the other on the path back to your house. Ben had gone into town earlier that morning. For a moment, you wonder if the silence feels heavier because he isn't here.  That probably means he'll be back late. Again.

Your child is currently attempting to build what they insist is a castle. You smile as your child explains their big plans to a confused crab. Then the wind changes. A chill runs down your spine. Immediately. Instinctively. You look up. And your heart stops. Someone is standing near the water. Watching. Waiting.

For a moment, you think it must be a stranger. A tourist. A local. Anyone else. But then the way he stands, the subtle tension in his posture, tugs at memories you wish you could forget. The figure steps forward, and you recognise him. The blond hair. The blue suit. The same smile that once promised everything and then ruined you. He smiles, but it never quite reaches his eyes. Homelander.

Years have passed. Yet seeing him again feels just like it did all those years ago. It's like a nightmare you've tried to forget for years. Your pulse begins racing. Your child notices your expression immediately. "Mom?" You stand so quickly that your chair falls backwards. "Come here." Your urgent tone makes them freeze. Then they start running toward you. Homelander watches the entire thing unfold. His expression is unreadable. Almost sad. Almost.

"You look happy." The sound of his voice makes your stomach twist.

"What are you doing here?"

His gaze drifts toward your child. The child he once viewed as proof that he had lost you forever. You see a flicker of loss there, mingled with envy, the raw ache of regret cracking through his usual composure. Something dark flashes across his face; longing and resentment at war behind his eyes. For a moment, he seems less like a villain and more like someone searching for a life that never happened. "I wanted to see."

Your entire body tenses. "See what?"

His eyes return to yours. "What my life would've looked like."

The words are quiet. Too quiet. Your child reaches your side and immediately wraps both arms around your leg. You place yourself between them and Homelander without thinking. Protective. Instinctive. A mother's response. Homelander notices. Of course he does. Somehow, that seems to hurt him even more.

"They have your eyes."

You say nothing. His attention shifts to your wedding ring. The same ring you've worn for years. The same ring that started everything. For a moment, genuine grief appears on his face. Then it vanishes. Replaced by bitterness.

"You chose him."

You stare at him. "Yes." You answer without hesitation. You chose Ben. Every single day.

Homelander's jaw tightens. And suddenly you realise something. He never moved on. All these years. All this time. And he never let go. The realisation terrifies you. Not violently. Not yet. But it's enough for your child to notice.

"Mom?"

You slowly back away. "Don't." Homelander closes his eyes. For a brief moment, he almost looks exhausted. "I just wanted to talk." Then something cracks. Maybe it's seeing your fear. Maybe it's seeing the child. Maybe it's remembering everything he lost. Whatever it is, the fragile control disappears. The sand beneath his feet explodes outward. Your child screams. You immediately pull them behind you.

"Homelander!"

His eyes glow red. "I would've loved you." His words come out broken. Angry. Desperate. "I would've given you everything."

"You don't get to decide that!"

The ocean itself seems to tremble. Then it happens. A burst of heat vision shoots past you. Not directly at you. Not directly at your child. But close enough. Far too close. The blast strikes the sand only a few feet away. The explosion sends both of you tumbling backwards. Your shoulder slams against the ground. Pain shoots through your arm. Your child cries out. And something changes. The world suddenly becomes very bright.

For a split second, you remember the small things, the lightbulb in your child's room flickering when they were upset, the way metal objects sometimes quivered when they laughed, the strange tug in the air around them during thunderstorms. Sometimes you caught the scent of ozone, sharp and unmistakable, clinging to their skin, and you always wondered why storms seemed to stir something inside them. Lately, you had noticed they grew restless during thunderstorms, their eyes flashing just a little too bright whenever lightning struck nearby. There were questions you never had the courage to ask: about bloodlines, about what truly ran in their veins. Ben would sometimes half-joke about "not all power coming from the same bottle," and Homelander's name was never far from those late-night anxieties. Little things that never made sense until now.

The air around your child begins glowing. Not red. Not gold. A brilliant blue-white light. Pure energy. The beach erupts. A shockwave explodes outward from your child. The ocean rises. The sand lifts into the air. The sky itself seems to crack with power. Homelander is thrown backwards. Violently. His expression shifts from anger to shock. For the first time since arriving, he looks afraid.

Your child stares at their own hands. Terrified. Confused. The glowing energy dances across their skin like lightning. "Mom?" Your heart breaks. They're scared. They're just a child. A child who doesn't understand what's happening. Then a familiar voice echoes across the beach. "Get away from my family."

Every head turns. Ben. He's standing near the dunes. Frozen. Because he sees everything. You. Injured. His child crying. Homelander standing nearby. And energy pouring from the small hands of the child he loves more than life itself. The silence that follows feels worse than shouting. Ben's gaze settles on the scrape across your cheek. Then your child. Then Homelander. Something changes inside him. Not anger. Not exactly. Something colder. Something far more dangerous. For years, Ben fought for glory. For revenge. For survival. This is different. This is personal. His voice becomes terrifyingly calm. "What happened?"

Your child immediately runs toward him. Relief and panic leap in their chest. For a moment, the fear of being seen, of not understanding the bright, surging energy in their own hands, mixes with a desperate need for comfort. The moment Ben catches them, the energy begins to settle. They bury their face in his shoulder. Still crying. Still frightened. Confused thoughts swirl inside: Did I make this happen? Am I the reason Mom got hurt? "He was trying to hurt Mom." The words come out loud, but inside, your child clings to Ben like he is the only anchor they have left in a world that suddenly feels too big and dangerous. The entire beach goes silent. Ben slowly looks up. Toward Homelander. The look on his face makes your blood run cold. Because there was no hesitation. No conflict. No lingering attachment. No trace of the complicated father-son relationship that once existed. Only certainty. Only fury. Only love. The kind of love that makes people dangerous.

Homelander sees it too. For the first time, he takes a step backwards. Ben's arm tightens protectively around your child. His other hand reaches for yours. Making sure you're safe. Making sure you're real. Then he looks at the family standing beside him. His wife. His child. His entire world. And finally understands something.

He spent most of his life chasing power. But power was never the thing that mattered. This was. You were. And anyone who threatened that would find out just how far Soldier Boy would go to protect the people he loves. Especially now that it seemed his child had inherited something even more frightening than strength. The surge of raw, uncontrollable energy: glowing, untamed, and powerful in ways neither human nor supe had ever shown before, was something entirely new.

For the first time, the world wasn't looking at Soldier Boy. It was looking at the next generation. And judging by the fear in Homelander's eyes, even he knew they had awakened something extraordinary. But as the wind carried away the last echoes of the confrontation, it was clear that the world would not stay quiet for long. Whatever power had emerged on this beach would not go unnoticed. In the distance, within boardrooms filled with shadowy executives, Vought's analysts were already replaying blurred security footage.

The conference room at Vought Tower was unusually crowded. Everyone on the team was there, plus a few executives who clearly wished they were somewhere else. The mood was tense, mostly because Homelander stood at the front, looking far too pleased with himself. That was never a good sign.

Soldier Boy sat at the end of the table, boots up on the polished surface. He looked bored, spinning a pen between his fingers. "Can we get this over with?" he asked. "I've sat through hostage situations that were more entertaining than Vought meetings."

Homelander ignored him. Instead, he lifted a thick leather-bound book into the air with a flourish. The cover gleamed under the conference room lights. Gold letters stood out on the front, and the pages had gold edges. Several people blinked. Nobody spoke.

Finally, one executive cleared his throat. "Wow."

Another nodded uncertainly. "It's... shiny."

"Very shiny."

Soldier Boy stared at the book. Then he burst out laughing. "No way."

Homelander's smile widened. "This," he announced proudly, "is the Homelander Bible."

You couldn't tell if he meant it as a joke or a threat. Deep down, you knew Homelander never did anything without a reason. This book was meant to do more than stroke his ego; it was here to remind everyone who was in charge. The room fell silent. Again.

Soldier Boy laughed even harder. "A Bible?"

"It's a collection of my teachings."

"Jesus Christ."

"Exactly."

The Deep covered his face. Someone at the far end of the table looked seconds away from quitting. Homelander held the book up for another moment, then stopped in the middle of his gesture.

Suddenly, his hand was empty.  The room froze. The Bible was floating. Several inches above Homelander's hand. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. The book drifted higher. The pages started turning on their own. Security immediately reached for weapons.

"What the hell-"

"Who's doing that?"

Then you appeared beside the floating book, as if you had always been there. You hovered in the air, looking completely at ease. Rumour had it you had been recruited straight out of some top-secret government program, and even Vought's senior teams only spoke your name in low voices. Some whispered you were the only person who had ever survived that infamous blackout in Minsk, but nobody quite agreed how. You crossed your legs as if sitting in an invisible chair. One hand held the book while the other flipped through its pages. You looked completely unimpressed.

"Page twenty-three has a typo."

The room erupted. Several people jumped. One executive nearly fell out of his chair.

Homelander sighed dramatically. "Oh, for God's sake."

You turned another page. "This chapter is literally just pictures of you."

"They're inspirational."

"There are twelve pages." "They're very inspirational."

You looked unconvinced. Soldier Boy couldn't stop staring. At first, it was because you had appeared out of thin air. Then it turned into something else. You weren't intimidated. You weren't nervous. You weren't desperately trying to impress Homelander like most people in the building. You looked relaxed. Confident. Comfortable. Like you belonged there.

It was clear that none of these people could make you feel small. That alone caught his attention. Then you smiled at another ridiculous page, and Soldier Boy felt something change inside him. Well. Shit. There she was. The woman he’d imagined for decades and never thought he’d actually meet.

Homelander finally gestured toward you. "This is my messenger."

You rolled your eyes. "Your employee.”

"My trusted messenger."

You shut the book. "I'm literally on payroll."

A few people laughed. Even Soldier Boy grinned. You were funny. That wasn’t helping at all.

As the meeting continued, Soldier Boy paid almost no attention to what Homelander was saying. Instead, he watched you. Whenever someone asked a question, you answered without hesitation. Whenever Homelander exaggerated something, you corrected him without fear. You floated beside him, occasionally pacing halfway across the conference table because you seemed bored.

Every time Soldier Boy looked away, he looked back. He wasn't subtle about it either. At one point, your eyes met his. You caught him staring. Instead of looking embarrassed, he simply smirked. You raised an eyebrow. His grin widened.

Eventually, the meeting ended. People hurried toward the exits. Nobody wanted to spend more time around Homelander than necessary. Within minutes, only you and Homelander remained in the conference room. Soldier Boy lingered outside the doorway. Not because he was interested in Homelander. Absolutely not. He was interested in you. There was a difference. From outside, he heard your voice as you delivered your report.

"The V1 shipments have been moved again."

Homelander leaned against the table. "Can you track them?"

You nodded. "I can get inside places nobody else can."

"Good."

You handed him a tablet. "I'll have more information tomorrow."

Homelander smiled. "You're my favourite."

You immediately replied, "Pretty sure you've said that to half the building."

"Only the talented half."

You laughed softly. Soldier Boy found himself smiling. Then he stopped, because smiling felt weird.

A few minutes later, you stepped into an elevator. The doors began closing. A hand suddenly shot between them. The doors slid open again. Soldier Boy stepped inside. You looked up.

"Really?" "What?"

"You were waiting outside the room." "I was passing through."

"You were standing there for ten minutes." "Traffic."

You laughed. Soldier Boy felt pretty pleased with himself. The elevator started descending. For a few moments, neither of you spoke. Then he glanced sideways.

"So."

You folded your arms. "So."

"You're the ghost girl."

You looked offended. "Ghost girl?"

"I couldn't see you." "That's generally how invisibility works."

"You float too." "I phase."

"Still counts."

You shook your head. "No, it doesn't."

"Pretty sure it does." "It absolutely doesn't."

Soldier Boy laughed. You were impossible. He liked that.

"What exactly can you do?" he asked.

You shrugged. "I can phase through solid matter," you said. "Walls, doors, floors. Even steel. I can slip through almost anything if I concentrate. Can't do it forever, though, too tiring. And I can't take anyone with me, just myself. Also, if I pass through anything with a high electric current, my hair stands on end for about an hour. Kind of annoying, honestly." You paused for a second, then added, "Once, I forgot to check before stepping through the security doors downstairs. Ended up with my hair looking like I'd been electrocuted for the rest of the day. Security kept calling me 'Static.' Trust me, you only make that mistake once."

"What about people?"

You looked at him. "Why would I phase through people?"

He shrugged. "Just curious."

"That sounds concerning." "You've met me."

"Fair point."

The elevator reached the next floor, but neither of you left. Neither of you mentioned it.

"You know," Soldier Boy said, "most people around here act terrified."

"Of Homelander?" "Of everyone."

You shrugged. "I'm hard to intimidate."

"I noticed." "And?"

His gaze met yours. "And I like it."

For the first time since he got in the elevator, you seemed a little caught off guard. Only slightly. But it was enough for him to notice. A small smile tugged at your lips.

"That's your pickup line?" "No."

"Good." "I haven't started yet." You laughed. Again. He couldn’t get that laugh out of his head.

When the elevator finally reached the lobby, you stepped out. Soldier Boy followed immediately. You looked over your shoulder. "Why are you following me?"

"I'm not." "You absolutely are."

"I'm providing security."

You stared. He stared back. Neither of you believed that.

"Security?" "Yep."

"I'm a superhuman who can walk through walls." "Dangerous walls."

You rolled your eyes. Soldier Boy grinned.  "I'm heading to the Research Division," you said. "Cool."

"To investigate leads." Cool."

"You don't need to come." "I know."

You stopped walking. "Then why are you coming?"

Soldier Boy looked completely serious. Because for the first time in ages, someone had really caught his attention. Someone smart. Confident. Funny. Someone who wasn't afraid of him. Someone who didn't care about his reputation. Someone who could walk through walls and still leave him wanting more. So he simply shrugged. "Because I want to." For a moment, you stared at him. Then you laughed softly and shook your head. "You're impossible." His grin returned instantly. "Yeah." Together, you continued down the hallway.

Why do the hundreds who throw themselves at his feet, begging him to use them to his heart’s content, do nothing to alleviate his pain? Shouldn’t the void be filled?

Shouldn’t the ache have subsided long ago?

He basks in their love, but it isn’t the love he needs. In fact, it only makes him ache more. It reminds him how empty he really is. Reminds him of what he’ll never truly have. Reminds him of each time it ever slipped through his fingers.

He lingers above the clouds to hide his tears. Lets the sun’s warmth wash over him, eyes shut as he lets go. His mind wanders beyond the bounds of his norm. Somehow there is tranquility here despite what goes on below. Despite all that he’s done.

He could get lost up here. Forget everything and everyone and just…

Be.

He lets himself fall.

Further and further…

He feels strange, but he lets it pass.

Further…

The sounds of the world warp, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

Further…

When he opens his eyes in preparation to halt himself, he’s… somewhere else. The air doesn’t stink of decay. The skyline of the city is intact. The occasional body floating down the Hudson isn’t there. Vought Tower peeks proudly through the jungle of skyscrapers, and he’s disoriented.

His head pounds as he takes in the sounds. The honking of horns, the hum of machinery and the roar of the subway. All the things he’d done away with in his world flood back into his senses. When the overstimulation fades enough to focus, he finds himself drawn in another direction entirely. It’s as if something calls out for him and only him. It grasps him with an overpowering familiarity around his body and pulls.

He doesn’t even notice the mix of confusion and elation in the faces below.

Homelander floats leisurely, letting the feeling guide him until he’s on the roof of a little home in Queens. The last specks of gold cast from the setting sun graces him as he peers inside. He scans the boxes in the attic first. Each one seems to hold nothing of importance. Old clothes, worthless keepsakes, photo albums, and then…

One catches his eye. Inside rests… his suit?

Homelander blinks in confusion. He’s certainly never gifted one, so how..?

Unless it was a copy, in which case it would be a very good knockoff.

He shakes his head and continues observing, peering through to the next floor. The scent of citrus touches his nose as he scans over the bathroom. Clean and well kept, aside from the chaos of products on the sink countertop. Water droplets coat the inside of the shower.

He moves onto a spare room. Its only purpose seems to be serving as a staging ground for tech work and a few hobbies.

The sight in the next room makes him stop breathing.

There, on the bed, lies a man reading a book. One hand adjusts his glasses. A mop of unruly brown hair rests on his arm, and he can hear the soft snores. Normally, he wouldn’t give a single fuck about something so mundane if not for the fact the man in that bed looked exactly fucking like him.

Some things were different. The knockoff’s hair was fully brown, and certainly wasn’t being kept after the same way his own was. His eyes were an identical blue, but why were they so… soft? Scruff covered his jaw and neck, and there was a tiny, pink scar at his cheekbone, but it was undeniable that this man looked exactly fucking like him, even with other subtle differences.

Homelander watches with wide, focused eyes. Stares at this alternate version of himself in disbelief and fascination.

“Mm,” he hears the other person mumble. “Time is it?”

"It’s uh…” his alternate self speaks. Homelander’s lips part. “About eight.”

They have the same voice.

He looks through the layers of blankets and clothing to check the man’s left hip. He’s stunned at the sight of a birthmark identical to his own.

It’s unmistakable.

The too-real suit. The resemblance. The mark…

That’s him.

But why the fuck is he…

Homelander watches that mop of brown hair finally lift to reveal a young man with the most striking brown eyes he’s ever seen. Something in his gut drops when he sees how the boy looks at this strange version of himself. There’s such warmth, such gentleness in his eyes. He finds that ache renewing in his chest when the pair kiss.

Homelander has had many people try to give him such a look, but their anatomy always betrayed them. Their cortisone was too high, or they would reek of fear. Their hearts would race and their brains would stink of deception.

But not this one…

Whoever this was, he looked at this version of himself with an affection that rang true through his entire body. Heart beat just right, not a waft of fear. Even his other self was reciprocating genuinely.

What the hell is this?

He watches the younger man grumble something about ‘it being time,’ and attempt to roll out of bed before he’s snagged by the arm.

“Absolutely not,” chides his other self. “You’ve been running around since before the sun came up. An hour is not enough sleep.”

“But I gotta–”

“Benjamin.”

So that was his name.

“Two hours,” the boy says before shooting a web and yanking a red, white, and blue suit off the corner of the floor. Interesting power… “I’ll bring home dinner?”

“We already ate.”

“Oh,” Ben chuckles. “Right...”

Homelander watches him take the suit from Benjamin’s hands and toss it to the end of the bed.

“C’mere,” he lifts his arm, offering himself as a pillow. The boy returned to his embrace eagerly. “You gotta make time for yourself, babe. Sleepyheads don’t make for good heroes.”

Homelander spent days watching the pair. He found a way into the attic and lingered there when he wasn’t following the bug around the city. He decided that the web-head was insufferable. Noble to a fault, altruistic, kind, and painfully lenient on even the worst of the criminals he apprehended. Worse than that, he was the leader of The Seven. The completely reformed Seven, at that.

And the way he treated him– or, well, his other self…

He wanted him.

He wanted what they had. Every fucking minute of seeing them together, seeing their love, was a torture in and of itself.

This is what he needs.

Watching them make their stupid little grocery trip before cooking their stupid little dinner. Seeing himself cut and saute vegetables, actively assisting in the process…

Guess this version of himself was only good for domestic work, given he was without his powers.

This, above all else, disgusted him. Benjamin deserves a partner who can keep up with him, if not exceed his limitations. He deserves someone who can make things fun. Throw him around a little, fly him above the clouds and take him anywhere. But, instead, the bug settled on sticking around with this useless excuse of a man.

Why?

Why does he smile at him? Dance with him in the kitchen to no sounds beside the sizzles from the stove? Why does he let this pathetic nobody dip him back and kiss him?

How is it that he’s not faking a single ounce of pleasure when this human ruts into him?

”J-Johnny!”

The sound sends a jolt straight to his cock every time, and he touches himself as he watches, despite his ire.

Why does Benjamin look up at that disgusting, scar covered, sweaty fool and proclaim his love? Kiss his forehead and tell him that finishing early didn’t disappoint him? What makes it so fun to share a bubble bath with him and scoop suds atop his head?

And why the fuck does his alternate self love it so goddamn much?

Homelander, for as much as it confused him, wanted so badly for all of this to be his. They could be happy together, too, right? All he would have to do is dispose of this lesser man, and he could swoop in and show Benjamin just how perfect their lives could be.

By the third week, he snaps.

He nabs his sniveling, weak self out of the kitchen with ease. His mirror image was too stunned at the sight of him to even speak.

“What’s wrong, ‘Johnny?’” He snarls as they whip through the air. “Forget how to fly?”

He drops him a few times for good measure, really solidifying the fear that he’s at the mercy of, well… himself.

Somehow, he can’t bring himself to kill the loser. Homelander tells himself it’s for insurance in case Ben catches on, but even he knows that’s not quite true. He monologues endlessly about how interesting this world is. Tells the tale of how he brought his Earth to its knees in under three days’ time, slaughtering world leaders and eviscerating military ordinance left and right. He and his loyal fans– followers, now, took care of the unworthy. By bathing in blood, he cast a new light across the whole world. It was meant to be paradise, except for that one tiny little detail.

That thing he was missing.

“So, I’ll be borrowing your little bug boy.” He explains with a grin, staring down at his tied up self. “Sure you won’t mind, right? You gotta know this isn’t the life he deserves.”

He can see that jab hit home. Sees his body shake with anger and fear, hears the chain and shackle keeping him in place rattle just the tiniest bit.

“What kinda fuckin’ pussy do you gotta be to lose your powers, anyway? You were bigger than god himself and you just, what? Pissed it all away?”

His other self clenches his eyes shut and bites down on the gag.

“Ah, well…” Homelander grins, quirking his brow. “Hey, whaddaya think’s for dinner tonight, anyway? I bet I can get him to make steak… And, heh, when we finish up, I could probably show him an even bigger piece of meat. If you know what I’m sayin’,”

He leaves after a few more taunts, eagerly barreling back to that quaint little home before Benjamin can return. His suit gets stashed under the bed, and on goes some of his other self’s clothing. He hates to admit that they’re comfortable.

The only thing preventing him from looking totally the part was his hair, but that is quickly explained by a trip to a stylist once Ben arrives home. Finally saying he wants to take care of himself properly. Look nice and handsome again.

He greets the bug with a kiss that no amount of restraint can disguise as anything but starved.

“Woah, there, tiger.” Ben giggles, thumbing at his right cheekbone. Homelander spots a flicker of curiosity. “What’s got into you?”

“Same thing that wants to get into you,” he remarks with a smirk. Ben’s laughter is warmth in his very soul, even if the bug told him he’d rather wait till later in the night.

He could do that.

He could wait.

He bullshits his way perfectly through their banter. After so long observing, he knows just how to play the part. Expert actor that he is, he even makes sure to nibble on his lower lip just like his alternate self does when he’s thinking to himself.

It’s perfect.

The way they curl up on the couch together, the way Benjamin runs a hand through his hair. He can tell the bug doesn’t suspect a thing. Heart beat is in check, adrenaline isn’t spiked, and there’s not a lick of fear emanating from that cute little body of his. He’s in heaven.

That void in his chest feels full, and he has the last piece of the puzzle.

Everything’s perfect… until Ben tries to leave.

“I gotta go out tonight, pumpkin.” The web-head explains. He’s already dressed in that silly spandex suit of his. “Personal responsibility aside, it is part of my contract to keep Vought off your ass, y’know.”

He rolls his eyes, and grabs Ben’s arm.

“I said, no!”

It all went so smoothly until this. Why did he have to ruin everything? Why couldn’t he just fucking stay here?

Homelander grips Ben’s arm, and he sees the moment when the illusion fades.

Too hard.

Too strong for a human.

Ben looks at him for a moment with narrowed eyes.

Homelander stays completely still, hoping that not reacting at all will dispel the realization and everything could go back to normal. He should force him to sit the fuck down and snuggle. Have him run those fingers through his hair some more, spread his legs later and be the perfect partner Homelander knows he can be.

But it’s too late.

Those hands land on either side of his upper arms and he’s being walked to sit on the bed. Benjamin takes a seat beside him and takes him by the hand.

“Man, I’m not even going to pretend this isn’t totally crazy, but…” The bug strokes the back of his hand as he speaks. “How did you get here?”

His eyes flicker red for a moment, ready to blow clean through his head and end his failure before it can get even worse. But, it is precisely this action which earns him a soft smile and a kiss to his knuckles. The crimson heat withers away almost instantly.

“M’not gonna hurt you. I promise.” Ben tells him. Admittedly, he caught on to the difference fairly fast. His sixth sense, combined with the fact Homelander was missing the scar on his cheek were the dead giveaways. Benjamin had to keep himself in check until he was absolutely sure, and, even then, he had to wait for the right moment to slip out and search for John. “I just have questions, y’know?”

Some way, somehow, those gentle eyes pulled every word from him with ease. Even as he tells his tale of conquest, he finds more understanding than horror looking back at him. Seemingly against his will, he devolves into a tirade about how fucking alone he really is. How miserable and sad his life is, despite having everything.

“But then I saw you two, and I…”

Benjamin nods, chin resting atop Homelander’s head. His heart hurts for him, despite the disgust at his deeds. He wonders if this would’ve been Johnny’s fate had things not gone the way they did. If, perhaps, he never did join The Seven. If his love never lost his powers. The immaturity and fury in this man rages hotter than it ever did in Johnny– even back when he was still Homelander.

He lets this one weep. Encourages it, even. Shushes him and weathers the ache of his impossibly strong grip. He wonders if Homelander has ever been allowed to let go. If anyone's ever held him together. Ever wanted to.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to be loved…” Homelander sniffles.

By the time he settles down, Benjamin has missed his window to go out on his patrol. He hums while Homelander catches his breath. One hand strokes up and down his back while the other thumbs at his cheek.

“You’ll find your way, pumpkin.” Ben tells him. “Life makes us wait, and it especially makes us work. Johnny and I took a lot of both, especially work, but it turned out in the end.”

Homelander scowls, but no burning fury rises to his tongue.

“Even though I’m pretty sure our worlds are super different, I think you’ll find your person.”

It’s the kindest rejection he’s ever faced in his entire life. They sat there for a time, allowing a sense of calm to return. He could’ve almost forgotten everything that happened.

“Hate to break the moment, but uhm… I do kinda need my husband back, y’know?”

Homelander scoffs, but stands regardless. He pulls his suit out from under the bed and begins undressing. To his surprise, Ben helps him zip back into it and figure out the cape clasps.

As they flew to the dock warehouse, Ben giggled about the nostalgia of flying.

It was cute.

The mess they’d found his other half in was, however, quite the opposite. Heaving breaths and sputtered cries shook him, and his vitals indicated a full blown panic attack. It’s laughable. He’d only been there for a few hours, what–

“Oh, baby…” Ben coos, kneeling beside him to untie the gag and release his wrists from their binds. “Shh… S’okay now. Look at me.”

John’s hands moved to protect his face as soon as they were free, and Homelander watched with curiosity as Ben walked his other self through various methods of grounding. In a way, he almost felt… wrong for having done it. A disgusting, foreign feeling, and he wasn’t quite sure why he felt it. He certainly felt nothing of the sort massacring half of his Earth.

“I’m not there,” John gasps, a chill creeping through his body as the adrenaline and fear began to subside. “Not there, not there, not there…”

“That’s right, pumpkin.” Ben affirms. “You’re with me. You know that means you’re safe, right?”

John nodded vigorously, sitting up to embrace Benjamin, burying his face in the bug's neck.

He's so fucking pathetic, but…

God, Homelander wishes someone would hold him like that. Maybe if someone would've wiped his snotty little face, kissed his brow, loved him enough…

He shakes his head to rid himself of the thoughts.

He’s met with a piercing stare from his other self. It’s almost laughable. Like a house cat threatening a lion.

Homelander watches the pair stand. Sees how Benjamin frets over possible injuries, pats him down despite all the reassurances there were none. It’s endearing, almost.

He trails after the pair as Ben swings them home. Watches how his other self relaxes his hold around Benjamin’s neck, completely and utterly trusting that he won’t get dropped for the umpteenth time in one day. He can tell that the nighttime air chills him, and he can hear Ben apologize and promise a hot bath.

Something in him feels wrong when they arrive back at the house.

Benjamin invites him in, but something isn’t right.

He isn’t right.

His body tingles and his head feels like it’s floating away from his body. He pretends to feel fine as they all take a seat in the living room to discuss everything.

He stifles a breathy laugh at the way his counterpart sits away from him. Yet, somehow, there’s an ounce of guilt.

Ben explains the fine details to John, but he doesn’t excuse the behavior. Makes sure to motion to Homelander when he tells John just how sorry his superpowered self was for such an act.

Homelander grumbles out his apology– yet another thing he’s never done before now. At least, not with any real sincerity. But the look in Ben’s eyes makes him want to mean it. So he says it again.

This time, he gives it meaning.

“I’m sorry for what I did to you.” His throat burns with each word. “For hurting you and trying to take him away from you.”

The tingling feeling returns tenfold.

Something must be happening, because the other two look at him with wide eyes. A glance down at his hands, and he appears to be dematerializing.

“W-What the fuck?” He stands abruptly, swatting at his body as flakes of light float from him. He rubs his arms, wrings his hands, he panics. “What’s happening to me?!”

Arms wrapping around his body startle him. Tears well up in his eyes when he realizes it’s not only Benjamin, but his other self as well.

“Think you’re goin’ home, pumpkin. You got this.” Ben murmurs against his neck.

The ache settles into his heart once more, but it feels different this time. He’s going to lose this.

“I don’t wanna go…” He sniffles, staring down at that head of unruly brown hair. “I– I wanna stay!” It’s warm here. Even when it’s hard to find, there’s still a degree of peace. And Ben– Ben’s so nice to him.

“I wanna stay!” He repeats desperately. “Don’t make me go…”

Hands rest at his face to make him focus.

“Look at me,” his other self says. “You’ll find what you need. Just gotta let it come to you.”

He shakes his head.

“Time and work, Homelander.” Ben reminds him. “I believe in you.”

Just as the tingling feeling becomes a full body vibration, his other self redirects his gaze. Blue meets blue, and he feels Ben hug him tighter.

“I forgive you.”

The feeling explodes, and he feels his body fade in and out of nothingness. He’s unsure what’s left of him, but he imagines some of those glowing particles still linger. Maybe Benjamin will miss him..?

He aches in the void. Sobs and screams, pulls at his hair.

He’s a wreck for an endless amount of time, floating through nothing until he blinks and he’s somehow back.

Back in the halls of Vought Tower, repurposed to serve as his worldly throne. Homelander meanders aimlessly. His followers salute him as he passes by, but his gaze remains fixed on the ground.

Why does everything look so gray?

Everything’s so… quiet.

Why is it so cold here?

He floats up flights of stairs to avoid people. Makes his way to the conference room with an idle mind.

Something just told him that’s where he should go.

He watches the city from his glass palace. The skyline doesn’t fill him with a sense of power as it once did. The crumbling decay only serves to remind him of how dismal it all really is here.

He stares. Contemplates. Loses himself for perhaps an hour or so.

He even ignores the sound of timid footsteps approaching him.

“Mister Homelander, sir?” asks a familiar voice.

Couldn’t be…

Their heart beats like a jackhammer, and their adrenaline is sky high. They smell so familiar, even covered in the stink of this world.

He turns around, stunned.

“I uhm… Sorry, sir,” outstretched is a hand to shake his. A spinneret rests at the base of his wrist. Soft brown eyes dart back and forth between meeting his gaze and looking away.

He’s nervous, but… he’s not afraid.

“I’m your new uhm…” The boy trailed off, chuckling nervously. “My name’s Benjamin– er, Ben is fine, too. Your choice, of course. I guess I’m your new whatever-you-want-me-to-be. T-They didn’t really specify, y’know?”

Homelander’s eyes soften, and he fights the bite of tears.

Time and work.

“I’m so happy to finally meet you, Benjamin.” He smiles down at the boy fondly. “Welcome home.”

(1984)

“You’re staring again”

Ben didn’t look away from where he sat sprawled across the bed, one arm lazily slung behind his head. “Can you blame me?”

You rolled your eyes, finishing brushing your messed up hair back into place in front of the mirror. “You say that to every girl?”

“Nah” A smirk pulled at his mouth. “Just the pretty ones that put up with me”

“Jesus Christ” He laughed softly as you grabbed a pillow off the chair and threw it at him. He caught it easily, still grinning– that rare kind of grin nobody else ever seemed to get from him– boyish, unguarded and real. Not the cameras, not the public, not Payback– just you. Outside the room, music from the afterparty thumped faintly through the walls. Someone shouted drunkenly down the hallway. (Probably the twins) You moved toward the door. “We should go before someone notices we disappeared”

Ben caught your wrist before you could pass the bed, moving to sit on the edge of the mattress. The movement was automatic, familiar. Gentle. Your breath hitched slightly as he tugged you between his knees, hands settling on your hips. “Five more minutes” He murmured, voice low and gravelly.

“You said that twenty minutes ago” You say, letting out a soft breath of amusement while brushing the hair away from his face.

“Yeah, well” His thumbs brushed slowly against your waist. “Changed my mind”

For a second, you just looked at him– no cameras, no crowds screaming his name, no Vought workers breathing down his neck– just Ben. And maybe that was why the fear creeping into your chest felt so wrong. Because something had been off all week. The team’s whispered conversations stopping the moment you entered rooms. Crimson Countess avoiding your eyes. Noir watching Ben like he was already gone.

You gently held his face between your hands. “We need to be careful” You spoke softly.

Ben frowned. “Bout what?”

You hesitated. It sounded stupid saying it out loud now– paranoid. But the feeling had been sitting heavy in your chest for days. “Don’t know…” You admitted quietly. “Something’s weird lately” Your hands were still cradling his face, one resting on his bearded cheek while the other continued brushing softly through his hair. His hands rubbed absentmindedly along your waist as he watched you carefully now, the amusement fading slightly from his face. “The team’s been acting off. Noir barely speaks to me anymore, Countess won’t even look at me and–” You shook your head lightly. “Just… got a bad feeling”

The man stared at you for a moment before letting out a soft scoff. “Doll” His thumbs pressed gently into your hips. “Y’think too much”

“Ben–”

“No, c’mere” One of his hands slid up your arm, warm and steady. “Nobody’s gonna do shit”

You wanted to believe him. Maybe that was the problem. He’d spent years being treated like something untouchable– America’s greatest hero, Vought’s golden boy, the strongest man in every room. And Ben carried that confidence like second nature– like betrayal wasn’t even a possibility.

“You trust them too much” You murmured.

That made him grin again, crooked and easy. “Nah, sweetheart” He shook his head simply, pulling you even closer to him by your hips. “They too scared to try anything”

The feeling only got worse the next morning. Normally, mission prep with Payback was loud, chaotic even. The twins arguing, Gunpowder trying too hard to impress Ben, Crimson complaining about anything and everything before they’d even left the States. But that morning felt tense– too quiet. You stepped into the briefing room just as the conversation abruptly died. Even Noir, usually the stoic one– was blanking staring at you. “What?” You asked slowly– the same, creeping, awful feeling blooming inside your chest.

“Nothing” Mindstorm answered too quickly.

One of the Vought assistants stood near the projector screen, perfectly composed as always. “Small change of plans, you’ll remain behind for this operation”

You blinked. “What?”

“It’s a simple retrieval mission–” The worker continued smoothly. “ –a couple members of Payback are more than sufficient. We’ll also need you here for other duties” It felt wrong, too staged– too perfect.

“That’s not what yesterday’s briefing said”

Beside you, Ben let out an annoyed sigh. “Relax, ‘preciate the day off”

Your eyes snapped toward him, something almost pleading in your expression, hoping that he’d see it too and agree. “Ben–”

“We’ll be back in a couple days” He leaned down just enough to press a quick kiss against your temple, careless about who saw this time. He was Soldier Boy after all, who the Hell was gonna call him out on it?  "You'll live” He scoffs, breath brushing your hair before he pulled back.

God you were gonna regret letting him leave.

You knew something had gone wrong when nobody answered the radios– not even Ben. By the time you got clearance to join them, Nicaragua was already burning. Smoke choked the air thick enough to sting your lungs, gunfire echoed somewhere deeper in the jungle, bodies littered the camp in pieces– soldiers and civilians alike. Your boots hit the dirt hard as you ran, dust kicking up behind you. “Ben?” You called out, more raw than you’d liked it to be. Nothing– just screaming in the distance. Then, you looked down– his shield. Half-buried beneath rubble and smeared with blood. Your stomach dropped violently. Around you, the remains of the camp looked less like a mission gone wrong and more like a massacre.

Like a setup.

You barely registered Noir standing several feet away, burned and motionless against one of the car’s engines. Or the twins avoiding your eyes. Or Countess already half-hidden back by their vehicle. All you saw was the group of Russian soldiers dragging something across the ground. No, not something– someone.

Ben.

Even drugged, practically unconscious he was still fighting them. A soldier hit him across the face with the butt of a rifle, another jammed a mask tighter over his mouth while three more struggled to force him down. Your heartbeat thundered so loudly it drowned out everything else.

No.

No, no, no–

You lurched forward before someone grabbed you hard from behind. Hands tightly wrapping around your limbs to hold you down. “Let go!” You screamed with all you had, struggling violently against his grip. They didn’t release you– they couldn’t risk you reaching Soldier Boy. Across the clearing, Ben lifted his head. For one brief, horrible second, his eyes found yours. Dazed Confusion, then realization– then something that looked dangerously close to heartbreak. The gas finally took effect a second later, his body going limp. The Russians dragged him toward the helicopter and nobody stopped them.

Nobody.

The last thing you saw was Ben’s lifeless form as they loaded him inside. Then the helicopter doors shut. And he was gone. He was gone– you tried to warn him, you knew something was wrong. He’d just brushed it off, kissing you and waving it away and now he was gone. You hadn’t even been there to try and save him.

They told the world Soldier Boy died a hero. But heroes weren’t drugged and dragged across battlefields while their teammates watched. The first few weeks after Nicaragua became a blur of bloodshot eyes, stolen files and red-string theories spread across motel room walls. Every rumor, every whisper, every classified document mentioning Russian activity– you chased all of it. Nothing. You tracked down old military contacts, bribed informants, broke into places a Vought front-pager definitely shouldn’t have– still nothing– just fragments.

'Transported east'

'American asset'

'Experimentation'

Enough to keep hope alive, enough to ruin you. Payback avoided you after that– too afraid of what a heartbroken (supe)  woman could do to them if she found out the truth. But their avoidance only confirmed what you already knew– they’d all let it happen.

Vought slowly started trying to tie you down, slow your advances without revealing too much from their involvement. They started reassigning missions, monitoring calls, searching your apartments the moment you were gone, asking questions with picture perfect smiles. You stopped staying anywhere longer than a few weeks after someone tried to put a bullet through your window in Chicago. After that, you understood– you weren’t supposed to keep looking. So? You disappeared before Vought could make you disappear first. New identities, cheap apartments. Your life packed into bags small enough to abandon at a moment’s notice, mostly weapons and whatever memory you could salvage of Ben.

(Present Day)

The deal was simple– Soldier Boy helped them kill Homelander and in return, they helped him hunt down the people who betrayed him. He’d barely been defrosting for a couple days and all he could think about was tracking those assholes and pounding them into the ground. He was being difficult– he knew that– but Soldier Boy was always kind of an ass. (Except when it came to you) He plays it cool, still chewing on his burger as he points at a picture on the table, one of your headshots from back in the day when Payback first debuted.

Then, in that gravelly, gruff voice of his: “Find her”

Butcher frowned, arms still crossed as he glances down at him. “Who?” Ben simply held up the photograph, taking a sip from his beer to play it cool.

“The hell for?” MM asked immediately. “Thought your whole team sold you out, what matters when we find who?”

Soldier Boy’s expression didn’t change, simply doubling down and harshly tapping two fingers into your photo like some kind of stubborn toddler with a beard. Annie exchanged a glance with Hughie. “Look–” Hughie started carefully. “ –if she’s been off-grid this long she’s probably either dead or hiding from Vought…”

“Ain’t dead” He mutters gruffly, not bothered to explain the whole V1 deal and its complexities to a bunch of randoms. “Find her”

Butcher leaned back against the table, studying him carefully. “N’ if we don’t care to find the lovely lady?”

Soldier Boy finally looked up, the motel suddenly felt much smaller under his sharp green eyes. “Just find the fuckin’ broad” His tone left no room for argument. And the boys, being left with no other option– started their fucking search.

The first stop was a burned-out Vought storage office three towns over.

“Officially” Hughie started, nervously pacing the empty space. “This place doesn’t even exist anymore…”

“Oui” Frenchie replied, sauntering in behind him while already looking for anything that might be of use. “That is usually where the good things are” Inside, it was exactly what you’d expect– dust, shredded files, and the faint chemical smell mixing with something coppery and deep. Annie rifled through a collapsed filing cabinet while MM booted up a half-dead terminal.

“This isn’t just a missing person case” MM said, holding up a thin file fragment. “This is a Vought cleanup, through and through” Butcher looked over in a silent ‘ya think?’ like the judgy bastard he was. “They didn’t forget her– suckers lost her after Nicaragua”

Soldier Boy’s jaw tightened, not anger, in recognition. He could almost feel the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips– proud at you for getting the Hell outta there after what they did to him– for surviving. Though he quickly schooled it back to his stoic frustration.

Hughie frowned at the screen MM was working on. “Okay, so… if Vought scrubbed her, where do we even start?”

Butcher pointed at MM’s terminal without looking away from Soldier Boy. “Y’said Nicaragua”

MM hesitated. “That was like– what, 1980 something?”

“84” Soldier Boy said flatly.

“Right,” Hughie muttered. “So we’re looking for a forty-year-old coverup in a system designed to erase itself. Great”

Frenchie hummed, crouched near a cracked server rack. “Vought does not erase people unless they are inconvenient and our lady friend here seemed to be plenty inconvenient"

“That one word for it” Butcher scoffed.

Annie straightened slightly. “No. Look– this isn’t random. If she was involved in Payback and Nicaragua, she wouldn’t just disappear. She’d be classified, archived, locked under something deeper than all of this” She points vaguely at the files on screen.

MM looked up. “Like what?”

Starlight hesitated, then tapped the broken terminal screen. “Military subcontract records?”

The room went still for half a second. Soldier Boy finally moved– just a step forward. But enough to show his interest was piqued. “Then get in” He spoke in his usual gruffness.

Hughie blinked. “Into what exactly?”

“Whatever the fuck you need to” Ben replied. “Just get me the fuckin’ file”

Butcher exhaled through his nose. “You’re one helpful cunt, aren’t ya?”

Frenchie, meanwhile, was already plugging in a battered drive from his pocket. “There is a secondary archive route,” He spoke lightly, mainly towards Kimiko who was always half a step beside him. “Old Vought-Russian joint records. Very ugly interface, very secret”

MM stared at him. “You just carry that shit around?”

The French smiled. “I am a man of preparation” The screen flickered– once, twice– then a directory opened– glitching, half-corrupted, but alive.

PROJECT INDEX: NICARAGUA / 1984

Hughie leaned in. “That’s– that’s it, right?”

Soldier Boy was already behind them– watching, waiting. MM clicked the folder, the system lagged but finally loaded a single redacted line of text:

SUBJECT TRANSFER: CONFIRMED STATUS: MOVED EAST CLEARANCE: OBLITERATED

No one reacted, too busy trying to understand what the Hell all those cryptic words even meant. Then– the terminal flickered violently. An error screen flashed up.

ACCESS REVOKED

The entire system wiped itself in real time. Hughie swore nervously. “It’s deleting itself–”

“Yeah no shit!” MM instantly retorted, smashing buttons to try and stop the machine from eliminating all the evidence they had.

“Vought response protocol” Annie said quickly. “They know someone’s in the system– must be a security measure”

MM slammed the keyboard. “We just got flagged”

Butcher straightened. “Right then, that’s our cue to leave”

Frenchie already yanked the drive out. “We have approximately ninety seconds to get out of here, mon amis”

Hughie looked up. “Ninety seconds? Why ninety seconds–” Nobody bothered to answer his stupidly nervous questions, all of them already bolting out of the building and toward the van they’d left outside. At least they had a lead– East. The subject had moved East. The van doors slammed shut behind them as MM threw it into gear, tires screeching as they pulled away from the building like it was trying to swallow them whole. (It kinda was)

“Okay” Hughie said breathlessly, glancing back through the rear window. “Okay, so we’ve got East, we’ve got Queens, we’ve got– whatever that was– now what?” But Soldier Boy wasn’t listening, he sat forward slightly, elbows on knees and eyes fixed. Not at them– at the road ahead like it was narrowing into something only he could see. Hughie noticed it again. “You’re doing that thing where you get all quiet and honestly kind of terrifying”

No response. 

Butcher exhaled through his nose. “Right, so we’re just followin’ magic instinct now, ain’t that bloody lovely”

“Works better than whatever the fuck you cumguzzlers were doin’ ” Soldier Boy muttered. Hughie opened his mouth– then simply closed it again. Because there wasn’t really anything to argue with and he wasn’t about to piss off the same asshole that had been driving them crazy for almost a month. He’d seen what he did to those Payback members– and they were supes– he wasn’t about to test his luck.

The safe house wasn’t on any official map. Of course it wasn’t– wouldn’t be safe if it were. It sat tucked between older buildings, half-forgotten street, the kind of place people only noticed when really looking for it. The van rolled to a stop a block away. Hughie swallowed. “Okay… so this is it?” No answer. Soldier Boy was already out of the van before anyone else spoke again. “Hey! Wait–” Hughie scrambled after him. “We don’t even know if she’s–”

But he stopped mid-sentence. Because the door was already open. Not forced, not broken. Just… not locked the way it should’ve been.

Frenchie frowned. “That is not a good sign”

MM stepped in behind him slowly. “Yeah. That’s a ‘someone knows we’re coming’ kind of sign” Inside was too quiet. Not empty– quiet in the wrong way, like someone was holding their breath and waiting. A chair was slightly turned, a blanket half-folded, a mug still warm enough to feel wrong.

Annie’s voice dropped. “She was here recently”

Hughie looked around, uneasy. “Like… recently recently?”

Before anyone could answer– the back door slammed open– hard and violent. “Now you motherfuckers better stay the Hell still before I blow your brains off” Your voice came from behind them, the unmistakable sound of a gun’s safety clicking off echoing through the room.

MM went rigid, hands already raised in surrender. “Okay– okay, nobody move” Butcher muttered some unintelligible curse under his breath while Annie opted for the usual: “We’re not here to hurt you” As if these half-wits could even nick your V1 powered skin.

You didn’t answer– not yet. Because your eyes had already locked onto something, the center of the group– the one person who wasn’t reacting like the rest. The one who didn’t turn fast. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t reach for anything. Just… stood there. Broad shoulders, familiar posture, that suit– Your stomach dropped before your brain caught up. No. No, that’s not–

Hughie finally twisted enough to see you. “Okay– hi– we can explain–”

“Don’t” You snapped instantly, eyes never leaving Soldier Boy even while speaking to the rest of the group. The gun didn’t move off them, but your attention wasn’t really on them anymore– it was on him. “…Got to be kidding me” You spoke slowly. The words weren’t loud, yet they still cut through everything.

Soldier Boy didn’t react immediately– didn't speak– just turned his head slightly. Enough for you to see him fully.

“You’re not him” You spoke, jaw tight. The words lack conviction even to your own ears. But you weren’t about to risk it– Vought had already tried to catch you with some Shapeshifter asshole posing as the man you loved.

Soldier Boy finally spoke. Flat and controlled– unhurried in that way he always used with you, even back then while telling you not to worry about Payback’s intentions. “Put the gun down” That only made your expression sharpen. Because that voice, that tone? It’d been years since you heard it.

“No” You repeated, quieter now. “No, Vought does not get to pull this shit again– I killed the first motherfucker I ain’t scared to do it twice”

Butcher let out a low whistle. “Oh, this is personal”

Annie glanced between you and him, tension rising. “Wait– what is she talking about?” You didn’t answer– couldn’t. Because Soldier Boy took one step forward. Just one and the room shifted instantly. Your finger tightened over the trigger. (Even if a bullet wouldn’t do shit to him he still stopped you)

“Easy on the artillery, Rambo” That teasing– that shameless taunt, even in the face of danger– that couldn’t possibly be another sick trick. That was Ben, your Ben.

You let out a shaky exhale, gun finally lowering and completely forgotten by your side. “...No shit” A step closer to him. “Ben?”

The name sat in the air like it didn’t fully belong there yet. Soldier Boy didn’t answer right away, just looked at you, like he was trying to decide if reacting too quickly would make you disappear as if reaching into smoke. “Yeah” He replied, voice gruff but softer than before. Something in your posture finally cracked– not dramatically, not all at once– just enough that your shoulders dropped like you’d been holding them up for the last forty years.

You stepped closer to him, when you were close enough– your voice dropped. “…I thought I’d lost you” Something flickered in his eyes at that, not quite vulnerability yet but understanding.

“Yeah” He repeated, quieter this time. “You and me both, doll”

Suddenly you stepped forward and hit his chest with your free hand. Not hard enough to hurt him, but definitely hard enough to mean it. “You fucking idiot” You blurted out. The Boys all stiffened like they’d just watched you spit in his face. Soldier Boy didn’t even react defensively, just looked down at you with the quiet endearment one might look at a puppy trying to misbehave– adorable even when biting his ankles. “Fucking told you something was weird– that those assholes were doing something”

“Didn’t shut up about it” He scoffs, a hint of fondness to his words despite the asshole-ish essence that always seemed to accompany his words.

That almost pulled a laugh out of you– almost. Instead, your expression twisted somewhere between relief and frustration. “Could’ve listened…” You muttered.

He huffed once– barely a laugh, rough around the edges. “Didn’t exactly feel like feeding into your worries, sweetheart” Your expression tightened again– less anger this time, more like reluctantly amused disbelief.

“Oh, so you just decided being blown up n’ dragged to Russia was a better plan?”

One corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close enough to feel dangerous.

“Yeah well, you’re welcome, by the way” That finally dragged something out of you– a short, breathy laugh that sounded half offended, half relieved you could still make that sound at all. At that sound, Ben finally pulls you into him, strong arms holding you against his chest. You should fight it– go off at him a bit longer– instead, you melt into it, hands clasping into the fabric of his back. Too many years waiting for this moment.

“You’re heavier” You muttered into him in an attempt to ease some of the vulnerability and emotional tension. (You were not going to cry in front of a bunch of strangers)

“Thank the fuckin’ reds for that” That almost made you laugh again. Almost. God you’d missed him.

Behind you, someone cleared their throat again. Hughie– very small, very careful. “So…” He started awkwardly. “Is this… like a reunion thing? Or are we still in danger? Because I can do either, I just need to know where I’m at”

MM muttered, “We are always in danger”

But Ben didn’t let go. Not even slightly– completely ignoring the people behind him and fully focusing on you in his arms again. His hand shifted once at the small of your back. Subtle and grounding– like checking you were still real under his fingers. “You good?” He asked quietly.

That alone made your chest tighten again. “…Yeah” You admitted after a moment. Then, more honestly. “Not really– but better now”

That earned a faint huff from him. Approval, almost. “Y’always were dramatic”

“You died” You shot back immediately.

“Didn’t stick”

You nodded once against his chest.

“…Don’t do that again” You muttered, only for him to hear.

“No promises”

You lifted your head slightly just enough to glare at him. That got a real smirk this time.

And then, finally, you let out a breath that sounded like you’d been holding it since 1984. “Asshole” You scoffed, pressing your face back into his broad chest.

The first thing Soldier Boy learned about you was that you talked too damn much. The second was that you had absolutely no sense of self-preservation. “Y’know” You said, arms crossed as he stood in front of the motel vending machine he’d just punched open. “Most people just use money”

He scoffed, not even looking up from the mountain of spilled food and drinks. “Well sweetheart, most people aren’t me” His voice was gruff, dismissive and sarcastic.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You raised an eyebrow, eyeing the crushed metal hanging from the vending machine. He finally looked at you then– really looked. Young, mouthy, absolutely zero fear in your eyes despite the fact he’d just punched through solid metal like it was cardboard. Most people backed off. Instead? You crossed your arms harder.

“Y’know” You repeated. “Usually when giant, random men get caught destroying private property they at least pretend to feel bad”

“Giant?” He echoed in a scoff, almost offended.

“Okay, normal-sized”

His jaw ticked. “Y’always this annoyin’?”

“Only around criminals” You retort, though it lacked any real heat.

He let out a humorless laugh, grabbing a bag of chips from the mess at his feet. “Lady, if I was a criminal, trust me” He pointed at the shattered machine with the chip bag. “You’d know”

“Pretty sure I can already for my assumptions” You huff, pointedly looking at the shattered machine. For a second, neither of you moved– then he tossed a candy bar at your chest, which you caught instinctively.

“Congratulations” He muttered through a mouthful of food. “Now you’re ‘n accomplice”

You stared at it. “…Did you just bribe me with chocolate?”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

Three months later, Soldier Boy learned one final thing about you– you were his fucking favorite person in this whole weird, shitty, modern world.

“You forgot eggs”

“Sweetheart, I didn’t forget to buy the goddamn eggs”

“You absolutely forgot eggs”

He dropped the grocery bag onto the tiny motel counter with a heavy thud, already looking annoyed despite slowly realizing he most definitely did forget the eggs. Even after you’d told him around three hundred times, plus left him a little note by the fridge. “There are eggs” He doubles down with a gruff grumble.

You reached into the bag– silence. Then slowly pulled out a six-pack of beer. “…Benjamin” It’s almost funny the way you call his name like a disappointed mother despite him being a man-sized war machine.

His jaw tightened instantly. “Don’t start”

“You said you were going to the store for groceries”

“That’s groceries” He huffs defensively, grabbing one of the beers and using it to gesture vaguely at the bags.

“That is begging for cirrhosis”

“S’called dinner”

You stared at him, to which he simply stared back. Somehow, despite being one of the most terrifying men alive, Soldier Boy had developed the unfortunate habit of looking vaguely guilty whenever you gave him that look. The one with your arms crossed– the one that said ‘you’re being an idiot’ without the need for any words to actually leave your mouth.

“You forgot actual food” You deadpanned, a reluctant hint of amusement stubbornly tugging at the corners of your mouth.

He huffed, already digging through the bags again. “Relax, sweetheart” A loaf of bread hit the counter, then peanut butter, cereal, takeout containers. (Huh, so that’s what you smelled when he stepped in) And–after a second of suspicious hesitation– your favorite snacks.

You blinked. “…You got these for me?”

Ben shrugged too quickly. “Were there” He replies gruffly, taking a sip of the beer on his hand to try and busy himself with anything other than making eye contact with you.

“Ben”

“What?” The smile tugging at your mouth only made his eyes narrow further. “Don’t make a thing outta it” You walked over anyway, slipping your arms around his middle before he could complain. At first, he went stiff– not because he disliked it. But because three months later, getting your honest affection for these small, simple things still caught him off-guard.

“You’re secretly sweet” You mumbled into his shirt.

“Watch your mouth” He scoffs as if you’d just personally insulted him instead of calling your boyfriend sweet.

“You love me”

He scoffed automatically once more. “Debatable”

“Grumpy old man” You chuckle softly into his chest– already knowing him and the fact that despite his gruff words, he really did care deeply for you. His rough hands settled on the small of your back, pulling you even closer to him and placing a kiss to the top of your head.

The thing about loving Soldier Boy was that trouble had a habit of finding him. Sometimes it looked small– a busted nose, blood on his knuckles that didn’t belong to him, the occasional bruised rib he’d wave off with a muttered. “M’fine”  Which you only accepted as an answer because he’d heal in a couple hours. Though sometimes it looked bigger– long nights spent staring too hard out the window, phone calls he wouldn’t/couldn’t explain (those were especially weird given his relationship with technology) that familiar tension in his shoulders– the kind that made him look like he was waiting for something ugly to happen.

You noticed, of course you noticed, Ben wasn’t exactly subtle after all. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

Your boyfriend barely looked up from where he sat at the edge of the bed, cleaning dried blood from his hands. “Nothin’ ” He replied in a low grunt.

“Benjamin”

His jaw tightened. God, he hated when you used that tone– the one that said ‘I know you’re lying’ and you weren’t willing to play along right now.

“Just business”

You stared at his broad back, shoulders taught and fabric stretching over his muscles. “Your business usually involves property damage ‘n at least a couple deaths”

“Yeah?” He finally looked over at you. “And?”

“And I live here too, asshole” Sure, the words were harsh– but he knew it came from your love and care for him. So it made something in him soften, just for a second. Because somehow– despite all the reasons you shouldn’t– you still said we when talking about y’all’s future. Like this shitty little motel room was home. Like he was a part of it. Ben stood with a quiet sigh, moving toward you until his hands settled on the sides of your face automatically.

“Sweetheart–” He muttered, rough thumb brushing the apple of your cheek with far too much tenderness from a man like him. “ –just gotta handle somethin’ ”

Your stomach sank instantly. “How long?” He hesitated. He hesitated and that was enough of an answer– too long. “Ben…”

“I’ll be back” Quiet, quick, rehearsed. The same tone that showed he’d been practicing the speech, just as much to convince himself as to reassure you. And for the first time in months, something heavy squeezed your chest.

“You promise?”

His expression shifted. Tiny, almost unreadable– but enough. Enough to make your chest tighten even more, because Soldier Boy wasn’t a liar but he wasn’t good at promises either.

Still: “Yeah” He said finally, voice rough. “Promise” Then, softer– smaller. “C’mon, doll” A kiss to your forehead. His warm hands still cradling your face. “Really think m’gon let some bullshit keep me from comin’ back to you?”

Ben never came back.

At first, that didn’t mean much– not really. Because Soldier Boy disappeared sometimes, a couple hours here, a few days there. Coming back with bruised knuckles, blood on his clothes and some gruff excuse about business before collapsing into bed beside you like nothing happened. So the first week? You waited– kept the motel lamp on, ignored the knot in your stomach every time headlights passed outside, half expected the door to swing open and for him to walk in smelling like smoke and beer, muttering something about traffic before stealing half your dinner like he owned the place. The second week hurt more. The third made you angry, because if there was one thing Ben had never done, one thing– was break a promise to you of all people.

By the time a month struck, the people from your motel started giving you pity-looks. It almost drove you crazy, frustration and hurt mixing inside your chest. Because they didn’t know him. They didn’t know the way he’d started sleeping in bed instead of the couch just to be closer to you, they didn’t know he remembered your coffee order despite saying it was ‘modern bullshit, coffee's coffee’ under his breath, they didn’t know the stupid habit he had of picking you up at random times. They didn’t know the way he’d looked at you before he left– like he meant it. Like he fully intended to come home.

So you waited.

Until waiting started feeling stupid. Then embarrassing. Then downright painful.

Eventually, life moved anyway– bills still had to be paid, groceries still had to be bought and things still had to be done. The shitty motel still smelled vaguely like cigarette smoke and something distinctly Ben no matter how much time passed.

Time kept passing. But forgetting him? That never happened. You still bought his stupid brand of booze without thinking, kept it in the fridge ‘just in case’, still caught yourself reaching for his side of the bed during bad nights, still paused whenever someone on the street laughed too loud or walked too heavy. Still looked up. Just in case, even when you knew better, that it’d been almost two years.

What you never learned– could have never learned– was that Ben had tried to keep his promise until the last moment. Right up until they put him back in that fucking box.

The first thing Soldier Boy thought about after getting out– after the smoke, after the blood, after the betrayal, after waking up to another version of a world that somehow looked even uglier than before– was you.

Not revenge or Butcher, not even the fucked-up mess of family drama they’d suddenly dumped onto him.

You.

Because somewhere between motel vending machines, shitty takeout dinners, somewhere between your smart mouth and your habit of stealing his shirts– you’d become his home. And if there was one thing Ben had learned in his unfairly long life? It was that home didn’t come around twice. So the second he had enough breathing room, he left. Didn’t tell anyone– couldn’t be bothered to explain himself. He remembered the motel by mere muscle memory. Three left turns off the highway and he could already see that shitty flickering sign, the vending machine out front they’d replaced after the first one was ‘mysteriously wrecked’.

You were gonna be pissed. Probably yell at him, call him an asshole. Maybe throw something at him. Nah, you wouldn’t go that far. Though honestly? It would’ve been fair because you’d waited. He knew you waited. And yeah, the whole promise thing sat ugly in his chest. But he was here now– that counted for something, didn’t it?

A stranger stood behind the front desk, younger than the last guy who used to work there. “Lookin’ for somebody” The kid barely glanced up, clearly bored from this awful job.

“Room number?”

His jaw ticked instantly before replying a gruff: “31”

The teenager looked up, finally facing him. “What’s the name?” Ben hesitated, but when he said it, the kid behind the counter went quiet. Too quiet. “Oh…” Ben stilled at his tone. The kid shifted awkwardly. “You knew her?”

Ben’s stomach turned, weak enough to annoy him. “Yeah” He replied slowly, jaw tight. “Knew her”

The kid hesitated. “Like… recently?”

“What kinda stupid fuckin’ question is that?”

The teenager shifted awkwardly. “No, I just–” He stopped and glanced toward the front windows like someone might be listening. Huh, weird kid. “She used to stay in room 31–” The kid said carefully. “ –she was there for a long time”

“Still does” He corrects him gruffly.

Something uncomfortable flickered across the clerk’s face. “No” He replied quietly. “I mean, not anymore”

Ben frowned. “Listen kid, I ain’t got time for all this cryptic bullshit– what the Hell’s that supposed to mean?”

The worker shifts awkwardly under Soldier Boy’s scrutiny. (To be fair, it was a pretty intimidating presence…)

“She was waiting for somebody” The kid pauses, searching for the right words. “She talked about him sometimes–” He continued awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “ –big guy, an asshole apparently” A beat. “But like…” He hesitated. “Kind of in a fond way?” Ben almost scoffed. Almost. “She stayed here a long time, wouldn’t leave just in case the guy came back”

Something ugly twisted in Ben’s chest. “How long?” The kid named all the months you’d been there– too many, way too fucking many. Long enough to make his stomach drop, long enough to make the guilt hit all at once. Because you waited. Christ on a cross– you actually waited. His jaw tightened hard enough to ache. “Where’s she now?”

The kid went quiet again. Once again, too quiet. “She…” He started carefully– another glance toward the windows, toward the cameras. “You probably shouldn’t ask too many questions”

That got Ben’s attention instantly. “The Hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“She said some stuff”

“What fuckin’ stuff?” He insisted, the gruffness of his voice only increasing by the second. This conversation was quickly burning through whatever little patience he had.

The clerk swallowed. “Y’know… About him” Pause. “Homelander” Something cold settled beneath Ben’s ribs at the name– of course it got something to do with that pathetic excuse of a human being. “She got angry one day–” The kid said quietly. “ –some rally thing on the news, people cheering and all” He shifted again. “Guess she just… snapped” Ben didn’t move, his jaw was hurting by now– he always knew you talked too damn much and it would eventually get you in trouble. “She said everybody needed to stop pretending he was a God” The kid laughed nervously, humorless. “Said people were stupid for cheering while everything kept getting worse right in front of our faces” Another pause. “She got loud” Ben already hated where this was going. “Somebody reported it, they were probably scared, y’know?”

The room felt drastically smaller. “What happened?”

The kid hesitated, before whispering a nervous: “They took her”

Ben blinked once, slow– completely and utterly confused. “Took her where?”

The clerk looked visibly uncomfortable now. “You really don’t know?” No answer, just that terrifying stillness, the kind that came before a storm. “There are camps…?” He pauses to check if Ben’s following the conversation. “For people who…” He trailed off. “People who say the wrong thing”

Ben always used to say your mouth would get you into trouble– usually after you’d mouthed off to somebody twice your size, started an argument you absolutely didn’t need to be having, or corrected him when he was being particularly insufferable. “One day, sweetheart” He’d mutter, cigarette hanging lazily from his lips. “That smart mouth’s gonna get ya killed” To which you’d always replied: “Worth it” Turns out he’d been half right.

The camp had taught you many things. How to sleep through shouting, how to eat food without tasting it, how to keep your head down, how to stay quiet. That one still felt cruel, because if there was one thing you’d always been– it was loud. Loud opinions, loud laughter. Loud enough to annoy Soldier Boy into rolling his eyes while secretly smiling into his beer. Now? Barely spoke unless necessary. Funny what survival could beat out of a person. You hated that the most– how easy it had become. Eyes down “Yes, sir” or  “No, ma’am” Move when told, stand where instructed, don’t complain about the Homelander mandatory merch-uniform, eat what they gave you, ignore the screaming when somebody disappears, ignore the whispers, ignore the fear– just survive. That was the rule, survival over dignity. Even if some days you weren’t entirely sure there was much of a difference anymore.

The kitchen was quieter than usual, nobody wanted to draw attention over to them. You scrubbed absentmindedly at a pan, mind somewhere else. (Again) It happened more often lately– thinking too much. Mostly thinking about him. Stupid. Almost two years of no explanation, no proper goodbye, no nothing. And somehow– you still caught yourself going back to those memories more often than not, out of habit– like he’d walk through the door any second and scoff something about how ‘you’re gettin’ all sappy n’me now?’ in that gravelly voice of his.

God that still stung. Because grief would’ve been easier, grief meant certainty, it meant closure. This? This was just waiting with no ending in sight.

“You” The sharp voice cut through your thoughts like a bucket of ice water– guard. You straightened automatically.

“Sorry” The apology left before you could stop it. Fuck everything– you used to hate apologizing.

“You’re late”

You glanced at the clock– thirty seconds. They were calling you out for a mere thirty fucking seconds. “Won’t happen again” Somewhere deep down, you swore you could hear Ben’s voice in your head– low, gruff and fond– mock offended per usual: Jesus Christ, doll. Since when d’you let people talk to ya like that?

The address came from the kid behind the counter, secret like saying it too loud might get him in trouble too. Ben barely remembered leaving the motel, barely remembered the drive, didn’t even remember half the roads– just the sound of that teenager’s stupid sentence looping in his head: ‘People who say the wrong thing’ 

Christ. He always told you that mouth of yours was gonna get you in trouble. But he never thought the trouble would look like this– miles outside the city. Middle of bumfuck nowhere, fences too tall, barbed wire, watchtowers– the whole shabang. The kind of place meant to make people feel small before they even stepped a foot inside. The place looked wrong– wrong in a way he couldn’t immediately explain. And for Soldier Boy to give a fuck? It had to be one awful shitshow. Places packed with this many people weren’t supposed to be quiet, even prison yards made noise for God’s sake. Fights, arguments, people bitching just to hear themselves talk. But here? Nothing. Just silence, heavy silence, the kind that sat ugly in your chest.

Everybody moved the same. Eyes down, quick, stay small. Like taking up space was synonymous to signing a death sentence. Ben hated it instantly because fear smelled familiar. And this place? Reeked of it. He walked closer. Nobody stopped him. (Probably because no one in their right mind stopped Soldier Boy) Much less when he looked like this, all broad shoulders and expression carved from stone– that particular look in his eyes that screamed 'bad idea’ without the need for words.

A whistle sounded somewhere across the compound, sharp and immediate. People moved fast– lines forming with the kind of speed that only came from familiar punishment. Christ on a cross. Even soldiers bitched more than this, Ben’s jaw ticked.

One guy stumbled near the mess hall– couldn’t have been older than twenty. Guard shoved him hard enough to send him crashing into a wall without a single glance. “Move” He barked.

The kid apologized instantly. Instantly for God’s sake. “Sorry, sir” Didn’t even sound angry, just tired. Ben felt something unpleasant crawl up his spine, because apologies like that? Didn’t happen naturally– they got taught– beaten in. Nearby, somebody coughed. Bad, wet, concerning and still nobody looked over nor reacted. Like helping people wasn’t worth the risk and they already weighed out their options– surviving mattered more. The realization pissed him off more than it should’ve. What kind of place taught people to stop caring?

He hadn’t noticed the uniforms. Gray and Homelanders ugly mug plastered across the front, the American flag on the back. (That last part he could get behind– the whole ego stroking merchandise? No fucking way) Everyone was dressed the same, stripped down until individuality barely existed.

He was snapped out of it when another guard near the kitchen barked something– making a worker freeze, their head dropping instantly. “Sorry” They’d replied– quiet, automatic. Ben barely looked at first, thinking it was just another exhausted person in a line of exhausted people.

Then something in him stopped– hard and dramatic in his ridiculously large frame. No. No fucking way. Because you… You weren’t supposed to look like that. Not quiet, not small, not– The guard said something else, too fast to hear. You just nodded. “Won’t happen again” Soft, careful, obedient.

Ben went completely still– because somewhere in the back of his mind, he could still hear your laugh, could still see your arms crossed, mouth running.

“Most people use money”

“Grumpy old man”

“Worth it”

And now? Now you looked down when people talked to you. His chest rumbled and squeezed with guilt, frustration and hurt. It wasn’t one of his full blown chest-blasts, but it was pretty goddamn close. Nobody should have you looking like that– not even him for fuck’s sake. For a second– a terrifying, unfamiliar second– Ben couldn’t move. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he genuinely didn’t know what the fuck to do.

You looked thinner.

Christ.

Not dramatically– not enough for somebody who didn’t know you to notice. But he knew you. Knew the softness that used to sit in your cheeks, knew the way your face scrunched when you laughed too hard, knew the stubborn set of your shoulders whenever you were about to argue over something stupid. This version of you looked tired– like the world had been chewing on you for too damn long. And the worst fucking part? You looked alone. Not the normal kind either– not the kind fixed by a hug or an evening of bad television. No. It was the kind that settled into your bones. The kind people were forced to learn to live with. Something ugly shifted in his chest because this? This wasn’t the girl who used to steal cigarettes from his pack just to hide them around his stuff, wasn’t the girl who’d laughed loud enough to make motel neighbors write noise complaints– wasn’t the girl who’d stood in front of a six-foot-plus superhuman and called him a criminal to his face the first time they met. This version of you apologized, that alone was enough to me his jaw clench so hard it hurt.

The guard stepped closer. “You deaf?” He snapped. “Move faster”

You nodded, gaze still lost on the task you were busy with. “Sorry”

Sorry? Again? Ben felt something hot crawl up his spine.

But then the guard grabbed your arm– not hard enough to leave damage, but rough enough. Possessive enough. Like he could, like he thought nobody would stop him. “C’mon” The man barked. “Quit standing around looking stupid”

Something inside Soldier Boy went violently still. Because there aren’t many things Ben tolerates just from principle alone. Assholes? Thin line. Power trips? Try to ignore them. People being cruel because deep down they were weak and pathetic? Seen it before. But touching what was his? After two years? After you waited for him? After somebody turned you into– no. Absolutely fucking not.

The guard barely had time to blink before a hand wrapped around the back of his collar and yanked up into the air, pulling him away from you and crowding him into the opposite wall instead. “What the–”

Ben looked down at him, jaw tight and gaze sharp enough to make grown, adult men piss themselves. “Lemme ask you somethin’ ” His voice came low, dangerously calm. “The fuck makes you think y’get to put your lanky fuckin’ hands’n her?” The guard sputtered uselessly in the supe’s grip, boots kicking helplessly in an attempt to touch the floor. “You deaf or stupid?” Ben asked flatly, echoing the guard’s earlier words to you while crowding him harder into the wall. “Wasn’t a rhetorical question”

You froze too– not because of the yelling– that was more than normal inside these cursed fucking walls. Because… No. No fucking way– that voice. Low, gravelly, rough around the edges like cigarettes, bad decisions and wrapped in something heavy, deep. Your stomach dropped so fast it hurt.

The guard finally found his words, choking out a pathetic: “Let go–”

“Think m’good right here” The man’s feet barely touched the floor.

You still hadn’t looked up. Correction, couldn’t. Because grief did ugly things to people. Sometimes it made you hear familiar voices in crowds, made strangers laugh like somebody you missed, made hope feel cruel. And you learned– painfully, not to trust cruel things.

“Please” The guard snapped, trying to regain whatever pathetic authority he thought he had despite the pathetic little kicks of his legs, dangling in the air.

Ben laughed once– humorless and mean. “Kid, I can do whatever the fuck I want”

Now that definitely wasn’t grief. That wasn’t just a ‘kinda similar voice’ that was actually, one hundred percent your man. Only he could be this smug and full of himself while inside a literal, violence ridden camp.

“Ben?”

The sound of your voice was enough for him to let the guard fall back to the ground, the man stumbling to regain his composure before scurrying off. Ben’s muscle memory already responding to your presence, even after all this time. “Doll” He muttered, voice rough but somehow still impossibly soft in that way he always saved just for talking to you. “M’sorry m’late”  You don’t even listen to his apology, simply crashing into him– your face finding its place in his broad chest, arms wrapping around him as if to anchor yourself into this moment. Solid, warm, real. Your fingers curled harder into the fabric of his suit, tight enough to wrinkle it like if you loosened your hold even a little? He’d disappear again.

Ben barely got his arms around you before something in his chest caved clean in.

Christ.

You were shaking.

Not dramatic movie scene sobbing– worse, small, quiet– the kind of shaking that came from holding themselves together for too damn long. “Hey” His voice dropped automatically, rough hands cradling your face, pulling you back just enough to look at your eyes. “Easy, doll…”

That almost did it all over again.

Because easy?

Easy used to mean motel beds and stolen shirts. Grocery store arguments over eggs and ‘real food’ comments. Him chomping down on whatever food you didn’t finish.

Easy used to mean him.

And suddenly your throat hurt with two years worth of unshed tears and unsaid words. “You said–” The words came out broken, embarrassingly small. “ –you said you were coming back”

Ben went still. Fuck. Out of all the things he expected– yelling, crying, maybe hitting him if you felt particularly brave. This? This had never been an option in his mind– not your voice sounding like it physically hurt to say it. “I know, sweetheart, I know” Three stupid words were too small to make up for the past two years. “Tried” His words were quiet and honest, rough around the edges in that way he sounded when trying to be vulnerable. “Sweetheart, swear t’God I tried”

When your eyes finally cleared out enough to look at him– he was still broad, still impossible, still looked like he belonged in old war posters– still Ben. But then your gaze dropped instinctively when shouting came from nearby. A guard. Shit. You stepped back automatically, months of this living Hell already woven into your reactions. “Sorry” You blurted before you could stop yourself.

Ben frowned instantly. “What the Hell’re y’apologizing for?”

Silence.

Your shoulders shrugged inward without thinking– not even sure of the answer yourself. Something dark crossed his face.

Because there it was again– that thing this place had done to you– the way you folded into yourself, the way your eyes had dropped, the way sorry kept coming out of your mouth as natural as breathing. Someone had taught you that, beaten it into you. Ben’s hand moved back to your jaw before he even thought about it– thumb tilting your face up, gentle despite the rage already simmering beneath his ribs. “Nah” His voice came quieter now, careful not to spook you now that he’d seen just how deep the wounds went. “We ain’t doin’ that anymore”

The day had been terrible– not catastrophic, not world-ending. Just terrible in the uniquely exhausting way only a company like Vought could manage. Someone had scheduled two meetings for the exact same time, the marketing department had somehow approved a campaign without consulting PR, the coffee machine had broken and was out of caramel. Again. And to top it all off, one of the executives had spent twenty minutes explaining your own job to you. By three o'clock, you were considering a career change– maybe farming, maybe becoming a lighthouse keeper. Anything that involved fewer corporate meetings and little to none human interaction.

With a groan, you dropped your forehead onto the conference table. The cold surface pressed against your skin. Peace, silence– finally. Well, that’s until a voice calls out from the doorway. "...Are you dead?"

You didn't even lift your head. "No"

A pause. "You sound dead"

"Thank you, John"

"You're welcome" The chair beside you scraped against the floor. Of course he sat down. You should've known better than to expect privacy by now. Lifting your head slightly, you glanced over– Homelander was already watching you. Not speaking, just watching. Which somehow felt more concerning.

"What?"

"You've been frowning all day"

You sighed. "That's because today has been awful"

"What happened?"

You blinked. For a moment you almost laughed– three months ago the supe would've responded to that statement with something completely insane. Now he was asking follow-up questions. God, you'd created a monster. "Nothing happened"

"You’re lying"

"I'm not" You let out a soft, tired sigh.

"You are"

"I'm really not"

He tilted his head. "You got upset with a printer"

You froze. "...What?"

Homelander just repeats himself, fully deadpan. "You got upset with a printer"

"John"

"You called it a parasite"

You groan, hands rubbing the sides of your head– the migraine already deeply seated inside your skull. "I stand by that"

"You also threatened to throw it out a window"

"...I stand by that too" A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Traitor– you'd been the one who taught him sarcasm. The realization filled you with regret now that it was used against you. "Today sucked–" You admitted. " –that's all" He hummed. Quiet, thoughtful. Then stood– without explanation, without warning and walked away. You stared after him, watching him leave. "What the hell?" No response– the door shut behind him. Weirdo. You huff with confused amusement. Ten minutes later, the conference room door opened again. You barely looked up, head still held between your hands. "Did you forget how doors work?" Then stopped– because Homelander wasn't empty-handed. He was holding something, something very familiar actually. Your eyes narrowed. "...John?"

"Yes?"

"Why do you have my stickers?"

A pause. "They're not yours"

Despite the raging headache and lingering frustration from the day, he manages to pull a tired chuckle out of you. "They are absolutely mine"

"They belong to the office" He points out in retort, raising his eyebrows at you to further prove his point.

"John"

"Fine…" The supe grumbles, walking over while looking entirely too pleased with himself. Which was never a good sign. Not once in history had Homelander looking pleased ended well for anyone. You sat up straighter, immediately suspicious.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

"I don't know" You reply, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Interesting"

"You are being weird"

"I learned from the best" You gasped– actually gasped. The audacity on this little shit of a man. Before you could formulate a response, Homelander peeled a gold star from the sheet. Your gold star sheet– the one you'd been carrying around for months.

"John"

"What?"

"Put that back"

"No"

"John"

"No"

You narrowed your eyes and he narrowed his right back. An impossible standoff. Then, before you could stop him, he leaned forward and stuck the gold star directly onto your folder.

Silence. You stared at it– then at him, then back at it. "...What was that?"

"A reward" The answer came instantly, a proud hum like he'd been waiting to say it.

You blinked. "A reward…?"

"Yes"

"For what?"

Homelander frowned– genuinely confused by the question. The same way he'd looked months ago when you first explained the sticker system. "You had a difficult day"

"So?"

"So you still did your job" Your mouth opened but no words came out. Because suddenly you were hearing your own advice thrown back at you but in his mouth. "You don't get rewarded for being perfect, you get rewarded for trying– sometimes showing up is enough, the effort is what matters" Things you'd told him– repeatedly, over the last couple months. Things you'd never expected him to actually remember. Much less repeat. Homelander shifted awkwardly– just slightly. Almost imperceptibly. "You always give me one when I do well."

Your chest tightened– annoyingly, inconveniently. "Oh" Brilliant response. Truly. A masterclass in communication. "Oh" Just in case saying that shit once wasn’t embarrassing enough. His shoulders relaxed slightly like he'd been worried he'd gotten it wrong. "You kept helping people."

He shrugged. "Well, you told me to"

"Bought me a car" You continue listing out all of his improvements.

"You liked the car."

"I did like the car"

"Exactly" God, you hated how impossible it was to argue with his logic. For a moment neither of you spoke. The gold star gleamed from your folder– ridiculous, completely ridiculous. And yet you couldn't stop smiling, despite the stress and headaches… You were smiling. Homelander noticed immediately, of course he did. "You like it"

You groaned. "Don't" That might just be your most said word ever thanks to these past months working next to him.

"You do" He shrugs smugly.

"John"

"You smiled"

"John" His grin appeared instantly– bright, victorious. The exact same grin he wore whenever you gave him a sticker. And suddenly you understood– not the stars, not really. The stars had never really been the point. The point was that somebody noticed, that somebody was proud of him, that somebody thought he was doing okay. Your expression softened at the realization. "Oh" Now it was your turn.

The supe blinked, familiar confusion creeping into his expression. "What?" Without warning, you reached across the table, peeled another gold star from the sheet, and pressed it onto his chest. His eyes immediately dropped to it and then back to you. "A bonus star?"

"A bonus star"

His grin widened. "Why?"

You gathered your things, standing from your chair. "For excellent use of the reward system"