Chapter Text
The darkness was blinding when Homelander opened his eyes that morning, shadows swallowing every corner of the suffocating space around him. He immediately felt like the walls were closing in on him, crushing him beneath the narrow confines of an impossibly tight bed.
He barely even had time to worry about the darkness or the claustrophobia before he tried to breathe.
Nothing.
The moment he pulled air through his nose, his lungs collapsed inward, wrapping around emptiness, convulsing violently as they searched for oxygen that simply wasn't there.
Pain.
He grew up around it. He was forged by it.
But this was different.
These were the cold fingers of death wrapping around his throat and refusing to let go. Fire burned inside him instead of all around him.
It was hell erupting in his ribcage.
Crawling up his throat.
An image flashed before his eyes.
The Oval Office.
William Butcher holding him down, his own son helping him. Struggling. The terrorist girl in front of him. A bomb shining bright inside her ribcage.
Then blazing light.
Blinding.
Homelander squeezed his eyes shut.
Like that could shut out the light instantly consuming the endless black around him.
He screamed, or at least tried to, but no sound came out. Only a broken rasp trapped somewhere deep in his ruined lungs.
And then absolute darkness again.
Panic.
He hyperventilated through fiery, stale air.
Absolute confusion crashed into him next, violent and disjointed, followed immediately by the overwhelming urge to stop fighting altogether. To let go. Give in to the oxygen starvation. Surrender himself to death. Anything was better than existing a second longer in this agony.
His chest spasmed violently, his body instinctively trying to drag oxygen out of dead air. Another useless breath tore through him, hotter this time, burning his throat raw from the inside. His lungs felt too tight inside his ribs, folding inward around nothingness while pressure built behind his eyes hard enough to split his skull open.
Another flash.
William Butcher standing over him, a steel crowbar in his grip, swinging it toward him.
Fear consumed him entirely.
Then blazing pain—a fiery arrow driving through his brain.
He woke up with a gasping scream trapped in the back of his throat and the deafening sound of his pounding heart reverberating in his ears.
William entirely gone and the sunlight seeping through his dormitory's barred window.
He stayed still for a long moment, his chest still rising too fast, phantom pain burning through his lungs even though oxygen finally filled them again.
Air.
Real air.
Not hot, stale carbon monoxide.
Actual oxygen.
His trembling hand dragged over his face before he forced himself upright, the mattress creaking softly beneath him. Sweat clung to the back of his neck, his shirt damp against his skin.
Another nightmare.
Another fucking sleep-deprived morning.
The dormitory was quiet around him, the last remains of warm summer sunlight filtering through the barred windows in thin strips of gold. His roommate was still sound asleep on the other side of their shared room, oblivious to his struggle, passed out cold after his late-night back-to-school endeavors. Some students outside were already on the move, preparing for the new school year while his heart still hammered in uneven, rushed beats.
His jaw tightened, and he forced himself to walk out of the room toward the shared washroom.
Who would have imagined that after everything that had happened merely months ago, he of all people would agree to share a bedroom—or worse, a bloody public washroom?
And yet here he was, walking through the halls of Godolkin University like some random young supe on the first day of school.
He looked around once he reached the washroom.
Empty.
It was too early for it to be crowded, but not early enough for it to stay that way much longer.
Then he turned to face the mirror.
And there they were.
Blond. Perfect. Smiling smugly at him.
The others were already leaning lazily against the sink before he even reached it.
"Well," the one on the bottom right mused lightly, blue eyes flickering over him. "That was dramatic."
The Apex Predator. Survival instinct materialized into a pain in his arse. The coldest of them all.
He ignored Apex for a second, staring at himself in silence instead.
Long brown hair falling into his face. Dark stubble shadowing his jaw. Twenty years gone from his face. Nothing left of the reflections beside him except the eyes.
The sneer from Apex widened.
He held his cold gaze.
"You were screaming again."
"I wasn't screaming."
"No?" The reflection tilted his head mockingly. "Could've fooled me."
He looked away first, focusing on the next reflection instead.
Big mistake.
It was the new one. The most unbearable sight amongst them. The Martyr, sitting in the top right corner of the mirror.
This one wasn't smiling mockingly. He looked as shaken by their nightmare as his own reflection did.
Blood covered his face entirely. Blond hair matted dark with red stains while a crack too massive to ignore split his skull nearly in half. Wet brain matter spilled, pulsing slowly from inside.
His stomach twisted violently.
"You let him kill us," the reflection said quietly. "We had to crawl out of that suffocating grave because you loved him too much to kill him when you could."
His throat tightened in response. No matter how many times he was faced with that accusation, his heart still squeezed into a tiny ball every time.
Martyr didn't lose a second reminding him of all the mistakes he had made that had led them to everything now haunting his restless nights. He would bring it up again and again whenever they woke up from Traumaland.
The worst part was that the unbearable reflection was right about one thing. He had spared William far too many times. Always lowering himself to his strength because he saw him as an equal when in reality they were never evenly matched. It had always been himself holding back. Too scared to lose his favorite toy simply because it was the only one that was fun to play with.
And yes, he had actively spared his life multiple times and on occasion even saved it.
But he did not do it for love.
That was ridiculous. Absolutely outrageous.
He refused to justify that accusation with acknowledgment.
He did not love William Butcher. He never had and he never would. Especially now that he was gone for good.
"I was depowered," he simply replied.
"You begged him for mercy," Apex sneered in disgust.
The words hit harder than the crowbar had.
"William Butcher was useful in the end. Look at us, we rose from death better. Invincible. Resurrected."
Top left.
The Ego.
God complex made into a fucking joke. The one that brought them all to this point.
He ignored Ego entirely. Didn't even glance his way.
"You offered to blow him," Apex continued as if the interruption had never happened.
"As you kindly remind me every day," he huffed in disgust.
He stepped closer to the sink, anger flashing hot through his chest. Breathing uneven. Eyes stinging from the fire wanting to spark inside them.
It wasn't only Apex that constantly reminded him of that total humiliation. It was everything else too. The news replaying him on his knees begging for it for months now. Every screen on the university walls reporting it constantly. Every bloody social media feed filled with it. The fucking memes and every mouth wrapping around it wherever he went.
Apex could just shut the fuck up about it so he wasn't forced to relive it inside his own head as well.
The total humiliation. The self-degrading memory of it. The way his heart had reverberated loudly in his ears while he was saying it. How he had felt every nerve in his body alight with fear. And how willing he had been to do it on live TV if that meant he got to live.
He could still picture how degrading William's sneer had felt when he directed his disgust at him. The heartbreaking realization that there was nothing he could say or offer that would make Butcher spare him. The fact that he, at his worst, had still not been good enough for him. That all he had ever wanted was to end him.
"You did nothing wrong. The circumstances pushed you there," the reflection in the bottom left corner spoke for the first time.
The Mother.
Mommy issues refracted into something warm enough to sting. The only one of them who ever bothered comforting him. Reassuring him.
The sad part was he had always been so deprived of love, it actually worked on him.
His heavy breathing receded immediately, lulled by Mother's comforting tone.
Like a lullaby, it calmed him down.
The others fell silent.
Like they wanted to give mother and son their privacy.
Silence was probably worse.
For one horrible second all he could hear was the ring of a crowbar stabbing through his skull. Still living rent-free in his mind from his recent nightmare and all the ones before it. He could still vividly see the crushing dark that had come after, enveloping him in suffocating shadows. Feel his lungs collapsing around nothing while dirt scraped furiously beneath his fingernails as he clawed his way up from six feet underground. Taste the bitterness of soil coating his tongue while he gagged desperately for air after finally reaching the surface.
His breathing grew shallow again.
Apex noticed immediately.
"Oh, here we go again," he mocked.
"I'm not doing this today."
"No?" Martyr stepped closer inside the mirror. "Why? Too busy daydreaming about the coffin you put us in?"
He clenched his fists hard enough for his knuckles to crack.
He was still trapped too deep inside the memory of crawling out of hell itself to tolerate any more judgment.
His stomach lurched again.
"You know what the funniest part is?" Martyr asked casually. "You'd still choose him."
His expression darkened instantly.
"Shut up."
"You died because you couldn't stop obsessing over him," Apex echoed instantly.
"Shut. The fuck. Up."
"His hatred, his reciprocal obsession, his thirst for revenge—it was the closest thing you ever got to someone loving you. He gave you his undivided attention and you fell for it. Needy little John. Confusing hatred for love, that's what killed you, Johnny boy," Apex pressed on.
"I don't want to hear it!" He slammed both hands against the reinforced sink hard enough that it nearly ripped a piece of the wall loose. "My name is Dean now!"
"Dean?" Martyr huffed a laugh, blood dripping slowly down his ruined face. "What a joke. You and I both know we're nothing, just like William said before he fucked our brains right out of our skulls."
Dean saw red.
He was prepared to lash out just before the first student walked into the washroom behind him, still half asleep, walking through the motions of the first day of the school year.
The others disappeared.
Thankfully.
This was the first day of his new life.
He wouldn't let anything ruin it.
Not the others and certainly not the ghost of William bloody Butcher.
His resolution lasted the exact amount of three hours.
Three hours of enduring annoying lessons imparted by supes he would have deemed lesser heroes no less than four months ago. But to be fair, there were close to zero people he wouldn't have deemed inferior back in the day. Just the one, and he wasn't even an equal, no matter how badly he tried convincing himself he was.
The mere thought of him made Dean scold himself. He promised himself nothing would ruin this day for him. So he tried focusing on anything other than his intrusive thoughts.
Emma Meyer, his new quote-unquote best friend, sitting to his left, babbled nonstop, completely undeterred by his previous dissociation. He focused on what she was excitedly telling him, and the two boys currently crowding around her seat.
He could smell the hormones pouring off them as they tried to impress her. It was almost embarrassing to perceive.
"I heard from a first-year kid that Queen Maeve is teaching at God U this year. Can you believe that?" Emma said, purposely ignoring the two guys crowding around her. "I mean, that makes this mandatory re-education shit almost worth it, don't you think, Dean?" She beamed beside him.
Dean hummed appreciatively. He had been mad when he found out through the news that Maeve had faked her own death to hide from him. Freshly resurrected from the dead, drowning in his own misery and forcing himself to watch the humiliating, unspeakable acts he had offered to commit to save his life being replayed on every live TV channel every few hours, the last thing he had expected to find when he turned on the television that particular day was Maeve's face, like a beacon of perfection, in front of him.
The interview focused mainly on how she had run from him after being depowered by Soldier Boy, terrified Homelander would find her and crush her now-human body to pieces. He hadn't thought he could relate to anyone after everything that had happened to him, but Maeve talking about her own experience somehow did it for him.
It was because of her interview that he had been able to put the shame behind him, push back the humiliation, and get back on his feet.
And if he was honest, he had been sad to see her gone and currently felt relieved she wasn't after all.
"I bet Maeve was your first heroine crush, just like every guy's around here," Emma said, wiggling her eyebrows at him.
Emma was always like this, trying to get a grasp on what and who he liked. Simply because she didn't understand that he was one of the most desirable young supes currently attending God U, and yet he rejected every single one of the girls and boys constantly trying to get a single ounce of his attention. Emma's interest in his sexual and romantic interests was normally very annoying. Today, it was ironically comic.
"She's hot," Emma's boyfriend Greg agreed from her other side.
Sam, sitting in front of her, simply shrugged.
Dean let out a laugh.
"If you only knew," he simply said, his lips curling into a twisted smile.
Emma's face lit up like a Christmas tree. This was more than she ever could get out of him in that regard, and the worst part was he couldn't even give her more than that.
As much as he appreciated Emma now, to the point he truly cared for her like a real friend—something he never really had before his death—he was not about to confess the reality of his deep love for Maeve, or at least what he thought was love back then.
Homelander had wanted it all with her. Maeve was wild and perfect and everything he was taught he should want. The perfect woman to have his perfect life beside. From the picket fence to the perfect kids running around in their backyard.
"Don't just say that and stay quiet. Spill the tea," Emma whined beside him.
Sam looked at him mildly interested, and Greg leaned closer to Emma, more invested than ever in what he had to say.
Dean stared their way.
As if everything he had to say had already left his lips.
Emma visibly deflated.
"You know what? At least we know not everything is lost. There is still hope for you," she joked, patting his shoulder with camaraderie, something no one ever dared do in his old life. Something that still took him aback whenever he wasn't expecting it. Something many others also did now that he had stopped being the almighty Homelander and become charming, strong, but harmless Dean.
It was weirdly comforting, having people approach him unafraid because they genuinely wanted to be close to him, not because he was forcing them to be.
It almost made him feel lucky, being around real friends for the first time in his entire life.
Maybe Emma was right.
Maybe there was still hope for him.
"Rise and shine, future stars. I'm here to teach you lot how not to be fuckin' cunts."
That voice.
His heart sank to his stomach at the sound of it.
The voice’s owner now walked toward the whiteboard without looking their way. He had broad shoulders and a strong build, just like him. Dean didn't want to believe it, but from the back alone it could very well be him.
The man that haunted his dreams.
Except he wasn't clad in that awful leather jacket of his. He wasn't stomping around in those heavy military boots he loved so much, and his hand closed around an erasable whiteboard marker instead of the crowbar that plagued his nightmares.
Dean focused on everything that differentiated this man from William. Every single hair that was too out of place to belong to him. Every muscle that flexed the wrong way as he wrote his name on the board without looking their way.
But deep inside he knew that no matter how many differences he could spot right then, the moment he turned around, his nightmare would become true.
He could smell it in the air.
He could hear it on repeat in the voice still reverberating in his brain. In the short sentence he had said while walking in. In the way he said it and the words he used and that god-awful accent clinging to each one of them like a curse.
Mr. Sunshine.
The board read.
A cruel joke, when all this man brought with him was darkness.
Dean stopped breathing.
The lecture hall suddenly felt too small around him. The students talking over each other moments before dissolved into hushed whispers at the back of his head.
Emma beside him whispered something as well.
He had no fucking clue what.
All he could hear was a deafening tone, ringing in his ears like white noise.
Everything and everyone else around him irrelevant.
Because there was no doubt.
William Butcher was now turning to face the class, standing alive at the center of the classroom.
Dean's vision tunneled.
William Butcher stood on the other end, wrapped in a tailored suit, leather shoes, and pointing a beardless smirk his way.
Like an angel of death.
But all Dean could see were flashes of the same man, standing just like that in the middle of the Oval Office, crowbar in hand, coming his way.
A demon haunting him directly from hell.
Fear.
It spread like wildfire from his brain to the rest of him.
He was paralyzed. Frozen in his seat. Like a deer in headlights. Prey waiting for its end.
Dean's breathing faltered as he clung to the hope that this was just a hallucination. Another nightmare he would soon wake up from.
Black spots plagued his vision while he waited to wake up in his bed, terrorized once again. He was vaguely conscious that he needed to breathe again, but inhaling felt laborious and nearly impossible. His lungs burned, and his throat tightened further whenever he tried.
Emma, who was a painful reminder that he was indeed not asleep, repeatedly elbowed his side to catch his attention.
He gasped for air like she had woken him from a trance.
"Jeez. First Queen Maeve and now whoever this is. I'm so glad we didn't get certified last semester. I wouldn't want to miss this year, right?"
He couldn't peel his eyes off William though, entirely ignoring Emma while he laboriously caught his breath again and melted like a popsicle in the sun in his seat. Maybe if he kept a low profile and stayed as immobile as a statue, he would learn a new trick and become invisible. Making his skin deflect light was something he suddenly envied his old pal Translucent for right then.
Until he remembered Billy Butcher had gotten the best of Translucent, reflective carbon skin and all.
Surely if he held his breath for the rest of the class and hid behind the students in the front rows, there was no way Butcher could notice him.
"Dean?" Emma slouched to his level. "Why are we hiding?"
"The name's Mr. Sunshine, and my job's to bring the best heroes outta you lot."
William looked their way.
Dean stared at him in complete silence.
His stomach twisted so violently he genuinely thought he might throw up right there between the auditorium seats.
He breathed slowly through his nose.
His lungs burning from the sudden intake of oxygen.
He couldn't afford the unwanted attention vomiting would draw to him.
"I'm 'ere to teach you that your powers are a responsibility, not some excuse to do whatever the hell you fancy, and that they sure as fuck don't make you better than everyone else," William said, and it was almost impossible for Dean to follow every word when he was also fighting with all his might not to just get up and run. "We've already seen where that road leads. We all know what happened to the last supe who confused greatness with godhood. I'd hate to see any of you lot follow him down the same road."
Again he stopped breathing, his throat too tight to let air flow into his windpipe. This time it felt like it was Butcher himself constricting the oxygen away.
William scanned around the room.
"Dean?" Emma insisted, concerned now, one hand on his shoulder, shaking him.
The violent movement finally caught his attention.
It was too much, too noticeable, too exposing. Survival instinct kicked in.
He stilled.
Emma suddenly unable to move him anymore.
"If you help me slip by unseen by the professor, I swear I'll tell you everything about my crush on Queen Maeve."
He spoke low enough that nobody else in the room could hear but her.
Emma was perfect, a real distraction, an ally in battle. A shield between Butcher and him. He would give her anything she wanted if she helped him walk out of here unseen.
Safe.
"Deal."
His friend jumped at the opportunity.
Emma straightened her back slowly.
Slow enough to go unnoticed.
Butcher's gaze had already slipped past them.
Dean followed Emma's example.
Straightening his back so slowly he could have won the title of the Slowest Man Alive if such an achievement mattered to anyone.
Shit. Shit. Shit. William Butcher was alive.
He repeated it in his mind like a mantra and the only thing keeping him sane at the time.
All of it felt surreal enough that his brain still couldn't fully catch up no matter how many times he repeated it to himself.
Emma started typing something on her phone.
Someone's phone in the front row buzzed when she finished.
Dean didn't dare look up from the very interesting pattern in the wood of the desk sitting in front of him.
"Excuse me, sir," Marie Monroe's voice resonated from the far corner of the circular auditorium, far enough away that it was safe to look up at William for a second.
Dean's lungs tightened at the sight.
"Yes, miss—?"
"Marie Monroe. Hi. I was wondering if you could tell us a little more about yourself. I don't know about my classmates, but I've never heard of a supe called Mr. Sunshine. What exactly is your power, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Yeah, I bloody well do," William answered, his eyes darkening, shadows crossing through his previously bright features. "Gonna take me powerset to the grave.," he added, his smile widening and his features brightening again.
Grave.
The word flashed through his head so hard it almost physically hurt.
For one horrifying second he could taste dirt coating his tongue all over again.
The crushing dark.
The lack of oxygen.
His fingers twitched against the desk.
It was finally happening.
His brain catching up with the situation.
Panic flooding his chest.
Then a golden light illuminated the auditorium like a ray of sunshine.
William's eyes glowing bright gold.
Butcher glanced directly toward his side of the auditorium.
Fear overcame him.
His vision blurred and his eyes stung.
This was it, the moment he was defeated once again. The moment he died.
Most certainly for good this time.
He braced for it. Hands fisted on his thighs. And he waited. For the obliterating light to doom him. For the subsequent feeling of powerlessness. For the burning pain of the crowbar spearing his brain.
William's eyes slid past him.
Casual.
Brief.
Like there was nothing there worth noticing.
Dean hated it as much as he was relieved.
He was nothing more than another student filling a seat in silence.
Absolute silence, even from the fractures inside his own head. Even the others didn't know what the fuck to do with all this.
His heart started ringing in his ears, like a fluttering hummingbird.
Scared.
Pathetic.
Alone.
Emma's hand wrapped around his under the desk.
He looked at her.
Blinking away tears.
She winked.
A reassuring smile on her face.
Drawing soothing circles on the back of his fist until it unclenched.
His breathing eased.
Not alone.
Not anymore.
"Miss Monroe, heat vision ain't me only trick. Don't worry, you'll see the rest of the package soon enough. As for why you ain't heard of me, that's easy. Vought didn't want you to. I worked undercover for government agencies. CIA, FBI, you name it, I was there."
William's voice was controlled as he dropped that load of lies like he truly believed them. It had a soft cadence to it, like velvet. Polished around the edges. Trained.
But still so very his.
The worst part for Dean was the immediate, horrifying realization that some deeply rotten part of himself felt relieved by hearing it.