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It wasn’t hard for Butcher to find Homelander. Homelander hadn’t hidden; he just had no interest in confrontation. They had all tried desperately to avoid him for months now, and Butcher recognized it as useless in retrospect.
So he came into the house, uninvited in the literal sense, but knowing Homelander was expecting him.
It was that easy; Butcher marveled at the prospect. That he could simply walk into Homelander’s mansion, buried not very deeply in the hills of upstate New York. There was a sprawling field and front yard. A basketball hoop in the winding driveway. Butcher left his car on the street, which was more like a dirty path. Likely this all belonged to Homelander, whether or not he’d signed any paperwork.
Hughie had texted and called Butcher fifteen times since he’d snuck out that morning. Butcher had eyed the first few texts he received with mild concern; he still cared, it turned out. But Hughie had Annie, and Frenchie and M.M. would step up to the plate if they needed to.
Butcher would deal with it alone. He’d decided this weeks ago, while the Boys were starting to plot their next steps for Neuman and how to get at Homelander now that Soldier Boy had been locked up again. Butcher saw no point in dragging them along with him. He had done that enough, and he saw no reason to reinvent the wheel now. He was making up for lost time.
“Oy,” Butcher said as he knocked on the door. “Anyone home?”
Silence rang on the other side. The silence wasn’t all-encompassing on its own; he could still hear birds twittering in trees, could sense the pulsing in his skull. Butcher had developed migraines since the Temp V. Those were all-encompassing, keeping him in bed for days on occasion. Starlight brought him water; no ice, despite him never asking. She just realized after the first few times. He hated the attentiveness. Like he was useless and needed a nanny. He’d miss it, nonetheless.
The door didn’t open. He didn’t hear Ryan’s feet pounding down the stairs, the way they would when he’d visit him at Mallory’s place. Butcher wasn’t a man of many regrets; there were a few, but they had been hard-earned. Ryan was one of those regrets. Part of him had hoped Ryan would be the one to pull open the door, even if it was with a sneer. Maybe that would feel like seeing his little brother again too; it was too much with Hughie.
Butcher folded his arms over his chest. Maybe they aren’t home. Maybe this is all bullshit. Maybe they never lived here and it’s a trap. He thought about it some more, trying to consider every angle. Logical conclusions and rational thought were harder than ever - his mind, full of swiss-cheese holes, didn’t have capacity. Now it all melded together. If he showed up at their door, someone would be there to answer. He had to believe it. It was all he had.
He rang the bell again. Maybe he would stand here for another quarter hour; he could sit on the stairs and daydream easily enough. His ear still oozed, not that it particularly mattered. Whether he sat in front of Homelander’s house or not, the pain would be the same.
He pressed the doorbell three more times in quick succession. If he was being ignored, well - maybe that would annoy the other party enough to elicit a response. If no one was home, it didn’t matter. His chest hurt.
Butcher was about to crouch to sit, maybe even to relax and enjoy the sun with his phone off and hanging heavy in his trench pocket, when the door opened.
“John,” Butcher said brightly. “You’re awake.” He stuck out his hand.
Homelander stood in the doorway. He never took off the suit. Butcher wondered if he just had multiple iterations and washed them nightly. A closet full of American flag capes. Did they live with a caretaker? He wasn’t living in the tower anymore; how could he, with Ryan at his side?
“Where’s Ryan?”
Homelander ignored Butcher’s hand. “At lessons,” he said. “What exactly are you doing here?”
“Can I come in?” Butcher said. Homelander offered no resistance; Butcher brushed past him easily and stepped into the hallway. The door shut behind them.
“You’re shaking,” Homelander said.
“I am,” Butcher agreed. His chest was still aching. He hadn’t come to see Ryan, not specifically, but to find the house devoid of his presence still felt wrong. There was nothing that Butcher could see that indicated Ryan lived there. No kid’s sneakers in the front hallway, or a basketball lingering on the floor. No video game consoles hooked up to the oversized TV to the left. There were toys, sure, but none of them were the toys of a thirteen-year-old kid. They were Homelander figures, plushies, and emblems. All in brightly lit glass boxes, lined against the wall. The light reflected off of each piece, making them glow.
“I hear you’re dying, William,” Homelander said. Butcher glanced back at him and grinned.
“Aren’t we all?” he said. His voice wasn’t shaking, which would have to be good enough.
“Not really,” Homelander said, dropping his hands to his hips. It was the pose that distinguished his power, taught by Supe PR teams from the day they were told they were different. Homelander moved like he belonged to Vought, even now.
“You’re the only exception, right,” Butcher said. He waved a hand at Homelander and watched his face fidget and twitch. “You’re curious what I’m doing here.”
“I didn’t expect you to drop in without calling first,” Homelander said. The growl in his voice was thinly veiled under the veneer of calm. Shaking or not, Butcher wasn’t scared.
“Why not? You were easy enough to find.”
“I’m not hiding from anyone anymore,” Homelander said.
“We you ever?” Butcher said. He tipped his head back. He left his boots on as he took the carpeted stairs.
“You’re tracking dirt,” Homelander called after him.
“Oh, shit,” Butcher said, though he continued up the curving staircase without pausing to kick off his boots. He looked behind him briefly; there were prints on the white carpet, pristine as it was. “That’s my bad.”
“It certainly is,” Homelander said. He followed Butcher up the stairs. He still wore his boots; of course he did. When was he ever anything but fully dressed, perfectly bright and unyielding?
“This the little bugger’s room?” Butcher said instead of acknowledging Homelander further. He opened the door and peered inside. It was the perfect display of a teen boy’s room. Laptop on an Ikea desk by the window, speakers carefully placed on the pristine surface. Everything was too clean, too perfectly arranged. Fold-out posters of punk bands Butcher didn’t recognize, glossy prints of Homelander framed by glass and wood. Butcher licked his lips, considering. He remembered Ryan’s room at Mallory’s. After Becca’s death, anything careful or considerate about Ryan started to slip away. He’d stopped making his bed, and though he had cleaned up his dishes and the trash in his room, the floor had always been cluttered with toys and clothes. Like he was in between worlds, in a balancing act.
“He’s not here,” Homelander said.
They both stood in the doorway, barely feet from each other. Butcher straddled the bedroom, his feet firmly planted on the carpet. Homelander remained stock still on the other side of the frame, watching Butcher without blinking.
“No, he ain’t,” Butcher agreed. He turned his back to Homelander and clicked on the lamp next to Ryan’s bed. There was no hair on his pillow, no dirty underwear on the floor, no board games scattered across his dresser - no Nintendo games or notebooks where he had once scrawled his ideas for stories he wanted to write. “It was his fault Becca died.”
“For the best,” Homelander said.
“Why’re you hesitating? Not just gonna kill me?” Butcher wouldn’t take the bait.
“Why would I kill you, William?” Homelander said. Butcher looked at him again. Homelander had his head cocked to the side - it made him look like a curious dog, but one that might bite, or at the very least jump up and knock the wind out of you. “You’re family. We have a lot in common.”
Butcher slid his finger across the top of the dresser. He rubbed his clean fingers together.
“Not even a layer of dust,” he said. “What does the kid do all day, hm? Tidy? You got him playing maid?”
“Ha,” Homelander said. “C’mon, Butcher. You know he would never go for that.”
“He’s not here, is he?” Butcher said finally. “He never was.”
Homelander shrugged. “I got bored,” he said.
Butcher shot him a sharp look. “What exactly does that mean, then?” he said. His heart beat thrummed. Homelander heard it too - he sneered and tilted his head back. The exposed patch of throat was there, ripe and pale and easy. Butcher wished for stronger teeth, a jaw that could unhinge like a snake and puncture his bulletproof skin. That’s all he’d need - rip Homelander’s throat out, and then he could find Ryan and he could say that he was sorry.
“I want to make amends,” Butcher said, which was the honest truth.
“It’s about time,” Homelander agreed. “Why don’t you get on your knees and beg?”
Butcher’s skin rippled, a shudder sliced painfully through him.
“You’re like a rabbit, Billy,” Homelander said. “So damn jittery. What’s a little humility to a bunny like you?”
Butcher studied Homelander’s face again. There was no bluff or joke in his eyes. He wasn’t smiling, smirking, or glaring. But he dared Butcher with every fiber of his being anyway, blue eyes wide and boring holes into Butcher’s already fucked up head.
Butcher crouched until he was kneeling and looked up. “How’s that?” he said. “Is that how you want me?”
“Oh,” Homelander said. Then he smiled, wide and eerie. Nothing fazed Butcher anymore, but there was still something about that expression that chilled him to his core. “At my feet, how pretty.” Homelander stepped closer. Red boots, blue legs. The colors were bright enough it made Butcher’s head pulse harder. Maybe it would be over quickly; Homelander would choke him out and Butcher would slip softly to the other side, where he could maybe apologize to Becca if not Ryan.
Then again, maybe Ryan was dead. Butcher wouldn’t put it past Homelander. If the kid pissed him off - Butcher shut his eyes. It frightened him badly enough that he must still be mostly human, despite what Frenchie had been muttering to himself in the kitchen in slurred French, as if Butcher couldn’t fucking catch on.
“That’s a very good boy,” Homelander said. Butcher kept his eyes shut. Was he a coward for this? For assuming that it would be over and accepting it? He thought about Hughie, looking at his corpse wherever it ended up dumped on a street. Probably there would be a celebration; known murderer and villain William Butcher has died. Maybe Homelander would even take credit for it. But Homelander hadn’t killed him yet. Instead, his hand cupped Butcher’s jaw and tipped his head back, pushing his mouth open with the movement.
“You do have a pretty mouth, for all the shit that comes out of it,” Homelander said, and Butcher understood. He opened his eyes and didn’t move. He could have fought; resisted, even. He didn’t think Homelander preferred his victims fighting back - didn’t that take some of the fun out of the power he’d have? Homelander would just kill him if he tried to punch him balls anyway. No fun for either of them.
“I guess that means you enjoy it when I run my mouth,” Butcher said, his jaw grinding against Homelander’s fingers clutching his chin. He wasn’t entirely sure where the words came from. His throat was dry, his tongue heavy. Homelander slipped off a glove and Butcher saw his hands, so close he could make out the thin lines and the shades of blue veining. His fingers were perfectly manicured; no dirt under the nail, no dry patches on his palms. He slipped his thumb into Butcher’s mouth and pressed it against the soft cheek. Saliva flooded Butcher’s mouth and he swallowed in the back of his throat. Homelander’s thumb was tasteless, skin with the bare essence of salt. Like his hands were perpetually clean, but never with the remnants of soap.
Homelander slid his thumb further, pressing it now against the sensitive ridges of Butcher’s tongue. He resisted gagging, but the reflex was there, wrestling to the surface. He swallowed again; he would be drooling soon, and it was all he could do to fend it off.
“Good boy,” Homelander said again. Butcher was aware of the rest of his body then, if only for a moment. His cock was hard, restrained in jeans. His head hurt. He saw the bulge in Homelander’s suit, still at eye level even as Homelander bent down and fucked Butcher’s mouth with his hand. Butcher’s stomach curled and twisted; he thought for a moment he might be sick, and the picture of him barfing on Homelander’s perfectly clean hand was funny enough that he smiled, curving his tongue around Homelander’s thumb. Homelander tsked like Butcher was a naughty cat, and his spare hand clutched at Butcher’s hair. Any power Butcher had was gone, and he knew it distinctly and painfully. He couldn’t change what Homelander was, and he could only morph himself so far. This was it. He wasn’t going to go any further, and Butcher was almost blissed with this realization. With Becca and Lenny dead, Ryan disappeared, Hughie distracted, his friends barely fitting the definition anymore - this was probably good enough. It was a way to go, strange as it was. Butcher let his eyes drift closed.
“He’s enjoying it,” Homelander said. Butcher listened, but he didn’t open his eyes. He enjoyed it - it freed him, to have someone else take the reins, to push him around. That was something Butcher had always particularly appreciated about his life with Becca; she found his hard edges sweet, and she teased him until he hit the edge. She liked to push him onto his back, to ride his face with her thighs neatly squeezed around his skull. And he liked it, more than he’d ever thought was possible. To give in, to be seized. Maeve had come the closest to understanding this about him, integrally - she had wanted to stand tall over him, and the self-destructive rage in her eyes had led to her straddling his cock until his skin was so hot he couldn’t think. She’d left lovely bruises on his hips and he had never once been afraid of her like he ought to be.
Different but the same. Go figure.
“You want this cock in your throat, hm?” Homelander said. Butcher blinked slowly but said nothing else; he didn’t have much room to snark with the fingers stroking his tongue. He still needed most of his brainpower to resist wretching, but he’d already decided that he couldn’t give up on that. It would be too boring for Homelander to laser his head in half and leave his burning, bloody corpse on this childhood floor. For Butcher to rot there, without the full experience.
“Blink once for yes. Twice for no. That would be enough.”
Butcher looked up and cocked his head to his right side. There was something uniquely amusing about Homelander deciding on a way of communication. Butcher wondered if he’d learned it from someone else who kept him gagged. Maybe he was simply repeating what he’d learned, parroting a message of what he thought sex should be like. Butcher wondered idly if this was even proper dominance to Homelander, or if he thought this was all it was. Butcher wouldn’t be surprised, so he blinked, and stared straight into Homelander’s eyes.
Homelander smiled, and it wrinkled around his nose and his eyes. It was eerie; unhappy but still pleased, something sick to it.
“Tell me then - you wanna suck my cock, right?”
Butcher twitched. Christ, he’s fuckin’ full of it. He blinked anyway, a single time.
“Hm,” Homelander said. He curled and uncurled his fingers in Butcher’s hair. “That’s very sweet. Is that why you came here?”
If he was going to die, he might as well go out being honest. He blinked twice.
Homelander pouted. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Did you come here for a heroic reason? To take Ryan from me?” He tugged hard on Butcher’s hair.
Butcher blinked twice.
“Did you really think you’d apologize and take him back? That’s a rhetorical question, don’t answer that one.” Homelander removed his fingers from Butcher’s mouth. “Whatever. I guess you’re always full of some new surprise.” Butcher closed his lips and swallowed. He’d been drooling for what felt like hours; he knew his beard was wet with it just by the itch. With his spit-damp fingers, Homelander palmed his cock in his pants. He rubbed at it slowly, in mesmerizing little circles. Butcher watched like he could be hypnotized, and maybe that’s what he wanted anyway, to slip into another dimension, to forget where he was. A wet patch formed where Homelander’s cock was neatly folded into his pants. Butcher could only imagine he wore no underwear. He’d remembered Starlight complaining about it with her own costuming; the shapewear that gave her no shape, the thongs that served no purpose.
“I guess I can’t ask you why. You can’t answer. Or rather, you won’t, because I’m telling you not to.”
Butcher briefly considered spitting on Homelander’s shoes, but his dick was still throbbing in his pants, and much as he would be tempted to deny all of this later, to himself and to anyone who might ever know of it, he couldn’t ignore it, and he couldn’t ignore the power Homelander had over him, and had over everyone.
“We’re not so different,” Homelander said, lacing his fingers again through Butcher’s hair. “I actually think we make a mighty fine parallel. Two sides of the same coin and all that? What’s the saying - the quiet part out loud? That’s us.”
Butcher blinked once. Sure. Yes. Absolutely. He didn’t particularly disagree.
Maybe if they were more different, Butcher wouldn’t be here.
“I won’t make you wait any longer,” Homelander said. Butcher’s heartbeat quickened. Yes. Finally. It was like one of those roller coasters. He hadn’t been on one since he and Becca were dating, and they’d visited Ohio for one of the Vought conferences. She’d only been with the company for just under a year, and Butcher could remember the feeling that everything was changing. They’d staged demonstrations of the heroes at the time at Cedar Point. Butcher had been impressed, though he’d met no one of interest then. He and Becca had free passes for rides that whole day, and they’d waited in a ridiculous line for the Millenium Force, though Becca had desperately tried to convince him to do the Dragster. He could remember still, to this day, his body rejecting the entire concept, begging them to stop as his stomach swooped through the air and Becca screamed joyfully in the seat next to him.
The rush had been enough that he’d been convinced to try some other tall rides, but they’d never gone back and he’d never dropped from a thousand feet, or however tall it was supposed to be. He could only remember the adrenaline, the head rush, Becca’s warm smile and her laugh and her grinning face. He’d kissed her in their hotel that night and she’d said, I think this place is going to change our lives and he’d said I think you’re right and squeezed her tightly.
This was the final drop, the adrenaline for the adrenaline junkie. There were worse addictions; Butcher had plenty of those.
Homelander unfastened himself completely. Exposed white thighs with soft blond leg hair. The perfect muscle tone that spoke of steroids and excessive exercise, but was likely just a product of proper Compound V, injected at the right age, perfected on this man who crushed skulls.
The cock was secondary to the other details, even as Homelander fed it into Butcher’s mouth. Everything was wet, and Homelander’s precum tasted almost sweet. He was also hairless, whether waxed or shaved, Butcher couldn’t quite tell. He shut his eyes again, because very little of that mattered anymore. They were reaching the peak. Soon it would be over; he didn’t expect that Homelander would keep him like this for long, and if he did, Butcher would complain so they could get it over with. He didn’t want to walk out of this house. He’d decided that now.
Butcher’s knees and thighs ached with the pressure, though the carpet beneath him was plush. He shifted slightly to try to adjust, only to have Homelander grip his hair hard and pull him up, cock thrusted further back before he pulled Butcher’s head back again, just lips around the tip.
“Suck,” Homelander said, and Butcher sucked. He hadn’t done that in a while; not since before Becca, though he’d thought of it in recent years. Clearly, he’d thought of it. He’d thought about Hughie, whose cock was slim and a little longer than average, probably the perfect size and shape for someone like Starlight. He thought about M.M. and Frenchie too, though he loathed himself in particular for those nights. He’d beat off thinking about Frenchie kneeled in front of him; he’d thought of M.M. laughing and slapping him in the face. What the point was of these deranged fantasies, Butcher barely knew, but the idea of a mouth stuffed with cock was appealing as sucking a clit so hard the person in question couldn’t stand. He’d made Maeve come with two fingers and his tongue rapidfire. He thought if she gave him the chance, he could do the same for Starlight.
Ah, well, he thought as Homelander pulled out and rubbed the head of his cock directly on Butcher’s lips. If this was to be it, the final chance to fantasize, he might as well enjoy it.
“You’re distracted, William,” Homelander said, and now he pulled hard enough that it genuinely hurt, Butcher’s scalp throbbing with it. Every little bit of pain was secondary to his own arousal at this point now. He wondered if he started to touch himself if Homelander would notice, if he’d stop him. “Pay. Attention.”
Butcher fixed his gaze on Homelander’s and he blinked again. Just once. Yes. Fine. He was possessed, as far as the word could take him. He swallowed Homelander’s cock as it was fed to him again. Like medicine that would poison him in the long term. Like the pills keeping him alive with side effects such as psychotic episodes, including but not limited to; auditory and visual hallucinations, fits of rage, new or worsening depression and anxiety. Like any other day.
Though it didn’t particularly matter anymore if Butcher paid attention. Homelander was fucking his mouth earnestly now, quick beats of his hips, no true rhythm but just the continuous smack of skin. That, at least, was merciful; Butcher could focus instead on how it would be over soon and he could say his final words. He was ready for it, more than he had been before. Every thrust was a crescendo; Butcher imagined the violent chorus of violins playing in the background, as if they were in a live production, a Broadway musical. He never had the chance to take Becca to see Newsies on Broadway. He’d always laughed at her when she suggested it. Of all the fuckin’ bullshit, you wanna see fucking Newsies? And she had laughed and grinned at him in that coy way she had and said Fuck yeah, dude, Newsies is a fucking classic! Butcher laughed. It’s a fucking Disney movie, love, how good can it be? Now, Rent, that’s a fucking classic, which had made her laugh hysterically, tears rolling down her face as she bent over, clutching her stomach.
Butcher cried now. Not in the way that one wept; he hadn’t cried like that since Becca died, and even then, it had been short, sweet, to the point until the rage curled back up inside of him. These were tears from a gag reflex, almost exclusively - and he thought that was odd, that he could still feel the welling of it in his eyes, the ache of it in his chest, even as his throat fluttered and constricted.
If you could see me now, Becs, he thought.
“Ha,” Homelander said, slowing down so every thrust was a roll instead of a smack. “How do you want it? Throat or face? I’m close.”
Butcher pondered the question seriously for a brief moment. In the debate about what was more humiliating, it was hard to decide - swallowing Homelander’s load felt particularly disgusting, but in turn, the idea of Homelander’s spunk on his face was equally disturbing.
“Throat?” Homelander said. There was a grit in his voice now, and his fingers were so tight that Butcher’s scalp was numb. “You gotta tell me soon or I’ll have to make the decision.”
If this was the last thing he was going to get to decide for the rest of his life, it felt like a pretty fucking shitty choice to make.
“You’re not spitting if I come in your mouth,” Homelander said. “Face?”
How easy that made it. He blinked once, holding his eyes wide open as he stared up at Homelander’s face. His gaze was iron, devoid of any of the heat that Butcher associated with sex. It was better this way, like it was something that wasn’t really sex, carried none of the baggage.
Homelander held Butcher still through the rest of it and then, a few thrusts later, pulled out and wrapped his fist around his cock, moving so quickly that Butcher swore he would beat the skin off.
Then it was over with a grunt and a sigh, Homelander coming on Butcher’s face. It mostly landed on the bridge of his nose and in his beard; he tasted remnants on his lips as he breathed through his mouth.
It was over, like that. Simple, fast and dirty. Homelander let go and Butcher sagged under the weight of himself. Everything was on fire, everything hurt. His knees were on the verge of collapse, his jaw ached with the stretch, his chest was so hot that he could feel the sweat dripping down to his stomach. His dick still hurt the same. His headache was worse than usual, not quite a migraine but it would take more than extra-strength ibuprofen to kill this, or anything else.
“Jesus Christ, you’re pathetic.”
“Pardon me?” Butcher said, looking up.
Homelander was already buckled. He’d picked his gloves up and pulled them back on over his hands and he slicked his hair back with his own sweat.
“I said, you’re pathetic,” Homelander repeated, “and how does it feel to hear it out loud? After all of this time?” Homelander eyed him for another brief moment, then scoffed and turned around, walking down the stairs. Butcher stayed kneeling in the childhood bedroom that had been assigned to his son. He paused as he thought the words. Was Ryan his son? As much as he was Homelander’s son, anyway.
It startled him to think about it. He stood up, slowly, letting his bones crack and ease back into place. He could do it again - say the quiet part out loud - but he didn’t, standing in the bedroom alone as Homelander puttered around in the kitchen. It sounded like he was puttering, anyway - cabinets opening and closing, the refrigerator door slammed shut and the rustling of a bag of chips, or pretzels. Maybe something that Homelander actually ate, some kind of specially made protein shake designed for him.
Butcher wiped his mouth. He turned around. On the wall behind him was a mirror. It was perfectly situated in which Homelander would have seen himself from the waist up, and very little of Butcher. He scoffed, rubbing the spunk from his beard and wiping the remnants off on his jeans. He’d do laundry later.
Quietly, Butcher walked down the stairs. He stared at the front hall, still lacking any signs of life. Maybe Homelander didn’t even live here. It didn’t particularly matter whether he did or not. Butcher took each step slowly, one at a time, as his body recognized its own exhaustion. He thought he might pass out once he sat in the car, in which case he might as well die, because no one would find him and Homelander certainly wouldn’t come looking.
“You leaving?” Homelander said. Butcher jolted. Fear, despite itself - his stomach churned. “I guess that makes sense. You came here for me. Or Ryan, who knows. Doesn’t matter what you were looking for - you got it. Or you didn’t. I don’t care.” Homelander clicked his tongue again - tsk tsk, bad boy, run away - and Butcher blinked at him. “Well, tell the gang I said Hello. Wait, you won’t be telling the gang, I’m sure. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing, William? Go home and tell your friends you let big, scary, Homelander fuck you silly.”
Butcher bit his tongue.
“Was Ryan ever in this house?” he finally said. He wanted to say more, though he couldn’t find the right words. Leave it. It’s you and me. Just us, everyone else can just - fuck off, right?
Homelander shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Of course it fucking matters, you absolute fucking cunt.
Butcher said nothing. He nodded, slowly. He needed to leave, if he was going to leave.
“Get out. I don’t want you in my house anymore.”
Right. He had been invited. So he left the way he came, down the winding driveway. He got in his car and fished his phone out of his pocket.
He would drive eight miles south, to the gas station nearby. He would call Hughie, and Hughie would come and pick him up. Hughie might bring Starlight, who would say Jesus, Butcher, what the hell happened to you? And Starlight might even cup his cheek in her hand before withdrawing.
He sighed, and he turned the key, and drove.