!When (character) almost lose you- how do they react?
Butcher
He told you not to go with them on the mission, but you're too stubborn for your own good. Their plan was to release their supe-killing virus on Homelander, but Soldier Boy got in the way. You wanted to watch Soldier Boy die as much as MM did. You had a gas mask on, you thought you had it on tight enough, thought you did. You let out a cough, then another. Your chest began to tighten, lungs burning like you just inhaled fire. Your hands scramble for the mask, fingers fumbling as your vision blurs. You drop to your knees before you can even call out. “Fuck—” Billy Butcher is at your side in seconds, ripping the mask off your face, tossing it somewhere behind him. “No, no, no—what the hell did I say?” he snaps, but there’s no bite to it—just panic. His hand grips your jaw, forcing you to look at him while you struggle to breathe. Your body begins to go slack against him. “Oi—stay with me,” his voice drops, rough, cracking at the edges now. His hand presses against your cheek, shaking you slightly. “Don’t you dare—don’t you fuckin’ dare do this to me.” “I told you not to come,” he whispers, more to himself than you. “Stay with me, love… just stay with me.”
Soldier Boy
You went with him to fight, you shouldn't have. He was battling against 14 supes and it got to be too much for him. A light began to bloom from his chest, you started to run, knowing that light from his chest was about to explode. You weren't quick enough, you made it to the door, but it was locked. You hid behind a beaten up desk, then boom! You had your eyes shut and ears covered, hiding under that desk. Your vision went black and you collapsed. When he came out of his terror-driven state, that's when he noticed you on the ground. At first, he just stands there, chest still rising heavy, smoke lingering in the air. Then his eyes lock onto you—and everything else fades out. “...the fuck?” he mutters, stepping closer. No response. “Hey—” he drops down beside you, rough hands grabbing your shoulder, shaking you harder than he should. “Hey, c’mon. Get up.” His jaw tightens, eyes scanning you fast, like he’s trying to piece together what the hell just happened. “Shit…” he breathes, quieter now. “Fuck,” he mutters again, running a hand through his hair, pacing once before dropping back down next to you. “Don’t start this shit.” “C’mon…” he says, quieter this time. “Get up.”
Homelander
Billy Butcher. He found out how close you are to Homelander. He didn't think Homelander would find anything real after Madelyn Stillwell. Neither did Homelander. Now, Butcher has you held hostage, tied to a chair, bruised up. Your head hangs low, vision blurry, dried blood on your lip. You can barely keep your eyes open, but you hear it—the distant sound of something ripping through the sky. The door bursts open, homelander standing there, eyes red. "Let her go" he says calmly. Butcher laughs, shaking his head. “Nah. I don’t think I will.” Before you could think about what was happening, Homelander fires his lazers, and Butcher jumps in front of you. You feel a hot sensation on your neck and then all you see is black. You'd just passed out , but Homelander didn't know that. All he sees is that you're not moving. "No..no.no" Homelander says dipping down to your side. “You don’t get to leave me,” he whispers, pleading. “You don’t get to be like everyone else.” “Please…” he breathes, voice breaking completely now.
Hughie
You're in a forest with Hughie and Butcher, trying to find Soldier Boy. they both told you to stay behind as you're not even a supe. They took temp-v behind your back. That really had hurt your feelings, so you decided to come with them because you knew that would hurt him just as much. Before you know it , Butcher triggers a tripwire and jumps back. There's smoke everywhere. Hughie grabs you instantly. “I’ve got you—I’ve got you,” he says fast, already panicking as he focuses. He uses his powers to teleport you back, but something gets tangled along the way. Your body slams hard into a tree, the impact knocking the air out of you completely. Pain shoots through you and you crumple to the ground. “H—hey—” Hughie’s voice comes out breathless as he stumbles toward you, eyes wide, already knowing something’s wrong. He drops to his knees beside you, hands hovering before grabbing your shoulders, shaking you lightly. “Please wake up,” he says, quieter, voice breaking. “Please… I didn’t mean to, I swear.” He lets out a shaky breath, almost choking on it, pressing his forehead against yours for a second. "I'm so sorry he cries out, please".
Frenchie
You grew close to Frenchie, too close. You know most of his past, more than he's shared with anyone else. You're innocent and that alone makes him feel like sometimes that he's not worthy of you. Of your time or care. Or love. You had a complex and thought you could fix him. That was just your dynamic the two of you had. One day, someone from his past comes knocking. They've turned into a supe and they're not happy with Frenchie. You don’t even understand what’s going on at first—just raised voices, tension snapping tight in the air. Frenchie steps in front of you instinctively, telling you to stay back, voice low but urgent. But you don't. The supe moves quicker than you expect—grabbing you, throwing you hard across the room like you weigh nothing. Your body hits the wall, then the floor, the impact knocking the breath clean out of you. “Non—!” Frenchie’s voice cracks, louder than you’ve ever heard it, panic bleeding through instantly. Now, he's at your side, “Mon cœur, stay with me… stay with me,” he rushes out, words tumbling over each other. His hand cups your face, brushing your hair away, fingers trembling. “This is my fault… it is always my fault…”
☁︎ Summary: Butcher always flirted with you, just a bit of fun, until he stopped.
☁︎ Warnings: angst, denial of feelings, not feeling enough, self doubt, reassurance, fluff, kinda ooc Butcher - he's soft 'n sweet
☁︎ Word Count: 1.2k
☁︎ Requested by: @clemeowntine
꧁ Read my rules and send a request! ꧂
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For as long as you could remember, it was a common occurrence for Butcher to give you a sly little smirk and say something maybe just a bit dirty. You'd seen him do it a thousand times with other people, and you were just one of those people. Just like everybody else. Only what you didn't see was that you were nothing like them.
Butcher flirted with you and complimented you and you thought it was all in good fun, sometimes a joke, sometimes just him being nice to you for no other reason than to do it. It was flawed logic, granted, but what else were you to think?
That a guy like him could actually want you? What were you, stoned?
You knew he could never want you, you weren't nearly up to his standard, surely. You had seen Queen Maeve, she was stunning. Okay, she might not have been at her finest moment when she slept with Butcher, but she was still far more gorgeous than you could ever dream of being.
You didn't obsess over it and you didn't cry about it, you just weren't what he wanted, you had to live with that and you did. You were set to just be his friend and nothing more, so when he was nice to you, you were just happy to be someone he cared about, never imagining anything further.
You grew to look forward to your interactions with him, feeling a little too warm inside when he'd call you pretty like it was your name, let alone when he called you love.
You tried not to let your mind wander, but it was hard some days. Wondering what it might be like to wake up to those sweet little nicknames, to have them be the last words you heard before sleep. But it wasn't going to happen, they were just fun, indulgent little thoughts you pretended not to have.
It wasn't until the small smiles and quiet compliments stopped that you started to think about it more.
You thought about what you'd done wrong, whatever it could have been, but you couldn't place anything. You searched through your memories for every word you'd said to Butcher, but all of the bad you could find was just a few jokes that didn't quite land.
He kept his distance, never really cold but just not warm. He didn't linger around you, he didn't bring you your exact coffee order without ever having to be asked, he just, stayed away.
You couldn't fucking stand it.
So, you went to the one person you thought might know what the hell was going on.
Hughie.
He looked at you dumbfounded, like how could you actually just not fucking know?
"H-he's in love with you"
"What?"
"How- d- you never noticed?"
"Noticed what? Hughie, sweetie, you've got some kind of wires crossed here, Butcher could never want me"
"And why not?"
"Because, I'm just- I'm not his type"
"You really believe that, don't you?"
"Stop it"
"Oh come on, he's been flirting with you for months!"
"He flirts with everyone!"
"No, he's a dick to everyone and is kinda disgusting, he flirts with you"
"Y-you're bullshitting me. The popsicle asshole put you up to this, didn't he? Or Kimiko? It was her, she's always-"
Hughie grabbed your shoulders, stopping your rambling "He wants you, just tell him you're in love with him too, you'll make this easier on everyone, I promise"
You just stood there. You never thought this could be a possibility and now your closest, most trusted friend was telling you it was reality. What the fuck are you supposed to do now? You can't just tell him, what if Hughie's wrong? Then you'd lose the one person you cared most about. You couldn't risk it.
But you couldn't just not know.
It was inevitable, really, that it'd come out at some point. So why not now? Fuck it, you had to talk to him.
You waited until everyone had left, just you and Butcher, it was the smart move. How was any of this smart though?
It took you five tries to walk over to him, feeling your body stop itself or move away each time before.
He had his head down, reading over whatever files he had in his hands, not noticing you when you appeared beside him. You tapped him on the shoulder, words too hard, only becoming more difficult when he looked up at you.
"Y'got somethin' on your mind, pet?"
"I- uhm-" Your voice faltered "N-no I just-"
"'s something wrong? Do I have'ta kill some cunts for ya?"
You let out a quiet little laugh, eyes still glued to the floor.
"No I um, I wanted-"
Before you could register your own thoughts, you leaned down, capturing his lips in a firm, brief kiss.
He blinked, maybe a little stunned.
"I-I'm sorry I-"
"Don't apologize love, 'nless you have something y're sorry for?"
"If you- I- no. I don't"
He let a little smirk slip, hands on your waist, pulling you down into his lap.
"Took y' long enough, Sweetheart" He murmured against your cheek, forehead pressed to your temple "Thought y' didn't like me all that well"
"Of course I do" You replied, like it was the easiest thing you could've said "I just, wasn't sure"
"'f what?"
"If you'd want me"
"Silly head 'f yours" He pressed a kiss to your jaw, hands smoothing over your sides "I've wanted you for months, love"
"Yeah but- I'm not really-"
"Not what, hm?"
"Your type"
He leaned back a little, his hands still on you, but far enough away to look you in the eyes to see if you were joking, you must've been. Had to be.
"What?"
"Don't- don't lie to me, okay? I just, I know I'm not who you'd usually go for, that's why-"
"Hush, pet" His hands slid up your back, moving your head down to rest against his shoulder "You're everything I want, more"
"Don't-"
"In case y'haven't noticed, no one tells me what to do or when to shut up. How would you know what my type is anyway?"
"Even you've gotta admit, y'are bein' an idiot. With her, it was nothin' more than a pity fuck. We were both feelin' like shit and it was a good distraction. With you? Well I dunno yet…" He smirked, one hand squeezing your hip "But I'm hopin' it's more than that"
You grinned, arms tightening around Butcher's neck, words muttered softly against his skin.
"I love you"
He adjusted you in his lap, tugging you as close as he could "Love ya too, Pretty thing"
Billy Butcher x plus-size, brown, female Supe reader
ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʙʏ ᴅᴏᴊᴀ ᴄᴀᴛ
Billy being his cocky and avoidant self, jealousy, ending with make up sex; WC: 4K
You're a Supe, flying under Vought's radar for a really long time but not lowkey enough for The Boys. Frenchie and Kimiko find you on one of their missions and bring you back to the pawnshop. Hughie and Annie immediately warm up to you even though MM keeps calling you both a liability and a danger. And then comes the cocky motherfucker Frenchie keeps calling Monsieur Charcutier.
"What can the bitch even do, eh?" He asks in his demeaning voice. Kimiko angrily gestures at him and he corrects himself. "What does the girl do? Is that better?"
"Show 'im, mon amie," Frenchie encourages you.
You wait for a nod and a smirk from Kimiko before locking eyes with Butcher.
"Ah fuck!" Butcher cries out as his head snaps back from being flicked on his forehead. "Bollocks!" He clutches his chest before grasping at his crotch and succumbing to the floor. "Fuck!" Breathless, he holds on to his balls as he looks up to the woman he was challenging mere moments ago.
You have your thumb and middle finger curled at eye level, prepared to flick any part of Butcher's body at any time.
"She got you in the balls?" Hughie rushes to Billy's aid, struggling to hide his grin.
"The nipples too, lad. Fucking diabolical!" He stands up, his knees still tense from being flicked at such a sensitive spot. "So she can cop a feel from afar. Big deal!"
Kimiko gestures again and Frenchie translates. "She can be an awesome support for us and attack from a distance."
"So can bullets," Billy argues.
"Bullets can't kill Homelander but an attack from an invisible force can—"
"You lot think she can kill Homelander, eh? She looks like she can't even run."
"Woah! That's not— hey! Girl!" Before MM can finish his sentence, you take off, stomping toward the exit. Annie tries to follow you but you turn and push her back in one sweep of your wrist.
"Boy, she's strong," Annie comments as Hughie helps her up.
MM's one glance makes Butcher grimace. "You've got to be kidding me, mate," he whispers under his breath before following you out. He catches up to you in no time, walking just a few steps behind.
"Look, miss, I'm sorry, alright? Miss? Oi? Would you like me to get on my knees and beg, eh?"
"You know what?" You stop in your tracks and turn. "That'd be fucking great. Why don't you go right now?"
"Alright, lady, that was just me being nice. Eh? Don't want ya thinking just about anyone can make Billy Butcher kneel for 'em, alright? Also—"
"Help! Please!"
Butcher's monologue is cut short by a scream on the opposite side of the road. Your heads snap in that direction to a wheelchair being pushed into oncoming traffic.
"No! Wait!" Before Butcher can stop you, you are already posed for rescue. With one hand, you stop the truck about to crush the disabled person and with the other, you push the wheelchair back on to the sidewalk and past the bullies who were about to get them killed. But before you can smack down the miscreants from the other side of the street, Butcher steps in, turns you around and lifts you up in a bundle in his arms. "Cut it, will ya?"
"Put me down. Those motherfuckers need to be taught a lesson. Put me down."
Butcher carries you into an alley, pushes you up against a wall and covers your mouth with a big, rough hand. "Quiet down, will ya? Or do ya want the boys captured and tortured for the rest of their lives while Vought uses your powers to up their stock price?"
You calm down. Not just because of the calloused palm over your mouth, or the stern twitch in Butcher's jaw, or the iron grip on your elbow. His eyes stop you. His dark, dependable eyes that speak in high volumes when they ask you to just trust him to handle everything.
"’Cos they’ll do exactly that — slap you in sparkly spandex, parade your big arse in front of cameras and nick all the bloody credit. Ask Starlight." He refuses to loosen his hold on you. "If they don’t cosset you, they’ll call you a Supe terrorist, put a price on your head, and turn your life into a fuckin’ reality show before they kill you on camera. Ask Kimiko what they did to her brother, alright?”
"I know what happened to Kimiko's brother," You mumble against his hand. "And I know what Annie is fighting for."
"Let me guess. You wanna be a part of it, isn't that right, luv?" You nod and he finally lets you go. He takes a step back. "What did the Supes do to you?"
"Compound V made me kill my parents."
He never asks you what happened. But his actions henceforth show you he respects you and sees you as one of the Boys. He oversees your training with Kimiko, and even personally prepares your meals with high protein, less carb food items.
"How have you turned Monsieur Charcutier into your personal chef, mon amie?" Frenchie asks at dinner one night as you munch on your shrimp and bok choy salad.
"It's because he thinks I'm too fat." You snap. Billy doesn't reply to your ragebait so you egg on. "Maybe he's not used to seeing women of my body shape much in his life. All the spice that his ancestors stole from our lands and still couldn't make good enough food to plump up their women."
“If your lot’s so bloody good at cookin’, why don’t you whip us up somethin’, eh, doll?”
His tone is cocky when he challenges you but everyone knows he's the most interested when he runs to the supermarket early in the morning to tick off your grocery list. Basmati rice? Check. Saffron? Check. Rosewater? Check. Garam masala? Check.
"Oh wow!" You exclaim as you go through his shopping bag. "Oh my God! I can't belive you got me a whole jar of ghee."
"Any good?" He asks, watching you twist the lid open to sniff.
"Almost," You reply with glee. Then you walk up to him and tiptoe to place a small, polite kiss just above his beard. He stiffens under your touch. "Thank you, Will."
Billy hesitates, not knowing how to respond. He transfixes you with his eyes, the ones you've grown rather fond of but wouldn't ever admit, unless at gunpoint. You've learned to read them, to help you understand when he's just stressed and wants to down a few shots of Glenlivet versus when he's really angry and wants to bash his fist through the wall.
Whenever you sense the second, you simply hold his arm from a distance, patting the inside of his bicep to offer some comfort. The first time that happened, Billy had been rightfully shocked, swatting in the air to find the invisible hand. He had relaxed the moment his eyes met yours across the room and nodded in approval.
“Oi, easy now, luv. Nobody calls me Will — ’less you’re tryna get under me skin.”
"Do I not do that enough already?" You wink.
His fingers curl against the countertop. “I’ve got a wife, yeah? So don’t go makin’ eyes at me like that.”
His tone kicks up your defenses. "Do the girls you fuck on the side know that?"
“Whatever birds I mess about with — none of ’em is you, alright?” His stare is intense, jaw tight.
You let out a low laugh before turning to hide the water on your lids. "Right, not as fat."
Before you can walk away, Billy catches you. He turns you around, his hold tight around your plush waist, and pulls you in. When his mouth lands on your lips, all the chaos around you and the self-doubt within subside. All there is in your world at the moment is his touch — his urgent embrace, his chapped lips, his prickly beard, his warm breath when he finally stops kissing you. "You play dirty, don't ya? The bloody problem is you're too fuckin' special and you know it. Too fuckin' special for your own good... and mine. You know damn well what you mean to me, but you’d rather twist the knife, make me admit it, eh?"
"So admit it, Will." You graze the back of his neck with your fingernails. This is the first time you've actually physically touched him without using your Compound V-given powers. You know he wants you to become stronger and even if he viewed you as a weapon before, things have changed. In his own twisted way, he cares about you and half of his bullying and cussing and angry drinking translates into unexplainable adoration and kinship.
"You want me to confess, doll? Here goes nothin'." He takes in a deep breath, still not letting you escape his embrace. "You’re… bloody hell. You’re everythin’ I’ve spent my life keepin’ out, you know that? Soft. Warm. All that good shit I told myself weren’t for the likes of me.
“You walk in here, all light and kindness, and it don’t make sense. I’ve seen people turn to stone over less than what you’ve been through — but you… you still give a damn. You look after the Boys like family, even when they don’t deserve it. I’ll be honest, love — it does my head in watchin’ it.”
He gives a short, helpless laugh — more breath than sound. “You reckon I’m tryin’ to change you, yeah? Well, I ain’t. I just— I want you ready. For when the world gets ugly again. If I’m not there to fight it for you, or... or with you…" He trails off, swallows, his voice softens almost to a whisper. “I don’t ever wanna hear you’re gone. Not from the telly, not from anyone. I just want to come home and find you right here — givin’ me that look that makes me forget how bloody broken I am.”
You bring your hand to rest against his cheek and quietly stroke his beard. "Come home broken, come home angry, frustrated, feeling like you could strangle Homelander with your bare hands. I will be here nonetheless."
Right when he's about to kiss you again, Frenchie walks in. "Monsieur Charcutier et mon amie? Ce qui se passe?" Kimiko and M. M. follow behind and Billy lets you go, raising his hands in defense as Frenchie and M. M. come up to him to squeeze his shoulders and cheer him on. Kimiko holds your hand and smiles. You smile back but one look at Butcher's face tells you this is not what he wanted. His smile, that reached his eyes only moments earlier when you were in his arms, now barely shows his teeth.
And, voila! He disappears after lunch.
Two days later, Hughie runs in speaking in jargons. The bits you can make out are Hughie being a canary, Argentina, dog toy, a British bulldog named Terror, and M. M. realizing it's all about Becca.
Becca. Becca. Becca.
That name has been an earsore to you since the day you realized you were falling for Billy Butcher. Everything is always about her. And you understand Billy's need for her, avenging her being his one true purpose. Every member of the Boys has a backstory that defines them and constantly fuels their rage against the Supes. Yours is your parents; Billy's is Becca. You're not unaware of this fact and you're not that shallow that you'd demand Billy to erase her out of his life just because you guys kissed once. But sometimes, you wish everyone would just. shut. up. about. Becca.
When M. M. orders you to stay behind as he and Hughie leave for Aunt Judy's, you spend the whole day buried in pastries and weed you steal from Frenchie's stash. And as your last act of self-sabotage and to make sure Billy is irreparably disappointed in you, you track Hughie's location on Find My Phone. You drive there red-eyed, dry-mouthed and undeniably high but before you could reach where you were heading, two police officers pull you over.
"What? Seriously?" You hear Marvin's frustrated voice over the police station phone. "It's so tiring to keep up with the two of you. One gets attacked by Noir and another gets herself arrested. Listen, sit your ass down in the cell and do not make a peep. Frenchie will come get you in an hour."
"No, not Frenchie. Him."
Give me the phone. You hear Billy's voice in the background. “Oi, listen, doll — I’m in no bloody shape to bail you out without endin’ up in cuffs myself, yeah? Frenchie’ll go fetch you. I’ll meet you back at the pawnshop. Try not to blow the bloody place up 'til then, alright?"
"Right. I get Frenchie. If it was Becca, you'd be breaking the necks of these motherfuckers who arrested her. Or... or maybe she wouldn't have gotten in trouble in the first place because she's so. fucking. perfect. Isn't she?" You slam the phone down on the receiver. It earns you a side eye from the officer but it feels cathartic to finally release all the pent up jealousy.
About an hour later, you hear the lock on the cell door click and Frenchie waves at you from the other side. "Sorry I stole your weed." You brush past one of your current closest friends, your eyes still red but rhis time, not from smoking up.
"Do you have a smoke?" You ask as Frenchie follows you out of the police station and he hands you one.
"Oi!" Billy pops out from behind a car, trench coat bellowing behind him like a cape and pulls the cigarette out from between your lips. "Enough of that now." He nods at Frenchie who then proceeds to leave without a word.
"I thought you weren't coming." You look away as he lights the cigarette at his lips.
“Speak your mind, love. Go on. Tell me I’m heartless, yeah? That you think I didn’t wanna come, that I don’t care. Think I just sat there doin’ nothin’ while you were sittin’ in a bloody cell? Truth is, it tore me up not comin’ for you. But I can’t keep lettin’ my gut run the show. That’s how people end up dead. One day you’ll get it — when you’re my age and you’ve got more ghosts than guts.”
You sigh. "Like I said, if it was Becca—"
"Enough about Becca, alright?"
"But that's where you went. You went to Becca, moments after you told me what I mean to you. And you don't show up for days. No texts, no calls, no nothing. And it's Hughie..." The stone of sorrow in your throat chokes you as hot tears roll down your cheeks. "I called you so many fucking times and it's Hughie whose call you finally pick up. And you don't even ask for me. You tell him he's your fucking... sparrow or whatever. But you don't ask how I am. And I'm still not supposed to think that you're heartless?"
“You’re right. I fucked it. I know I did. And the worst part is… I heard the phone ringin’. I just… couldn’t pick it up. Not then. Not with everythin’ in me screamin’ that if I heard your voice, I’d drop the whole bloody world to get to you. You know rescuin' Becca—” He watches your face contort at the mention of her. "It's not important no more. But you are. More than I know how to bloody handle. But I'm willin' to learn. I swear, doll. Don’t give up on me yet, yeah?"
When he holds your face and kisses you, you finally relax. Your shoulders drop and your frown disappears at the mere touch of his lips against yours. You open up to let him in, and he pulls you closer. You inhale a hefty drag of cigarette smoke between smooches and he takes the exhale from your mouth. His strong hands move precariously over your body, sliding up and down your sides, only stopping to squeeze your flesh — the tummy, the rolls, the love handles you're so ashamed of, he paws at them like a lovesick teenager, like he can't get enough of you.
He stops his hand just shy of your breasts, aware of the stares you two are garnering. "What I wanna do to you, doll, these lecherous eyes don't deserve to witness."
"Pawnshop?" You ask, impatient.
"Too many people. My place."
He opens the passenger side door of his car and when his arm lingers on your elbow possessively before letting you in, you can't help but blush. An idea creeps into your head as he gets in beside you.
As soon as he drives into the evening traffic, you touch his thigh. Not with your hands, but with the superpower you're supposed to use to kill Homelander.
"Doll, stop." He commands, his voice low, with a faint undercurrent of panic. But you don't listen. You slide your touch further up and gasp.
"Is that why you're so hard? Because you want me to stop?"
"Oi, doll.” His breath shudders when you give him a little squeeze. “Traffic’s a nightmare — we ain’t doin’ prison twice in one day, are we? Keep pullin’ that little party trick and I’ll bet my arse that’s where we’ll end up, yeah? Cut it out.”
When you still maintain the touch on his thigh, Billy takes one of his hands off the wheel to hold both your wrists in his grasp. The moment he finds a gap among the cars and bikes on the road, he steps on the gas. "Now, behave until I can get the two of us on a bed."
"Will," you plead. "The back of your car will work just as fine."
"Vixen." He mutters before speeding up, this time getting out of traffic and toward somewhere more secluded.
Where he parks, it's at an overlook halfway up a hill, headlights zooming past you from both directions every few minutes. The gold and white city lights beneath glower at you, warning you of the storm you're about to encounter. You scowl back like you don't care, waiting for Billy to make the first move.
Impatient, you reach for the door but pause abruptly when he barks, "Stay."
Billy gets out and walks over to your side to open the door for you. What a gentleman! He pulls you out and pins you against the closed passenger side door.
Sticking his face in your neck, he rasps, “I need you, doll. Need you to keep me tethered in all this bloody madness. Every time I start losin’ hope, I just— I look at you smilin’ like this unfair world’s still worth savin’, and it reminds me what I’m fightin’ for."
He lights a cigarette and sizzles the smoke into his throat. "I need you in the fight, yeah? Right beside me. I can’t do this on my own anymore. And I’m only sayin’ this once, so keep it between us — don’t let the Boys hear I’ve gone soft, alright? But when the time comes… I need you and the lads on my flank, guns up, sights on that bastard Homelander. Even if it takes a thousand rounds to put that son of a bitch down.”
You watch him with a warm smile, your cheeks tepid with all the fondness you have for him. "If I'm fighting by your side, Will, I'm not doing it to die for you. I'm doing it to make sure you come out of it unscathed. Deal?"
"Deal." He smooches you, the scent of nicotine creeping from his tongue to yours as he flicks the last embers of the cigarette into oblivion.
When he kisses your neck again, you melt in his embrace. The feel of his beard on your skin makes you swoon and roll your eyes back in anticipated pleasure. You can't help imagining how that would feel on the inside of your thighs.
He trails wet kisses down to your collarbone and you gasp when he sucks your flesh between his teeth with the clear intention to mark. "Need you," he whispers again, whiny, impatient. His hands are on your breasts, groping, squeezing. "I need you, doll."
"Need you," You whisper back as you watch cars drive past, passengers looking out, making eye contact with you as you tremble in Billy Butcher's grasp.
He takes your hand and leads you round the back of the car to the other side. "C'mere, doll." He opens the door to the backseat and gently guides you inside. "Get comfortable."
Billy hops back into the front seat and twists the key halfway back on; the radio crackles and starts humming a familiar tune— two less lonely people in the world by Air Supply. How accurate!
When he slides into the backseat next to you, you make no further delays in capturing his lips between yours again. You straddle him while his fingers tangle in your hair. "Vixen," he whispers again when you start to grind against the tent in his pants. It seems to form every time his hands hover over your chest.
"I thought you hated me."
"Hate you?" He kisses you between undoing each button on your shirt. "Bollocks." He kisses your throat. "You look like a million fucking dollars the moment you wake up, even before you've brushed your teeth. I've been up against the bloody wall trying not to kiss you every morning."
"You should have." You giggle, holding his face in the crook of your neck.
"Let me make it up to you, doll." His hands snake around to your back to unclasp your bra. Billy whistles when the cups come off, offering him the best view. "You know hiding this treasure under goddamn clothes has been a crime, yeah?" He mumbles against your flesh before wrapping his wet lips around one taut nipple.
You gasp, forgetting your fingers as they work on Butcher's belt.
There's a bit of struggle and lots of giggles as you take each other's pants off. Eager. Impatient. Like children discovering a new game.
The radio plays letter to hermione by Bowie the next time his lips find yours. Billy is on top of you, his solid chest gliding over your soft tummy. "I know this ain't no king mattress, doll." He positions your calf at the crook of his hip. "But stay with me, alright? Fuck." He touches you between your thighs, the tip of his fingers quickly finding your clit. "You're so ready for me."
"I am, Will." You press your heels into his glutes, guiding him into you.
Billy grunts at first touch, then loses himself completely as he slides in. "Oh mama," he whispers as he buries his face in your neck. You giggle as he kisses your neck, collarbone, jaw before finding your lips again. You moan when he starts to move, stretching you thin around his girth. "S'good, doll." He holds your legs apart as he ruts, panting and groaning, like an animal possessed. "Fuck, so good. You're squeezing me so bloody good, doll. Keep doin that, yeah? Such a good doll."
"Will," You cry, reaching up to touch his chest.
Billy increases his pace, as much as he can in that tight space. "You keep squeezing me like that, doll, I won't last that long." He laughs. "I feel like a schoolboy but don't you go making me finish like one. Fuck!"
Mhm, you moan in his ear as he bends to capture one of your nipples. "Will... Will..." You extend your fingers to find your clit, chasing the momentum he's building, preparing to crash together. "Please... Will... don't stop... please... s'close."
"Come for me, doll. Come. For. Me." His final thrusts shake your entire world, your orgasm boiling up like chai on the stove before spilling over the edge.
Sticky and sweaty, Billy lies on top of you, panting in your ear like the old man he is. You smooth your palm over his shoulders and back, calming him down, leaving fluttery kisses on his earlobe. "Vixen." This time, he sounds pleased, almost smiling.
please don't copy my work, or publish it elsewhere without my consent. all banners are from pinterest.
!Still grieving Becca, Butcher fights the pull of something new — and hurts the one person who never asked him to forget. Sometimes the hardest battle isn’t letting go, but letting yourself feel again.
Butcher doesn’t look at you when you sit beside him. Not properly, anyway.
He’s there — solid, breathing, knee pressed close enough that you feel the heat of him through the couch, but his eyes stay fixed on nothing. A bottle sweats in his hand, untouched for once, knuckles pale like he’s gripping it too tight.
You’ve learned not to ask questions when he goes quiet like this. It’s not that he doesn’t hear you. It’s worse than that. He hears everything and chooses silence anyway.
“You’re bleedin' tense,” he mutters finally, voice low, rough. Like it hurts to talk. You almost laugh. Almost.
“You’ve been like this all night,” you say instead.
That’s when he finally looks at you.
And there it is — that flicker of something raw and dangerous in his eyes. Guilt.
His jaw tightens. He leans back, creating space that wasn’t there a second ago, and it stings more than it should.
“Don’t,” he says.
“Don’t what?” you ask quietly.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
Like you see him.
Like you want him.
Like he might want you back.
He exhales sharply and rubs a hand over his face. When he drops it, his voice is colder.
“You deserve better than… this.”
You shake your head slowly.
“You don’t get to decide that for me” you say. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just true.
That makes him flinch.
“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” you continue, voice steady even as your chest tightens. “You pull back. You snap. You act like you’re poison just so I won’t get close enough to get hurt.”
He scoffs under his breath, but there’s no bite to it.
“You’re beatin’ yourself up for somethin’ that doesn’t need punishin’,” you say. “Loving her doesn’t make you broken. It just makes you human.”
That’s when it hits him.
His eyes drop to the floor, shoulders sagging like he’s finally too tired to keep holding himself upright. The fight drains out of him all at once, leaving something exposed and painfully raw behind.
“She was everything to me,” he says quietly. The words scrape on the way out. “And I couldn’t save her.”
You don’t argue. You don’t try to fix it.
You just reach out, looking at him as if you can empathize with that pain yourself.
Your fingers brush his wrist first — tentative, like you’re asking permission without words. He inhales sharply, like he didn’t realize how badly he needed the contact until it was there.
“But you’re still here,” you murmur. “And so am I.”
That’s all it takes.
He looks at you then — really looks — and something in his restraint finally snaps.
His hand comes up fast, gripping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with a reverence that doesn’t match the roughness of his grip. He kisses you like it’s a mistake he’s already too deep into to stop.
For a moment, the world narrows to the press of his mouth, the hitch in his breath, the way his forehead drops to yours when the kiss breaks — like he can’t stand the space but can’t stay either.
Then reality slams back in.
He pulls away abruptly, standing so fast the couch creaks. He turns his back to you, hands braced on the counter, breathing like he’s just run headfirst into a wall.
“No,” he says. Firm. Shaky. “That can’t happen.”
You sit there, heart pounding. “Billy—”
“Don’t,” he snaps, sharper now. Defensive. Afraid.
He turns, eyes hardening as he reaches for the only weapon he has left.
“You think you’re special?” he says cruelly. “Think you’re the first bird who thought she could fix me?”
The words land like a slap.
“I’m not Becca,” you say quietly.
“I know,” he fires back — and immediately regrets it.
Because what he really meant was that’s the problem.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.
His jaw tightens. His gaze flickers anywhere but your face.
“I don’t want ya,” he lies. His voice is flat, rehearsed. "Don't confuse this for somethin' it ain't".
You stand slowly. Every movement feels deliberate, like if you rush you might break.
“Then don’t kiss me like that,” you say. Not accusing. Just honest.
That finally breaks him.
His shoulders slump. He drags a hand down his face, voice dropping to something almost unrecognizable.
“I can’t lose someone again,” he whispers. “And if I let myself want ya—” He doesn’t finish.
You step closer anyway. Not to touch him this time. Just close enough to be felt.
“I’m not asking you to forget her — or any of it,” you say softly. “I’m asking you to stop hurting both of us because you’re scared of feeling something good.”
He doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t move.
And that hurts almost as much as the words did.
You turn away — not angry, not bitter — just tired. But before you leave, you stop. Steady. Certain.
“When you figure it out,” you say, voice barely above a breath, “I’ll still be here.”
He stays where he is long after the door closes, staring at the space you left behind.
Billy Butcher is tactical, dedicated to his work and to his role in The Boys. When new girl y/n joins the team, things start to change little by little. When she gets pregnant with Butcher's baby, will he get a soft spot or remain ruthless?
*I couldn't decide whether to make this as third person or an X reader, but I think it turned out okay lol, enjoy :)
1|
She'd never meant to fall into a world of Supes and secrets. One week she was a hospital tech patching up trauma cases; the next, she was patching up vigilantes in a filthy flat that smelled of whiskey and gun oil.
Hughie was the one who brought her in-said she could "help with medical stuff." What he didn't say was that she'd be the only calm voice when everything went to hell.
Butcher clocked her the second she walked in. That sharp stare-half-curiosity, half-disbelief-followed her as she unpacked gauze and antiseptic from her duffel bag.
"'Nother stray, eh, Hughie?" he muttered, cigarette hanging from his mouth.
"Uh-yeah, she's solid, man. EMT training, all that."
"Great," Butcher said, smirking. "Hope she's got a strong stomach. We'll need it."
She met his gaze, steady and unflinching. "You'd be surprised what I can stomach, Butcher."
That earned her a rare flicker of amusement-gone as quickly as it came.
Later that day...
She was still finding her footing, trying to make sense of the chaos around her. Frenchie had already offered her a questionable cup of "tea" that smelled suspiciously like something distilled in a bathtub. Kimiko hovered nearby, curious, eyes bright and unblinking.
Annie was the first to properly introduce herself, all soft voice and kind eyes despite the exhaustion behind them.
"So you're the new medic," Annie said with a smile. "I'm Annie. Or-Starlight. Depends who's asking."
You smiled back, relieved for the warmth in her tone. "Guess I'll just stick with Annie for now. I'm not used to all this code name stuff."
"Good call," Annie said, lowering her voice a little. "Trust me, it's easier that way. We could use more normal people around here."
Kimiko, wordless as always, approached next. She studied your face for a moment, then pointed at the bandages you were organizing and mimed patching someone up.
"She wants to know if you'll teach her," Frenchie translated with a grin from across the room. "She likes you already, mon ange."
You looked at Kimiko and nodded, smiling. "Sure. We'll make a medic out of you yet."
Kimiko's lips twitched into a quiet smile, rare and fleeting but real.
For the first time since stepping into this madhouse, you felt like maybe-just maybe-you belonged.
From the corner of the room, Butcher watched the exchange, cigarette smoke curling around his silhouette. He didn't say a word, but there was something thoughtful in the way his eyes lingered-a rare softness buried beneath the gruff exterior.
Then, just as quickly, he turned away. "Alright, team meeting in ten. Let's not make this a bloody tea party."
You couldn't help the small smirk tugging at your mouth.
If this was a circus, he was the ringmaster-and for better or worse, you were now part of the show.
____________
2|
It took less than a week for her to see that The Boys were half-held together by duct tape and spite. Frenchie was chaos, Kimiko silent lightning, Hughie the conscience, and Butcher-Butcher was gravity. Everything either orbited him or crashed.
He didn't say thank you when she stitched him up. Just sat there, jaw tight, muscles tense.
"Hold still," she said once, pressing gauze to a deep gash across his ribs.
"'M holdin' still," he grunted.
"You're breathing like a bull."
"'Cause you're jabbin' me like a bloody matador."
She smirked despite herself. "Maybe if you stopped getting stabbed, I wouldn't have to."
He looked down at her hands-steady, sure, close to his skin-and something unreadable passed behind his eyes. Then he smirked, that dangerous, crooked kind.
"Got a bit of bite, don't ya? You'll fit right in."
It wasn't much, but it was the start of something-banter like barbed wire: sharp, tangled, and impossible not to touch.
Later on..
By the second month, she'd stopped flinching at gunfire. But what still threw her off was the way Butcher would sometimes look at her after a job-not long, not soft, but aware.
They'd return to the safehouse, adrenaline still thrumming. She'd hand him a cold beer, sit across the room, and he'd catch her eye over the rim of the bottle.
"Appreciate the brew, luv," he'd say casually, but there was something in the way he said luv-rough, reluctant, like the word itself betrayed him.
Frenchie noticed before anyone else. He teased once, "our fearless leader has eyes for the medic."
Butcher's glare could've frozen hell. "Keep talkin', Frenchie, and I'll staple your lips shut."
She just rolled her eyes and packed the med kit tighter, pretending she didn't notice the heat under her skin-or the way he lingered a little too long when brushing past her.
The line between them stayed there, taut and invisible. Neither of them crossed it.
Not yet.
___________
3|
The warehouse stank of rust and rainwater.
You were crouched behind a crate, hands slick with someone else's blood, trying to stop Frenchie from bleeding out. Gunfire cracked in the distance; Butcher's voice barked commands sharp enough to slice through the chaos.
You didn't even realize he was watching you until the fighting stopped.
"Good work," he said gruffly, stepping over debris to stand beside you.
You looked up, startled. "He's lucky the bullet missed his artery."
"Lucky he's got you," Butcher muttered, lighting a cigarette. The flicker of the flame cut across his face, catching the bruise on his cheekbone.
You reached for your kit again. "You should sit. You're bleeding."
He huffed, "I'll live."
"Maybe. But you'll live better if I clean that up."
Something in your tone-gentle but firm-made him obey before he could stop himself. He sat on a splintered crate while you dabbed at the cut near his temple.
"Yer not scared easy, are ya?"
"No," you said simply. "Fear gets people killed."
He smirked faintly. "Smart girl."
You caught the ghost of warmth in his tone, but you didn't push it.
You just worked quietly, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath and the faint trace of gunpowder clinging to his coat.
And when you finally pulled back, your fingertips brushed his jaw by accident.
He froze.
You didn't say a word. Neither did he.
But for one stretched heartbeat, it felt like the air between you wasn't air at all-just something electric, waiting to catch fire.
The next morning, he brought you coffee.
No words. No explanation. Just set it down on the table beside you before heading to the window to check the street.
You stared at it like it might explode. "Thanks?"
He shrugged. "Figured you'd need it. You were up half the night watchin' Frenchie."
"Didn't think you noticed."
He looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowing. "I notice everything, luv."
You swallowed, pretending to focus on the map spread across the table. "You always this charming, or is it just me?"
He grinned-slow, dangerous. "You, mostly."
That was how it started. Little things.
A brush of his arm when he passed you in the hall. The way he always stood between you and the door during a briefing. The way he called you "luv" like it meant something, though you both knew better than to ask what.
When Hughie teased you once-"You and Butcher getting all domestic, huh?"-you laughed it off, but Butcher didn't.
He just gave Hughie a look that said drop it or die trying.
Later, when you found him alone in the safehouse kitchen, he was nursing a drink.
"Don't let 'em get in your head," he said.
"They're not. Are they in yours?"
He met your eyes, the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth.
"Constantly," he said, and left you there, coffee cup still warm in your hands.
___________
4|
It was midday at the safehouse, sunlight spilling through cracked blinds and slicing across the floorboards. The place was uncharacteristically quiet - a lull between storms.
Hughie was buried in some tech stuff, earbuds in.
Frenchie and Kimiko had disappeared out back to test explosives (or maybe flirt; no one could ever tell).
Annie had gone out for groceries.
That left you and Butcher - and a silence so thick you could almost hear it breathing.
You sat at the table, scribbling notes into your worn-out medical pad, half listening to the hum of the fridge. Butcher leaned against the counter, arms crossed, cigarette dangling from his mouth.
"Y'know, you're the only one in this lot who doesn't yap when it's quiet," he said finally.
"That a compliment or an accusation?" you asked without looking up.
"Bit of both," he said, smirking. "Makes me wonder what's rattlin' around in that head o' yours."
You capped your pen and leaned back. "Nothing you need to worry about."
"Oh, I'm already worried," he teased, smoke curling around his grin. "Every time someone's too quiet, they're plannin' somethin'."
"I'm not planning anything. I'm resting."
He stepped closer, boot heels creaking against the old floor. "Restin', eh? That what they call it when someone's thinkin' too loud?"
You met his gaze, unflinching. "Careful, Butcher. You might strain yourself trying to read minds."
That earned a low chuckle from him. "There's that mouth again. You ever stop bitin'?"
"Not when someone keeps poking," you shot back, eyes narrowing but lips curving.
He tilted his head, amused. "You got some teeth on ya, luv. S'why I like talkin' to ya."
"Pretty sure you just like hearing yourself talk."
"Only when someone worth listenin' to bites back."
Your heart shouldn't have skipped. But it did.
He moved closer - too close - until you could smell the whiskey and tobacco clinging to him, see the faint scar near his jaw, feel the heat that rolled off his body like static.
"You always this nosy?" you asked, trying to keep your voice even.
"Only with people who don't scare easy," he murmured.
Something inside you tightened - half nerves, half curiosity. The air felt charged, almost daring one of you to move.
You did.
You leaned forward. Just enough that your chest brushed his coat.
"Still think I'm quiet now?" you asked softly.
For a split second, his grin faltered. Then his hand came up, rough fingers catching your jaw, tilting your face toward his.
"Not even close," he muttered before his mouth found yours.
The kiss wasn't gentle. It was hungry, clumsy, months of unsaid things crashing together. You grabbed his coat, pulling him closer, and he groaned against your lips like he'd been starving for it.
Standing up, he backed you up against the table, lips trailing down your neck, and you caught yourself whispering his name - half warning, half plea.
"My room," he rasped, breath hot against your ear. "Now."
You didn't argue.
___________
5|
The room was still, quiet - until Hughie looked up from his laptop.
"Uh... anyone seen Butcher or, uh... her?"
Frenchie raised a brow, tossing a screwdriver into a bin. "Non. Perhaps they went to fetch more ammo?"
Then it started - the faint rhythmic thump from down the hall.
Hughie froze. "Wait. Is that...?"
Kimiko's head tilted. Annie, returning with groceries, blinked at the ceiling as the noise grew unmistakable.
"Oh my God," Hughie whispered, eyes wide. "They're- They're not-"
"Mon dieu," Frenchie breathed, hand over his heart. "He has finally found his match."
A beat of silence. Then the unmistakable sound of something knocking against a wall - followed by a muffled moan that was definitely hers.
Annie nearly dropped the grocery bag. "Oh my God!"
Hughie clamped both hands over his ears. "I can't unhear that-why-why is this happening?!"
Frenchie was trying not to laugh, but it was hopeless. "Love is a beautiful thing, no?"
"Yeah, not when it sounds like a construction site," Hughie muttered, pacing.
Kimiko signed something fast.
Frenchie squinted, then burst out laughing. "She says, 'About time.'"
They all looked toward the ceiling again as another soft thud echoed. A moment later, Butcher's unmistakable growl carried faintly down the hall.
Hughie went beet red. "I-I'm going outside. I'm not doing this."
"Oui, yes, fresh air is good," Frenchie said through laughter, ushering Kimiko toward the door.
Annie, torn between horror and amusement, covered her mouth and snickered. "They're never living this down."
__________
6|
The safehouse smelled faintly of coffee and regret.
You woke to the low murmur of voices - Hughie's high-pitched nervousness, Frenchie's laughter, Annie's quiet scolding.
Beside you, Butcher was already half dressed, shirt undone, sleeves rolled. He glanced back only once, lips quirking.
"Mornin', luv," he said like it was nothing.
You sat up slowly, sheets tangled around you. "Morning."
"You sleep?"
"Barely."
He grunted. "Good. Means I didn't kill ya."
You threw a pillow at him. "You're insufferable."
He smirked, catching it one-handed. "Yeah, but you like that, don't ya?"
You didn't answer - partly because he wasn't wrong, partly because you didn't trust your voice.
When you finally walked in, the room went dead quiet.
Hughie's mug froze halfway to his mouth. Annie bit her lip, pretending not to notice. Frenchie grinned like Christmas had come early.
"Sleep well?" Frenchie asked innocently.
"Fine," you muttered, brushing past him.
"Oui, you look... rested."
Kimiko elbowed him hard, shaking her head, but even she had that mischievous glint in her eyes.
Butcher strode in a minute later, all business. "Gear up," he barked. "We're movin' out in ten."
And just like that, the subject was off the table - at least out loud.
But under the surface, everyone knew.
____________
7|
The first mission after that night was rough.
Intel said a low-level Supe was running a drug ring out of an abandoned theater downtown. Turned out "low-level" was generous - the bastard could throw soundwaves hard enough to rattle your teeth.
You ducked behind a row of seats as plaster rained from the ceiling. Butcher was ahead of you, shotgun drawn, yelling something over the roar.
You sprinted to his side, shouting, "We need to flank!"
"Yeah? You go left, I'll go right!"
Before you could argue, he took off through the smoke. Typical Butcher.
You darted around the other side, dodging falling beams, pulse hammering. You caught a glimpse of the Supe - mid-scream, mouth glowing white-hot - and raised your weapon.
One shot. Two. He staggered.
Butcher burst out of the shadows behind him, slammed the butt of his gun into the Supe's jaw, and took him down hard.
When it was over, the theater was a wreck of dust and echoing silence.
Butcher looked at you across the rubble - both of you panting, adrenaline thrumming.
"You alright?" he asked.
You nodded. "You?"
"Never better."
He offered a hand to help you up. You hesitated before taking it - his grip firm, grounding. When you were standing, he didn't let go right away.
Hughie's voice crackled over comms. "Uh, we good in there?"
Butcher cleared his throat, dropping your hand. "Yeah. Clean-up on aisle three."
You turned away to hide the smile threatening your lips.
__________
8|
Back at the safehouse, things returned to "normal" - or at least the closest version The Boys ever had.
Butcher went back to barking orders and acting like nothing had changed. You went back to patching wounds and pretending you didn't still feel his hands on you when you closed your eyes.
The rest of the team had their own opinions - none of which they kept to themselves.
Frenchie: "You two have energy, oui? Like dynamite and a spark."
Hughie: "I don't even wanna think about it, man. It's like... my parents, but violent."
Annie: "As long as it doesn't mess up the mission, I'm fine."
Kimiko: (signs) "They're cute."
You'd laugh it off. But when night fell and you crossed paths with Butcher - brushing shoulders in the hallway, trading short looks, smirking at nothing - it was impossible to pretend.
That night, you found him outside the safehouse door, cigarette glowing in the dark.
"You keep disappearin' when I wanna talk," he said without turning around.
"Maybe I don't have anything to say."
"Bollocks. You've got plenty. You just don't wanna admit it."
You folded your arms. "And what would I admit, exactly?"
He finally looked at you, eyes low, unreadable.
"That you want this as much as I do."
You exhaled, a slow, shaky laugh. "That's the problem, Butcher. I do."
He didn't say anything after that. Just flicked his cigarette into the dirt, the orange ember dying out between you.
For a long time, neither of you moved. The world stayed quiet.
And maybe - just maybe - that was its own kind of peace.
___________
9|
It started like every other morning.
The hum of the old refrigerator, Frenchie clattering dishes somewhere, the faint sound of Hughie typing too fast on his laptop.
You pressed a hand to your stomach again, waiting for the rolling nausea to pass. It had been weeks of this - the queasy mornings, the sudden tiredness, the way certain smells turned your stomach. You'd blamed it on stress, on the constant adrenaline of missions, on maybe eating whatever questionable takeout Frenchie brought home.
But this morning felt different. Deeper. Heavier.
You sat on the edge of the cot in the safehouse bathroom, staring down at the small box in your hands - the kind you'd never thought you'd have to use.
Your breath came shallow as you tore it open.
The first test sat on the counter, cruelly blank. The second waited in the wrapper. You glanced at yourself in the mirror - pale, wide-eyed, heartbeat echoing in your ears.
You told yourself you were being ridiculous. You were on the pill. You hadn't missed any. This couldn't-
The faintest line began to appear. Barely there, but there all the same.
You blinked hard, once. Twice. It stayed.
"No..." you whispered. "No, no, no..."
Your hands shook as you dipped the second test, then the third - the same cup, the same disbelief.
Minutes dragged.
All three tests sat in a neat, accusing row.
Three faint pink lines.
Three quiet truths you couldn't deny.
You sat there a long time, staring until your vision blurred, torn between laughing and crying.
___________
10|
You found Butcher later that afternoon, sitting at the table cleaning his weapons, cigarette between his teeth.
"Can we talk?" you asked quietly.
He didn't look up. "We're talkin' now."
"In private."
"Whatever it is, say it. We're all adults here."
The rest of the team was scattered around - Hughie scrolling through his phone, Frenchie fiddling with a detonator, Annie perched by the window. You could feel their eyes on you already.
Your pulse thudded in your ears. "Butcher, please. It's important."
He glanced up, smirking. "What, you finally gonna tell me you can't stand me?"
That did it. Something in you snapped.
You slammed your hands on the table. "I'm pregnant, Butcher!"
The room went dead silent.
Even the hum of the fridge seemed to stop.
Hughie's jaw dropped. Annie's hand flew to her mouth. Frenchie froze mid-motion, eyes wide.
Butcher's smirk vanished. He just stared, like he hadn't heard you right.
"What'd you just say?"
"I said I'm pregnant." Your voice cracked despite you. "I took three tests. They were all positive."
For a moment, no one breathed.
Then Butcher pushed back his chair, stood abruptly, and muttered something low under his breath - something you couldn't even make out - before storming toward the door.
"Billy-" you started, but he didn't stop. The door slammed so hard the frame rattled.
You just stood there, heart pounding, the weight of a hundred unsaid things pressing down on your chest.
Frenchie was the first to move. He crossed to you quietly, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it.
"Mon amie... come sit, yeah?"
You sank into the chair, hands trembling. Kimiko brought you a glass of water, her touch gentle. Annie rubbed your shoulder. Hughie, for once, didn't say a word.
"He'll come around," MM said quietly, but you knew better.
Because that's who he was.
Billy Butcher-made of rage, grief, and ghosts.
And now, you carried a piece of him inside you... one that might be the only pure thing left in his broken world.
___________
11|
Butcher shows up the next morning. He leans in the doorway like nothing's wrong, eyes shaded by the brim of his coat.
"Look," he mutters, voice low, "maybe it's best if you... take care of it. Yeah? We both know what I am. You don't want that hangin' over a kid."
She doesn't lash out. She just looks at him - long and quiet - the kind of look that makes him want to turn away. There's sympathy in her eyes, not anger.
"It's okay, Butcher," she says softly. "You don't have to be part of this. I can handle it myself."
Her voice steadies. "But I'm keeping it."
For a second, the bravado drains from him. The walls crack. His jaw tightens, his eyes flicker - guilt, fear, maybe something close to love - but it's gone before it fully surfaces. He nods once, the smallest gesture, and turns to leave.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "Reckon you would."
The door closes behind him, and she stands there for a moment, one hand resting over her stomach, the silence heavy but certain.
Several Months Later...
It was almost like nothing had changed.
After the shouting and silence, after her trembling declaration that she was keeping the baby - Butcher carried on as if it had all been smoke. Missions came and went, safe houses swapped like socks, and the subject never surfaced again.
She learned not to bring it up. She stayed useful - patching up wounds, tracking Supe activity, doing the grunt work that kept her distracted. The nausea faded. The bump didn't.
Every few weeks, Butcher would look at her longer than necessary. Just small things - when she sat down a little slower than usual, when she refused a drink, when she pressed a hand absentmindedly to her stomach. His jaw would tighten, eyes flick away.
He didn't ask. Not once. But he saw.
The team noticed too.
Frenchie tried to fill the silence with bad jokes. "Mon dieu, you're glowing," he'd tease softly, earning a faint smile. MM pretended not to notice at all - that was his way of being kind. Hughie... Hughie looked torn between wanting to ask and being terrified to.
Butcher? He was the constant shadow. He barked orders, swore like always, and made himself the villain in every room so he didn't have to feel the weight of it.
Until the day he saw the ultrasound photo.
She'd left it on the table by accident, tucked halfway under a folder. Just a blur of white and gray, a faint curve.
He picked it up, scowling as if it had insulted him, but his hand trembled slightly - so slightly even he pretended not to notice.
The sound of her footsteps in the hall made him drop it. When she came in, she saw it resting perfectly square on the table. He hadn't even managed to hide it right.
"Didn't mean to leave that out," she said, picking it up with a small, protective smile.
"Yeah, well, don't leave your personal crap on ops tables," he grunted, voice rougher than usual.
She only nodded. "Sorry."
He almost said how far along are you now?
Almost asked is it alright?
But the words got stuck behind that iron wall of his, the one built from loss and bad memories.
That night, he stayed up longer than anyone else.
Empty beer in hand, eyes on the wall, that damned image burned behind his eyelids. A baby. His baby.
He didn't know what the hell he was supposed to do with that.
By the time she started showing properly, he had stopped pretending not to notice.
He'd linger behind her when they walked, ready to catch her if she stumbled. He didn't say a word when she needed to rest between jobs. And once - just once - he stopped her from lifting a crate and muttered, "Oi, let one of the lads do it."
She blinked, surprised, almost smiling. "Since when do you care?"
He scowled. "I don't. Just don't fancy watchin' you pop like a balloon mid-mission."
But she caught the flicker in his eyes - that fear, that flicker of something almost tender - and she let it go.
__________
12|
One restless night..
It was late - well past midnight - when the quiet settled over the safe house. The world outside hummed faintly with wind and crickets, but inside, everything was still.
Butcher lay on his back beside her, one arm tucked under his head, staring at the cracked ceiling. It had become routine these last few weeks - the two of them sharing the narrow bed more out of necessity than comfort, though neither complained. There was something unspoken about it - a strange peace in the stillness, in knowing they weren't alone in the dark.
Then she shifted with a soft groan, pressing her hand to her belly.
Butcher turned his head, instantly alert. "You alright?"
She exhaled slowly, smiling through the discomfort. "Yeah. Just the baby kicking again."
He blinked, unsure whether to move closer or not. His voice dropped lower. "That normal?"
She chuckled quietly. "Very." Her fingers traced slow circles over her stomach, calming herself as she whispered, "It's okay, sweetheart... you just got energy tonight, huh?"
He watched her for a long moment, the tenderness in her tone pulling at something deep in him - something he hadn't felt in years.
Finally, he cleared his throat, eyes flicking from her face to her hand. "Can I... uh..." He hesitated, his voice roughening around the edges. "Can I feel?"
Her head turned toward him, eyes soft, lips curving into the smallest smile. "Of course."
Butcher hesitated again, like he wasn't sure he deserved to touch something so pure. Then, slowly, he reached out, his large, scarred hand hovering over her stomach before he finally rested it there.
Warmth met warmth.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the baby kicked - sharp and sudden. His hand twitched, and he nearly pulled it back, startled.
"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath.
She laughed - that light, genuine sound he rarely heard anymore. "Told you."
He stared, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin he didn't mean to show. Another kick came, softer this time, against his palm. He stilled completely.
"That's... mad," he whispered, barely audible.
Her eyes glowed in the dim light, watching him with quiet affection. "That's your kid saying hi."
He didn't answer - couldn't. His throat felt tight, his chest heavier than it should've been.
For a long moment, he just kept his hand there, feeling the small, rhythmic movements beneath her skin. His fingers trembled slightly, but his gaze softened in a way it never did around anyone else.
When he finally spoke, his voice cracked. "Didn't think I'd ever... get near somethin' like this again."
She reached up, brushing her hand over his arm. "You don't have to say anything, Butcher."
He looked at her then - really looked - and nodded once, slow and quiet.
But even after she drifted to sleep, his hand stayed there, resting over the tiny heartbeat that made his world both heavier and lighter all at once.
____________
13|
The next morning, sunlight filtered weakly through the dusty blinds of the safe house, cutting across the worn wood floor in stripes. The air smelled faintly of coffee and engine oil, and Butcher was hunched over a cluttered map on the table, muttering to himself about routes and safe zones.
She'd gone into town with Kimiko and Frenchie at dawn - under cover, quiet, careful. Said it was "just a checkup."
He didn't ask more, didn't need to.
But now, hours later, he was restless - pacing, pretending to focus on plans that weren't going to matter if something went wrong.
When the truck finally pulled back into the gravel drive, Butcher was already halfway to the door.
She stepped out slowly, one hand cradling her belly, the other clutching a folded printout - a sonogram still warm from the clinic's machine. Her cheeks were flushed from the autumn air, and there was a quiet glow in her eyes that made him stop dead in his tracks.
"You're back," he said gruffly, as though she'd only gone for milk.
"Safe and sound," she said, smiling softly.
"Everything go alright?"
She nodded, walking up to him. "Everything's fine." Her fingers smoothed the edges of the paper. "They, uh... they told me the gender."
Butcher's eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. He shifted his weight, trying to sound casual. "Oh yeah? That right?"
She nodded again, her smile widening. "It's a boy."
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Butcher let out a long, uneven breath - a quiet sound somewhere between disbelief and relief. He stared at the printout when she handed it to him, his thumb brushing the black-and-white shape in the corner, small and perfect and unreal.
"A boy," he repeated under his breath, as if testing the word on his tongue.
"Yeah," she said, her voice soft but sure. "You're gonna have a son, Butcher."
He blinked, caught off guard by the warmth in his chest - a weight that wasn't anger or grief for once, but something frighteningly close to hope. He handed the paper back gently, his voice low.
"Bet he'll be stubborn as hell."
She laughed, eyes shining. "No doubt."
He looked at her then, really looked - not just the roundness of her belly or the exhaustion in her smile, but everything she carried: the courage, the trust, the quiet faith that things could still turn out right.
Something inside him softened further, though he masked it with a faint smirk. "Poor bastard's doomed with me for a dad."
She shook her head, stepping a little closer. "He's lucky to have you, whether you think so or not."
Butcher didn't reply - he couldn't. His throat was too tight.
Instead, he just reached out, brushed his rough fingers briefly over her hand, then pulled back like it burned him. "C'mon then," he said gruffly. "Let's get you off your feet."
But as he led her inside, he couldn't stop glancing at that sonogram still folded in her hand.
And later that night, when she fell asleep on the couch, he found himself unfolding it again under the kitchen lamp, staring at the faint outline of the boy he'd never thought he'd have.
_____________
14|
The afternoon air was thick with the smell of rain on hot pavement - that strange, metallic scent that promised a storm. She'd only meant to grab something quick. A stop at the corner café. Ten minutes at most. But the streets were quiet now. Too quiet.
She clutched the paper cup in one hand, other resting unconsciously over her belly. The baby had been active all morning, little kicks she'd grown used to-comforting proof of life. Of something good in a world that had lost its softness.
Then she felt it.
That shift in the air.
That presence.
A chill rippled up her spine, freezing her in place before she even turned around.
"Out here all alone," a smooth, cruel voice drawled. "Not very smart, sweetheart."
Her breath caught. Her pulse hammered so loud she swore he could hear it.
Homelander.
He was standing a few yards away, hands clasped behind his back, smiling that too-perfect, too-empty smile. The street was deserted now. Not a single witness. His boots clicked slowly against the asphalt as he approached, like a predator enjoying the moment before the strike.
She tried to steady her voice. "I was just-"
He interrupted, tilting his head like he was amused by a child trying to lie.
"Getting some fresh air? Maybe a coffee? Oh, I love when you little people try to pretend everything's normal."
The paper cup trembled in her hand. She could smell the ozone before she even realized her heart was racing.
"Don't be scared," he murmured, stepping closer - too close now. His shadow fell across her as his eyes flicked downward. "How far along are you?"
Her fingers froze mid-motion, clutching at her coat. "That's none of your-"
"Oh, come on." His smile widened, sharp and gleaming. "You think I don't know? You think Butcher could hide something like that from me?"
The name made her stomach turn. Butcher. If he were here-
But he wasn't.
Homelander leaned in until his breath brushed her ear. "You know what the funny part is? He's spent all this time hating me, but now..." He chuckled, low and venomous. "Now he's got something I can take away."
Her whole body went rigid. "You wouldn't-"
He smiled wider. "Wouldn't I?"
She tried to back up, but his hand shot out, faster than thought, pressing against her abdomen-lightly at first. Almost curious. She gasped, shoving at him, but his grip didn't budge.
"You think he can protect you? That he'll come running if I hurt you?" His tone was calm, chillingly casual. "He's just a man. And you... you're just a way to hurt him."
"Stop!" Her voice cracked as she tried to push him back again. "Please-"
A flash of red lit his eyes. Then pain. White-hot, searing, instant.
She cried out, collapsing to her knees as he stepped back, smiling faintly like he'd brushed dust from his hands. Her trembling palm found her stomach-warm, wet, slick. A shallow gash cut across the curve of her belly.
"Nothing deep," he said softly, almost kindly. "Wouldn't want to hurt the baby. Not yet."
Her tears blurred everything. She felt sick, dizzy, clutching at her side as the world spun.
"Tell Butcher I said hello," Homelander whispered. Then he was gone - just a gust of wind, a flash of cape, and silence.
She sat trembling on the ground, staring at her bloodied hand. Her mind couldn't decide whether to scream or pray. The world felt impossibly quiet.
The baby kicked again.
That tiny, stubborn sign of life was the only thing that stopped her from collapsing completely. She pressed her palm over the wound and forced herself to breathe. One breath. Then another.
But all she could hear was his voice in her head - that mocking calm:
Tell Butcher I said hello.
____________
15|
Her legs carried her faster than her mind could keep up. Every heartbeat was a drumbeat of panic against her ribs. The city blurred around her - flashing lights, cold wind, the metallic scent of blood.
She didn't stop running until she saw it: the safe house, tucked behind an old warehouse, lights glowing faintly through the grime-streaked windows.
Her breath hitched as she stumbled through the door.
"-what the hell happened?" Hughie's voice cracked first, jumping up from the couch. Frenchie turned from the table, cigarette falling from his fingers when he saw her.
Her coat was torn. One sleeve soaked crimson.
"Jesus Christ," Mother's Milk muttered, rushing forward. "What-what did he do?"
She couldn't get the words out at first. Her throat felt like it was closing, lungs burning. The sound that came out wasn't speech - it was a gasp, broken and shaking.
"It was-" she managed finally, voice trembling, "Homelander."
The name froze the room.
Every head turned toward her. Silence swallowed everything but her uneven breathing. Butcher was the last to move. He stood in the corner, arms crossed, face unreadable until she met his eyes.
Then everything in him changed.
He strode forward, jaw tight, eyes flicking down to the gash on her stomach. For a second, his expression faltered - a crack in the armor. Fear. Real, raw fear.
"What'd he do?" he growled, voice low but shaking.
She swallowed hard, blinking away tears. "He-he said it was a message. For you." Her voice broke. "He just wanted to hurt you through me."
Butcher's face darkened, fury twisting every line of it. "That bastard..." His fists clenched. "I'll kill 'im. I swear to God, I'll end this right bloody now."
He turned toward the door.
"Oi!" Frenchie shouted, stepping in his path. "You can't go storming out there, mon ami! He'll tear you apart!"
"Let him try," Butcher snapped, shoving past him. "He wants me? Fine. He can bloody have me."
Hughie grabbed his arm, desperation in his voice. "Butcher, stop! This isn't a fight - it's suicide!"
Butcher spun on him, eyes blazing. "He hurt her, Hughie! He touched her! You think I'm gonna sit here and do nothin'?!"
The shout echoed through the room. She flinched despite herself. For a heartbeat, everyone was still - Butcher breathing hard, eyes glinting wet in the dim light. Then Kimiko moved.
Quiet as always, she came to her side, crouching without a word. Her hands were steady, gentle, guiding her toward the couch. The faint smell of antiseptic filled the air as she opened the small kit she'd been practicing with.
Kimiko met her eyes - soft, concerned - and signed something. Frenchie translated quietly, voice tender:
"She says you're safe now. Let her help."
Tears slipped down her face before she could stop them. "Thank you," she whispered.
Kimiko nodded and began cleaning the wound. Her touch was careful, yet confident. The sting made her hiss, but it was grounding somehow - the first moment that felt real since the encounter.
Across the room, Butcher stood frozen.
His chest rose and fell like a man barely holding it together. Hughie's hand still rested on his arm, but he wasn't fighting anymore. He just stared at her - at the blood on her hands, the pain in her eyes - and something inside him cracked open.
He whispered, more to himself than anyone else, "He's gone too far."
Mother's Milk stepped closer, voice firm but calm. "Then we end this smart. Not in one suicide run. You want him dead? Fine. But we do it right."
Butcher didn't answer. He just nodded once - short, sharp - then looked back at her again.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. His voice was hoarse, but real. "I should've been there."
She tried to smile through the tears. "You're here now."
Kimiko taped the last bandage into place, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. The air was heavy, but a little less cold now.
Outside, thunder rolled in the distance.
Inside, vengeance simmered in the silence.
Butcher turned toward the window, fists clenching again - not in panic this time, but purpose.
If Homelander wanted war,
he was about to get it.
__________
16|
Night had fallen heavy over the safe house.
Rain whispered against the windows, thunder grumbling low in the distance - a storm matching the one behind Butcher's eyes.
The others had gone quiet after hours of arguing. Hughie was asleep slumped over the couch. Frenchie and Kimiko were curled in the corner, her hand bandaged from cleaning the reader's wound earlier. Mother's Milk sat near the door, head nodding but never fully asleep - the silent guard.
Butcher was the only one still awake.
He sat at the kitchen table, the single lamp casting sharp shadows across his face. The cigarette between his fingers burned down slow, smoke curling up like ghosts of every bad decision he'd ever made.
Across the room, she slept fitfully on the couch, one hand resting protectively over her stomach. Every now and then she flinched in her dreams, and something inside him twisted so hard he thought it might break.
He'd seen a lot of evil. Done plenty himself. But this - this was different. Homelander had crossed a line he couldn't uncross.
Butcher's voice came out low, a whisper to no one but the ghosts listening.
"You picked the wrong bloody person to touch."
He stubbed out the cigarette and stood, grabbing his jacket. His hand brushed over the scarred table - Frenchie's gun, Hughie's laptop, a map covered in red circles and coordinates. They'd been planning quietly for weeks how to bring Homelander down, step by step, piece by piece. But Butcher was done waiting for perfect.
He didn't need a plan.
He was the plan.
He opened the door as quietly as he could, rain rushing in on a cold breath of air.
"Where do you think you're going?"
The voice froze him.
Mother's Milk was awake, sitting upright, eyes locked on him. Calm, steady, but sharp as ever.
Butcher sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Go back to sleep, mate."
"Not until you tell me you're not doing what I think you're doing."
Butcher smirked without humor. "And what's that, eh?"
"Walking into a goddamn suicide mission because you can't stand feeling helpless."
That hit harder than it should've. He looked away, jaw clenching. "He hurt her, MM. He could've-"
"I know," MM interrupted, voice thick with restrained anger. "But you walk out that door right now, you're not coming back. Then what? You think she needs to lose you too?"
Butcher didn't answer. His eyes flicked toward the couch. She was still asleep, face pale against the dim light, one tear dried on her cheek. He felt his throat tighten.
"Look at her," MM said quietly. "She needs you here, not buried under whatever revenge fantasy you've got brewing in that thick head of yours."
Butcher gave a short laugh - bitter, broken. "Ain't about revenge, mate. It's about ending this. Once and for all."
MM shook his head slowly. "You keep saying that like it'll fix what's broken in you."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The rain filled the silence.
Then Butcher broke it - voice low and flat.
"If he comes near her again, I won't hesitate."
MM stood, meeting his gaze squarely. "You won't get the chance if you go now. You'll be ashes before you get within a mile of him."
Butcher didn't argue. Didn't promise. Just pulled on his coat, eyes hard again. "Get some rest."
He walked past him, out the door, and into the rain.
MM stood there for a long moment, listening to the distant sound of thunder swallow his footsteps.
Then he looked toward the couch. She had stirred, eyes barely open - the flicker of fear and exhaustion mingling.
"Where's Butcher?" she whispered.
MM hesitated, then lied softly, "Outside. Just getting air."
But in his chest, he already knew the truth -
Butcher wasn't coming back until blood had been spilled.
___________
17|
The rain hadn't stopped. It hammered against the streets like gunfire, washing the city in silver streaks of light. Butcher walked with his collar up, rain soaking through, the cold biting his skin - not that he cared.
Every step echoed with purpose.
He'd tracked Homelander's latest pattern for weeks - the rooftops he liked to perch on, the abandoned towers where Vought's "golden boy" pretended to play god unseen. It wasn't much, but it was enough for Butcher. Enough to die trying.
"C'mon, you smug wanker," he muttered under his breath. "Show me your bloody face."
He ducked into a shadowed alley, slipping between chain-link and rust. His hand brushed over the pistol at his belt, though he knew damn well it wouldn't make a difference if Homelander really showed. This wasn't a fight about odds. It was about principle.
He stopped at the base of a high-rise - Vought's forgotten property, gutted and silent. His boots squelched on the wet concrete as he stepped inside.
"Homelander!" he roared into the dark, voice echoing off the hollow walls. "You wanted me, yeah? Well, here I bloody am!"
Lightning flashed through the shattered windows, throwing his reflection across the glass - and then another silhouette behind him.
Butcher froze.
A tall, black figure stood at the far end of the corridor. Silent. Expressionless.
Black Noir.
Butcher's hand tightened on his gun, but he didn't raise it. "You gotta be jokin'," he muttered, laughter bubbling up from exhaustion and fury. "They sent the mute babysitter."
Noir didn't move. Didn't even tilt his head. He just stood there, blocking the path deeper into the building.
"I ain't here for you," Butcher said, stepping closer. "Tell your mate I'm comin'. Tell him to stop hidin' behind his bloody lapdogs."
Still nothing.
Rain dripped from the ceiling. Somewhere far above, thunder cracked again.
Butcher took another step. "Move."
Noir moved, all right - fast. Faster than Butcher's eyes could follow. One second he was ten feet away, the next, a fist buried deep into Butcher's gut.
The breath slammed out of him. Pain shot through his ribs. He staggered but didn't fall - just spat blood onto the floor and grinned through it.
"Guess not, then."
He swung, gun cracking across Noir's mask, but Noir caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted, and sent him crashing into the wall. The impact rattled his bones, but Butcher shoved himself back up. He'd taken worse.
"Go on," he coughed, wiping his mouth. "Finish it, you silent freak. Do it."
Noir didn't.
Instead, he pointed - one gloved finger toward the exit.
Butcher stared at it, chest heaving, water dripping from his hair. "You tellin' me to go home?"
A slow nod.
Something about that - the quiet, the restraint - hit harder than another punch. Butcher's laugh was hollow. "He's scared, innit? Can't even face me himself."
Noir didn't respond. He just stepped forward once more, closing the distance, and grabbed the front of Butcher's coat. Not to hurt him - to turn him. Forcefully, but not cruelly. Pushing him toward the way out.
Butcher jerked his arm free, snarling, but the fight was bleeding out of him. His ribs burned, his breath came shallow, and behind the rage, there was that whisper of something else:
She's waiting.
He spat on the floor, gave Noir one last glare, and turned away.
"Fine. But tell your boss-this ain't over."
He stumbled out into the rain, half-limping, half-fuming. The storm swallowed him up again.
By the time he reached the safe house, dawn was breaking. The lights inside glowed faintly through the drizzle.
Mother's Milk stood by the door, arms folded. He didn't say a word - just opened the door wider.
Butcher brushed past him, drenched and battered. "Don't start," he muttered.
"Wouldn't have to if you'd stop proving me right," MM said quietly.
On the couch, she stirred. Her eyes found him instantly, relief flooding her face before she could hide it.
He froze in the doorway, every ounce of anger dissolving into guilt.
"You're bleeding," she whispered, sitting up.
He shrugged it off. "Nothin' serious."
But when she crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him, trembling against his soaked jacket, he couldn't hold it together anymore. His hand came up to the back of her head, gripping tight, and his voice broke low against her hair.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
___________
18|
The night had been restless. The air in the safe house felt heavier than usual - too still, too quiet.
She couldn't sleep.
She stood at the window, staring into the drizzle. Somewhere out there, he was bleeding, angry, maybe worse.
She pressed a hand to her belly. The baby kicked - a small, sharp reminder she wasn't alone.
Then the lights flickered.
Just once.
Then again.
The hum of the refrigerator cut off. The silence that followed was unnatural - suffocating.
She turned slowly, her breath catching as the shadows behind her shifted.
A figure stood between her and the door.
"Didn't expect you to be awake," Homelander said softly.
Her stomach dropped.
He looked immaculate, of course - dry, spotless, like he hadn't even touched the world outside. His cape draped across the floor, gleaming faintly in the low light.
"How did you-" Her voice caught. "How did you find this place?"
He smiled, that eerie calm never slipping. "You think I can't smell him? Butcher leaves a trail of rot wherever he goes."
She stepped back instinctively, one hand behind her searching for the counter. "What do you want from me?"
He tilted his head, like he was genuinely thinking about it. "To talk."
Her chest tightened. "Stay away from me."
Homelander sighed, almost theatrically. "You're trembling. I don't like when people tremble. It makes me feel like I'm the bad guy."
"You are."
That made him smile wider - too wide. "See? That's the thing. You all keep saying that, and yet here you are, alive, breathing, heart beating nice and fast."
He took a step closer.
She bolted toward the door, but he moved faster - too fast. In a blink, he was in front of her, blocking the exit with a single outstretched arm.
"Come on now. You didn't think I'd hurt you." His tone was smooth, almost pitying. "Not after all the trouble you've gone through carrying... his mistake."
Her voice broke, barely a whisper. "Don't touch me."
He looked down at her hand resting protectively on her belly, and his expression changed - soft, almost tender, but in that way predators are tender before they kill.
"You know, I used to think Butcher couldn't care about anyone. That he was pure hate in a human suit. But then he found you." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "And you became a weakness."
She pushed at his chest, but he didn't budge. His fingers came up, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She flinched, but he only smiled wider.
"Let's go somewhere quieter," he murmured.
The air seemed to collapse around her - and then everything went black for a split second.
When her vision cleared, she was standing in what appeared to be Homelander's room.
Her stomach turned. "What-what did you-"
Homelander stood a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back.
"Welcome to home base," he said casually. "Vought Tower. Don't worry, no one can hear you up here."
She spun, scanning every wall, looking for an exit.
"Why?" she whispered. "What do you want?"
He smiled faintly. "To make a point. Butcher's out there bleeding in the gutter, and you-" he gestured lazily toward her belly "-are my little insurance policy. You'll stay here until I decide he's learned his lesson."
She shook her head, backing away. "You can't-"
"Oh, I can." His voice hardened suddenly, like steel beneath silk. "He took something from me. He made me look weak. I don't like feeling weak."
Her back hit the glass. She could feel her pulse pounding through every vein. "You're insane."
Homelander leaned closer, his reflection merging with hers. "Maybe. But I'm the one with the power."
For a long, awful moment, he just looked at her - eyes cold, unreadable.
Then he straightened, turned toward the door that wasn't there a second ago, and smirked.
"Get some rest. You'll need it."
And then he was gone, leaving her in the sterile silence - just her, the hum of the lights, and the faint rhythm of her baby's heartbeat beneath her trembling hand.
____________
19|
Morning came, but it didn't feel like morning.
The sun was up, sure - pale and distant behind gray clouds - but the safe house was silent. Too silent.
Mother's Milk was the first to notice. He'd gone to knock on her door, half-expecting her to still be asleep after the long night. But when it swung open, the bed was empty. The blanket tossed aside. Her jacket missing from the hook.
"...She's gone," he said flatly, voice barely above a whisper.
The words snapped through the house like a gunshot.
Hughie looked up from his laptop. "What do you mean gone?"
"Her room's empty," MM said, checking the hallway again just to be sure. "No note, no sound. Door wasn't even locked."
Butcher froze mid-step in the kitchen doorway, a mug halfway to his lips. The air went heavy.
"What?"
"She's gone, Butcher."
The mug shattered against the floor.
He was already moving, storming down the hallway, throwing open doors, checking corners, the bathroom - everywhere. The more he looked, the more frantic he became.
"Hughie, check the bloody cameras," he barked.
"There aren't any," Hughie said, voice rising. "You're the one who didn't want them installed, remember?"
"Don't start with me!" Butcher snarled, gripping the doorframe so hard the wood cracked.
Kimiko appeared from the stairwell, eyes wide, signing rapidly. Frenchie translated, his own voice shaking. "She asks if maybe she went for air. Or for food."
Butcher's breathing was uneven. "She wouldn't. Not after what happened."
He turned to the window, and that's when he saw it - the faint scorch marks on the grass just outside. A perfect circle burned into the wet earth, the air around it still faintly humming with static.
He froze. His hand went slack at his side. "Oh, bloody hell..."
MM followed his gaze, expression darkening. "That's no car exhaust."
"No." Butcher's voice dropped to a growl. "That's him."
The room fell silent again, everyone understanding without needing to say it.
Hughie shook his head, panic creeping into his voice. "You don't know that. Maybe she-maybe she ran, Butcher. Maybe she-"
"Ran where?" Butcher snapped. "She's pregnant, Hughie! You think she's out there on a bloody jog?"
No one answered. The only sound was the faint hum outside, fading slowly.
Frenchie cursed under his breath, pacing. "If he took her-if Homelander took her-how do we even find her?"
Butcher turned sharply. "We will."
His tone made everyone stop. The fury was gone now - replaced by something quieter, colder. Determined.
MM stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You can't just run off again, Billy. We don't know where she is or what he's planning. You go in blind, you'll die before you reach the front door."
Butcher didn't respond. He was staring at the scorch mark again, his jaw working as if he were chewing on a thought.
"She's scared out there," he said finally. His voice broke slightly at the edges. "She's probably thinkin' I left her again."
Hughie's expression softened. "We'll get her back."
Butcher looked up, eyes bloodshot and full of fury. "No, I'll get her back. You lot can follow if you can keep up."
Kimiko signed something fast and sharp. Frenchie nodded grimly. "She says we all go. He's not doing this alone."
MM exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Alright. But we do it smart this time."
Butcher turned toward the table, slamming his hands down. "Fine. But make no mistake-if I get eyes on Homelander..."
He leaned forward, voice low and deadly.
"I don't care what it takes. I'll end him."
The team fell into silence again, each of them already moving - grabbing gear, maps, phones, anything useful.
Through the broken mug on the floor, a faint trickle of coffee dripped toward the scorch mark outside, merging with the rainwater and vanishing.
Up above, somewhere far out of sight, she was already awake - staring through the glass of her prison while the city beneath her searched for a trace she never left.
___________
20|
They pushed every table into the center of the room and covered it with maps, printouts, and the little scraps of evidence they'd managed to scrape together - scorch photos, witness statements, Frenchie's scribbles in half a dozen languages. The safe house hummed with a single, terrible focus; every face in it had been drawn hard by grief and the thin, hot line of fury.
"Right," Butcher said, pacing like a dog that couldn't sit. "We don't do panicked. We do precise. We get her back. Then we make sure he can't do it again."
Hughie tapped his laptop until the screen lit. "There's no public record of where he keeps people," he said, voice small. "Vought covers everything. But there are patterns - press events, rooftop appearances, the hospitals they've used as fronts. It's thin, but-"
"Thin's better than nothing," Mother's Milk cut in. He was already calling contacts, the lines in his face carved deeper with every dial tone. "We have one lead. A lab in the Tower. Not the central labs you see on the brochures - a private wing. A guy used to work the security there, mate. He's been on the fence for months."
Frenchie spread a torn page out on the table, smelling of cigarettes and cheap coffee. "Mon ami in Vought said they have something. Not weapons exactly - a 'countermeasure,'" he translated, fingers trembling. "A vial of a compound tested in secret on- on other things." He didn't finish the sentence; the last word hung unsaid like a curse.
Butcher's eyes went still. "You mean 'something that could stop him'?"
"No one bloody knows what it'll do for sure," MM said. "It could blunt him, slow him, make him...something else. Or it could be useless. Or worse. But it's a lead."
Kimiko had been silent, hands folded around her bandaged fingers. She signed quick and sharp; Frenchie turned to the group. "She says she can look after her if we bring back something less...final. She does not want the baby to be part of this." His voice was steady but small.
Hughie swallowed. "We can't- we refuse to just go in swinging. That's what gets people killed." His eyes flicked to Butcher. "We need someone who knows the science. Someone who won't freak at being near it."
Butcher's jaw worked. "There's always some lab egg who sells out for a name or money. We find him. We find the vial. We either neutralize Homelander or we make him so...present-less that he can't play god."
"Or we make him worse," Frenchie whispered. "These things are not child's play."
The room went quiet, the weight of possibilities littering them like shrapnel. None of them were scientists. None of them wanted to be. But their only real option was to steal someone else's solution - a secret Vought prototype - and hope their gamble didn't blow back in the worst way.
Mother's Milk rubbed his forehead. "We do this smart. We bring a scientist who's been double-crossing the company, not some fucking intern fresh out of school. We plan an extraction. Kimiko stays put and cares for her - that's non-negotiable. Hughie, you're on comms and tech. Frenchie, logistics. I'll handle the extraction contacts."
Butcher laughed once, a short, terrible sound. "And I suppose I'm the one who goes face-to-face with Homelander when he inevitably finds out what we took."
"You don't get to volunteer for martyrdom," MM snapped. "You nearly got yourself killed already. We need you alive for this." His voice softened, quieter. "Alive for the kid."
Butcher's shoulders dropped - for a blink, the man they'd all learned to read behind the bluster was raw and small. "Tell the kid I tried," he muttered.
Hughie leaned forward. "If we're taking something out of Vought, we need a scientist who hates them. Someone with access and a conscience. Frenchie says there's a man who slipped - Dr. Halvorsen. Used to work on bioprotocols. Rumour is he's been siphoning samples and has a weakness for gambling debts and long nights. He might sell us the vial or at least tell us about its failings."
"We're not buying a vial blindly," Kimiko signed, furious hands translated by Frenchie: she wants testing, a safety check first. She won't let us put something in the world without knowing what it might do to her, to the baby.
"But we can't run a lab in the safe house," Hughie said. "Not with Vought sniffing around."
Mother's Milk's eyes were tired but his voice sharpened. "We find a neutral place. We bring Halvorsen. He runs one test - controlled, theoretical - and tells us the risks. We decide as a unit. No one goes off half-cocked."
Butcher spat on the floor, the gesture childish and lethal. "So we're bargaining. We're begging a traitor to help us play god with a man who quite literally thinks he is one." He sounded older than his years, and quieter. "Fine. Bargains and lies. I'm good at both."
They drew up two options on a fresh page: Extraction - get the vial and a scientist, test it, then find Homelander and use it. And Distract - stage a large, noisy diversion to get him out in public where they might be able to isolate him, limit collateral. Both plans were dangerous; both could get them all killed. Both might - might - give the reader and her unborn child a chance.
Kimiko signed one final motion, and Frenchie translated: she will not stand idly by again. If they choose the vial, she will be there for retrieval and the fallout. If they choose distraction, she will be ready to protect.
The final word was Butcher's. He pulled a cheap map toward him and stabbed a finger into the tower where Vought's private wing sat like an unblinking eye.
"We get Halvorsen. We get the vial. We test it. Then we burn the Tower to the ground if we have to," he said. "But we bring her home first."
Someone lit a cigarette to break the silence; someone else crushed it under their boot. They all knew what this was: not just a plan for a vial, but a reckoning. If Vought had the answer, they would steal it. If they didn't, they would make one - or die trying.
Outside, the city carried on, indifferent: traffic, pigeons, people who didn't have to choose between living with monsters and fighting them. Inside the safe house, the team made the kind of promise that needs no witness. Whatever they did next would stain them. They would cross lines and lie in the dark and carry the price. Whatever the vial could do, whatever it might cost them to use it, they had already decided they'd pay it.
Because some things - someone's life, someone's child - were worth the price.
____________
21|
They found Dr. Halvorsen in a place that smelled of stale beer and burnt coffee - one of those grim little cafés on the wrong side of the river where people went to hide from daylight. Frenchie had a contact there; they'd told him Halvorsen liked the anonymity. He sat at a corner table like a man who'd been trying not to be seen for a long time: hair thin, eyes ringed with sleeplessness, fingers stained in lab-smudges no matter how many times he washed them.
Butcher didn't do small talk. He planted himself opposite the man and let the silence do the work. The rest of the team hovered in the shadows: Hughie on the laptop, Frenchie watching Halvorsen's face the way a thief watches a safe, MM flanked by a thermos and a look that could cut wires. Kimiko stayed out of sight at Butcher's half-nod - she wanted to be close, but this was bargaining, and bargaining was a place where words mattered.
Halvorsen didn't blink when they all filed in. He eyed Kimiko with something like pity and sharpened interest at Butcher. "You people from...them," he said finally, naming none of it. "You steal vials and blow up towers, and you think you can walk into my life and buy my conscience?"
"You're the man who worked on the protocols," Hughie said, blunt and breathless. "You know how to make it work. We need the vial. You can tell us if it'll blunt him, slow him - anything."
Halvorsen laughed, a short, bitter sound. "You want a miracle and a guarantee. And you want it cheap." He steepled his fingers. "You're not the first to knock on my door. Vought's sent men with buttered pockets. Some people have tried to murder me slowly by ruining my nights. Why should I help you?"
Butcher leaned forward. "Because you know what he is. Because you saw what they did. Because you're the one who worked on the 'countermeasure' and you know the risks. Because if you help him, he'll help you go quietly. Or he'll bury you in the same lab you helped invent."
Halvorsen's gaze slid to Butcher's hands and tightened. "I want out," he said, voice small. "Simple. A clean exit. Money. Names. Papers saying I didn't sell to terrorists. I want to be able to sleep without a shadow at my door."
Frenchie folded his hands, soft and fast, trying to build a bridge. "We can get papers. We can get the money. But we cannot promise government-grade immunity. Those people- Vought- they have more lawyers than angels."
"Then don't ask them," Halvorsen said. "Ask someone who can remove you. I need a route. I need a passport that doesn't trace back to this country. I need a plane ride and a place where my name is not a headline."
Mother's Milk spoke for the group. "We don't do official channels. We do favors, contacts. We can pull strings. But it'll cost."
Halvorsen stared at him for a long moment like he was testing a taste. "And the vial? You want to use Vought's toy against Vought's god. You know how naive that is. You know how many variables we didn't account for." He tapped his temple. "I worked on something that wasn't meant to be in human hands. It might blunt a man who drinks nuke-fuel for breakfast, or it might do nothing but make him angrier. Or worse: change him into something we can't fix."
"Butcher's kid is on the line," Hughie said, voice shrinking at the edges but steady. "We don't get to be moral when someone's life is at stake."
Halvorsen's face broke. For a beat - only a beat - the scientist looked like a man who might have been a father once. "You want the vial, you want a test. You want assurances. Fine. But I don't hand it over for cash or promises. I need leverage. I need to know you can get it away from Vought on a night with cameras and armed technicians."
"But you have access," Frenchie said. "You can get a sample out."
"I had access," Halvorsen corrected sharply. "They rotated my credentials two months ago after someone did a sweep. I'm a liability now. If I move inside the Tower I get flagged. If I touch cold-storage I get a sensor alarm. You don't understand how careful they are. This is why they hid that vial. They were scared of what it could do."
The team exchanged looks. Obviously. But desperation makes maps look navigable.
"So what then?" Butcher asked. "What's the price?"
Halvorsen's eyes cooled. He reached into a pocket and produced a flash drive, sliding it across the table like someone passing a detonator. "This has a map. Access points, air-duct schematics, the temporary overrides for the private wing, and the name of one security tech who still sleeps with a weakness. It also has a protocol simulation - an estimation of what that vial will do to suprahuman physiology. It's incomplete, but it's better than nothing."
"But you want more," Hughie said.
"I want to know you can get me out while Vought's doors are open," Halvorsen answered. "I want a clean extraction. I want you to do something that shows me you're not just throwing my life into a blender for a heroic headline." His gaze landed on Kimiko. "And I want guarantees that the woman you care for will be allowed to live. Not playthinging. Not collateral."
Kimiko's hands tightened into a fist. Frenchie said nothing; he only translated the anger that rolled off her in sign-language and quiet curses.
"But that's not all," Halvorsen added, and his voice turned small and dangerous. "Vought isn't stupid. If they suspect I've been contaminated - if they smell betrayal - they'll trace it back. They'll seal me in a room and make me disappear. I don't trust your nice words. I want a show of competence."
He named the impossible thing: a test. He wanted to see the vial work outside Vought's sanctums before he vanished with it. He wanted them to bring him a controlled sample and let him run one iteration that proved the mechanism - not on a person, not on a suprahuman, but a proxy. He wanted them to get him the conditions to do that without the Tower smelling a rat.
But that meant more: a neutral facility, time, equipment, and a scientist who could assist under the radar. It meant walking into Vought's shadow and not getting roasted.
They were silent. The price was steep in more ways than money.
"And if we do that?" Butcher asked finally. "You hand us the vial?"
Halvorsen's lip twisted. "If I'm convinced the thing behaves the way the simulation suggests, and if I can leave the country with a name I don't have to answer to, I give you what you want. If not-" He flicked the flash drive toward them. "I keep it. Or I destroy it. I'd rather drown the lot of you than die with a guarantee I was wrong."
Mother's Milk's jaw worked. "It's a lot to ask."
Halvorsen reached into his other pocket and pulled out a small metal box, thumb-sized, disgustingly ordinary. "Inside is one sample. Tiny. A fraction of what they call the countermeasure. Barely enough to test with a proper simulation kit. Take it and you'll trigger every-sensor in the Tower in five minutes if you try to replicate the exact technique. Take it and you'll be gambling everyone's lives on an educated guess."
He pushed the box across the table so it stopped at Butcher's knuckles.
Butcher let the metal sit there, cold and innocuous. His fingers wanted to close around it and crush it. He wanted to take it and fly to the Tower and jam it into Homelander's veins himself. He thought of the reader's hand pressed to her belly, the small stubborn life that kicked when the storms came. He thought of every threat Homelander had smiled. He thought of Noir's fist and how close he'd been to breaking.
He looked up at Halvorsen. "We do the test. We get the extraction plan. We get your papers. We get you out."
Halvorsen nodded once. "I'll help. But make no mistake - this will be harder than you think. Vought watches their own like wolves. You'll have to steal ghosts, buy the silence of men who don't believe in conscience anymore, and probably make deals with people you hate. You'll lose control. You might lose more."
Frenchie swallowed. Hughie's hands shook on the laptop. Kimiko's eyes burned with a kind of white-hot resolve.
Butcher palmed the tiny box and slid it into his pocket like he was hiding the promise of a war. "Then start breaking things," he said.
As they left the café, Halvorsen watched them go for a long time, then slipped the flash drive into a different pocket, like a man who'd just set a fuse and didn't want to see the fireworks.
Outside, the rain had started again. The city seemed unchanged - an insult and a mercy both. Inside the safe house, their plan had become three things: a sample, a test, and an extraction that would require them to be smarter than Vought, quieter than the Tower's alarms, and more ruthless than the people who'd built the machine that had once almost killed them.
They had a lead, and a harder road than any of them had expected.
__________
22|
That very same day..
The van roared down the empty highway, wipers beating against the storm.
Inside, the team was silent - faces lit by the blue glow of Hughie's tablet and the flicker of lightning through the windows.
"Coordinates line up," Hughie said, voice tight. "Halvorsen's info checks out. Vought Tower's eastern wing - restricted zone, top floors. That's where she's being held."
"Good," Butcher grunted, loading a rifle he probably knew wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. "Then we break the bastard open."
MM shot him a look. "We're getting her out, not leveling the building."
Butcher didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the storm ahead - cold, unreadable, but burning underneath.
Meanwhile at Vought tower..
The world was pain and noise.
Her back arched against the cold metal table as another contraction ripped through her body. Sweat plastered her hair to her face, her hands gripping the edge until her knuckles went white.
She couldn't tell how long it had been - minutes, hours, days - but it felt endless. Every breath came out a broken sob.
Homelander stood across the room, arms folded, watching like a man observing an experiment.
"Almost there," he said softly, too calm. "Nature's beautiful, isn't it?"
"Get out," she gasped, voice shaking. "Please-just let me-"
He stepped closer, the smirk never leaving his face. "Why would I? This is history. My history."
Ashley was in the corner, trembling so hard she could barely hold the sterile scissors in her hand. Her makeup was smudged, her voice quivering.
"Sir, I-I'm not a doctor-"
"You're all I need," Homelander interrupted, his tone sweet and deadly. "You've seen enough of Vought's cover-ups. You can handle this, right?"
Ashley nodded quickly, though tears streamed down her cheeks. "Y-yes, of course."
The reader screamed again, clutching her stomach as another contraction hit. "It's coming-it's coming, please, I need help-"
Ashley scrambled forward, fumbling with gloves and towels.
Homelander crouched beside the table, his blue eyes unblinking. "You're doing great," he murmured. "Better than I expected. Strong girl."
"Don't-call me-that-"
He tilted his head, amused. "Still got fight in you. Good. The kid will need that."
Lightning flashed through the high windows, throwing his reflection across the glass - red cape, white smile, eyes that glowed faintly blue.
She could see herself reflected next to him - pale, sweating, terrified. The sight made her sick.
Ashley's voice broke through the noise. "I-I think I see the head!"
Homelander's grin widened. "Perfect. Let's meet the little one, hmm?"
The Boys POV..
"ETA three minutes," Hughie said, glancing up.
Frenchie tightened the straps on his vest, murmuring a prayer in French. Kimiko's jaw was set, eyes narrowed, ready to fight her way through hell if needed.
Mother's Milk checked the gear one last time. "No mistakes. We're in and out. You get her, we get clear. No hero bullshit."
Butcher didn't respond. His grip on the rifle tightened until his knuckles cracked.
He wasn't thinking strategy anymore - he was thinking about her. The sound of her laugh. The look she gave him that one night when she told him she could handle it. The promise he didn't keep.
Back at the tower..
"Push," Ashley whispered, her voice breaking. "You're almost there, come on-"
The reader screamed, her entire body trembling. The pain blurred everything - lights, sound, even her fear. She could feel the baby moving lower, every second stretching into eternity.
Homelander stood beside her, silent now. His expression had shifted - not cruel, not mocking. Just studying.
And then, amid the storm outside and the chaos inside, a cry broke through the room.
A newborn's wail.
Ashley sobbed with relief, trembling as she lifted the baby into a blanket. "It's- it's a boy."
Homelander's smile grew slow and eerie. "A boy."
He reached out, gently brushing the child's tiny cheek with a gloved finger. The baby flinched, and something in Homelander's eyes flickered - a brief, strange glint of humanity, or maybe confusion.
"Give him to me," he said quietly.
Ashley hesitated, shaking her head. "Sir, she-she needs to hold-"
"I said give him to me."
Ashley froze. Then, with trembling hands, she passed the baby to him.
Her vision blurred through tears. "Please-please, don't hurt him-"
Homelander looked down at the small, squirming life in his arms. The baby's cry echoed off the walls - sharp, raw, alive.
-
At that same moment, the team's van screeched to a halt at the base of Vought Tower.
"Positions!" MM barked, as Frenchie killed the lights and Hughie pulled up the tower schematics.
Kimiko was the first out, silent as a ghost, scaling the side with her blades already drawn. Frenchie followed, planting the charges on the side door.
Butcher stepped out last, looking up at the tower - a giant, shining monolith cutting through the clouds. His reflection stared back in every window, a reminder of how small he was against what waited inside.
"Hold on, love," he muttered under his breath. "I'm comin'."
The charges went off, muffled under the thunder. Alarms began to wail in the distance.
And somewhere above them - high in the cold light of the tower - her baby was crying,
and Homelander was smiling like the world had just changed.
____________
23|
The alarms screamed.
Red lights strobed down every corridor, flashing across glass and steel like blood pulsing through veins.
Frenchie's voice crackled through the comms: "We're in. Level forty-eight. Security's blind for ninety seconds. Move!"
Butcher didn't wait. He barreled through the stairwell door, boots hammering against metal, rifle slung tight against his shoulder. Hughie and Mother's Milk followed close, Kimiko gliding ahead like a shadow with blades drawn.
He barely heard the alarms anymore - just the echo of a baby's cry far above them.
That sound cut through everything.
His chest tightened. "Bloody hell..."
MM looked up at him, breathless. "Tell me that's not what I think it is."
Butcher didn't answer. He just ran harder.
-
The reinforced door burst open.
Glass shattered.
Homelander's head snapped up.
He stood in the center of the room, his cape still and gleaming in the red emergency light.
In his arms - a crying newborn, small and trembling, wrapped in a blood-stained towel.
Ashley stood off to the side, pale, shaking, her hands red up to the wrists. The reader lay weakly on the table, drenched in sweat and half-conscious, her face ghost-white.
The baby's cries echoed through the room.
Butcher froze in the doorway. For a moment, the world tilted sideways. His gun fell slightly as he took in the sight - the blood, the lights, her.
"...Christ," he breathed. "You- you had the kid..."
Her eyes fluttered open. "Billy..."
Homelander smiled faintly, rocking the baby once like he owned it. "Congratulations," he said smoothly. "You're a father. Isn't that sweet?"
"Put. Him. Down." Butcher's voice was low, guttural.
Homelander's smile grew wider. "Oh, I don't think so. You weren't here for the big moment. Someone had to step in."
"She's bleeding out and you're standing there like it's a show," Butcher snarled, stepping closer.
Homelander tilted his head. "You should be thanking me. Without me, that little thing wouldn't even be breathing right now. I saved him."
"You don't get to talk about him like that." Butcher's grip on the gun tightened. "He's mine.."
Homelander's expression flickered - a shadow of something dark and wounded crossing his face. "Is that what you think?" he said softly.
The reader weakly tried to lift herself up. "You're insane," she whispered hoarsely. "He's not yours. He never will be."
Homelander's eyes glowed faintly blue, the light reflecting off the infant's face. "I was there," he said quietly. "I heard his first breath. I held him before you did. That means something."
"It means you're delusional," Butcher spat.
"Maybe," Homelander murmured. "Or maybe you're just jealous that he looked at me first."
That broke the last thread of restraint. Butcher raised his rifle.
"Billy-don't!" Hughie shouted from behind.
Homelander smirked, holding the baby tighter to his chest. "Go ahead. Shoot. Let's see how good your aim really is."
The baby cried louder- Homelander looked down at him, the sound visibly unnerving him, though he hid it behind that smile. "See that? He knows who's stronger."
"Yeah?" Butcher growled, stepping forward slowly, fury trembling through his words. "Then give him to his mother, before you find out who's madder."
The reader gasped as another contraction-like wave of pain wracked her. Her hand weakly reached out toward the crying infant. "Please," she whispered. "Give him to me..."
For a heartbeat - just one - Homelander hesitated. His gaze shifted from her face to the baby's tiny, scrunched-up one. Something flickered in his eyes - not mercy, not empathy, but the faintest crack in whatever illusion he'd built for himself.
Then Butcher spoke again, voice breaking. "He's not yours, you sick bastard. You'll never have a family. You'll never have anyone."
Homelander's jaw tightened. The glow in his eyes brightened - blinding blue spilling across the room.
"You think I want to be like you?" he hissed. "Weak. Pathetic. Human."
"Better than a monster playin' daddy."
For a moment, the air seemed to vibrate with tension. The baby wailed, Ashley sobbed quietly in the corner, and the team all braced - knowing one wrong move would turn the room into ash.
Then, something unexpected happened.
Homelander looked down again. The baby blinked up at him - tiny, fragile, alive.
And Homelander's face broke.
Not with anger this time. With confusion.
He looked suddenly... lost.
"Take him," he muttered, voice low, almost mechanical. "Take him, if he means that much."
He moved toward the table slowly, almost reverently, and placed the infant into the reader's shaking arms. The moment her skin touched his, the baby quieted, sniffling softly.
Butcher exhaled a ragged breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees beside her, hand trembling as it brushed her hair back.
"You're alright, love," he whispered. "You did it."
Her eyes were wet. "He's okay," she said faintly. "Billy, he's okay."
Butcher's throat closed. He looked at the baby - his son - tiny and warm and breathing in her arms. He couldn't process it, couldn't breathe. The sound of the alarms, the storm outside, even Homelander hovering near the shattered glass - all of it faded.
He'd seen a lot of blood in his life. Too much. But never like this. Never for something that mattered.
Homelander stood at the glass- Butcher looked up, his face hardening again. "You come near 'em again, I'll make sure the world never sees your face again."
Homelander smiled faintly - tired, eerie. "We'll see."
And with a rush of wind, he was gone - disappearing into the night, cape streaking red against the lightning.
The baby whimpered softly, and Butcher pressed a hand over his small back, stunned by how fragile he felt.
For the first time in a long time, Billy Butcher was speechless.
He looked at her - pale, trembling, but alive - and his voice came out in a rasp:
"Bloody hell... he's beautiful."
She smiled weakly, tears spilling over. "Told you I could handle it."
Butcher let out something between a laugh and a sob, leaning his forehead gently against hers as the sirens howled around them.
None of them were sure if Homelander would come back to finish the job or not, but they lived in constant fear after that..
|Soldier Boy and Butcher Masterlists Here| |The Boys Masterlist|
Summary: (Word Count 2,300+)
You've gotten pretty close to Butcher or so you think. He slept with Maeve "for the mission" and you kept it to yourself, just waiting for him to give you an opportunity to pop off.
This story has 2 alternate endings..
Butcher ending
Soldier Boy ending
Read one and pick who you'd end up with or read both, enjoy :)
The safe house reeked of burnt coffee, gun oil, and tension. Hughie paced in anxious circles, fingers tapping against his jeans while Butcher and Mother's Milk argued over the next lead. Frenchie had his boots on the couch again until Kimiko swatted them off with a glare.
Y/n sat quietly on the couch, her knees drawn up beneath her, scrolling through surveillance footage. She was the calm in their chaos—soft-spoken, sweet, with a kindness the others didn't quite understand. It was why they all looked out for her like some collective big brother pack.
Except Butcher.
He flirted. Teased. Smirked like he knew she'd bite.
And she usually did—banter sharp enough to make even him grin.
But today, he was in a mood.
"Bloody useless," he muttered, slamming the table when another lead fell through. "We're runnin' blind 'cause our intel's shite."
Y/n tilted her head from the couch. "Maybe if you stopped insulting every contact we have, we'd get somewhere."
He turned, smirk twisting. "Careful, love. You sound like me missus."
She smiled faintly. "Funny. You're starting to sound like what you swore you'd never be."
He froze mid-step. "Eh?"
She met his eyes, voice calm as glass. "A supe-fucker."
Hughie's pacing halted. The whole room went quiet.
Butcher's jaw clenched—Maeve still a ghost in his conscience. "Watch your mouth, girl."
"Just calling it how I see it." She didn't look away, didn't flinch. "Guess even you have a price."
Something ugly flickered behind his eyes. "Oh, I get it now," he said, stalking closer. "You think this—" he gestured between them "—me and you, that's somethin'? And now you're bloody jealous."
Y/n didn't move. "Jealous?" she echoed, tone level.
"Yeah," he snarled. "You think your big doe eyes make you special? You're too young to even know what you want, sweetheart. Don't flatter yourself."
The others stared, uncomfortable, but he didn't stop. He needed to push—needed to make her as mad as he was. "You think a bloke like me's gonna hold your hand, tell you you're pretty? Get your head outta the clouds. You're a kid in a grown-up's war."
When he finished, his voice cracked faintly under the weight of his own cruelty.
Y/n blinked, face unreadable. "Okay," she said softly, nodding once. "Roger that."
Her tone was polite. Understanding. Like she'd just been briefed on a mission.
Butcher stood there, chest rising and falling, thrown off by her calm. He wanted her to yell back. To fight him. But she didn't. She just went back to her laptop.
Kimiko slipped onto the couch beside her, looping an arm around her shoulders and glaring daggers at Butcher.
—
For the next few days, y/n carried on as if nothing had happened. Still sweet, still helpful—but distant. No teasing, no side glances, no small smiles over coffee. She'd walk past Butcher like he was furniture.
And somehow, that unsettled him more than her anger ever could.
Even Frenchie whispered about it one night.
"She scares me a little," he admitted. "That calm—it is... how you say, terrifying."
Butcher didn't answer. Because he agreed.
—
Days later, they found Soldier Boy.
And from the moment y/n stepped into the room, the supe's eyes locked on her like a moth to flame.
"Who's the doll?" he asked with that cocky grin.
"That's y/n," Hughie said quickly. "She's, uh, not a supe."
"Didn't say she was," Soldier Boy replied, still staring. "She's... timeless. Like she don't belong to this mess of a century."
Butcher's teeth ground together.
At first, the supe kept it casual—little compliments, sly smiles—but by day two, he was sitting closer, leaning in when she spoke.
"You ever been told you got an old soul, sweetheart?" he asked.
Y/n laughed quietly. "Maybe once or twice."
"Figures," Soldier Boy said. "You're like a painting that came to life. A real beauty."
The compliment hung in the air, heavy and intimate. Butcher looked away sharply, pretending to clean his gun. His chest felt tight, irrationally so.
He had no right to feel jealous. He'd told her as much himself.
Yet when he saw her smile at Soldier Boy—small, polite, the same one she'd once given him—something inside him twisted.
—
He told himself it was just irritation — the kind that came from having another loudmouthed supe in the room. But as soon as Soldier Boy strolled in, all smug grins and rolled-up sleeves, Butcher knew it wasn't that simple.
The guy had barely been awake a full day before he started running his mouth — and now, apparently, running it toward y/n.
She was sitting on the couch, legs tucked underneath her, laptop balanced on her knees. The glow from the screen lit her face softly as she scrolled through files. Soldier Boy leaned against the back of the couch, hands on his hips, watching her with a lazy smirk.
"So you're the brains of the operation, huh?" he said.
Y/n looked up, amused. "I wouldn't say that. Just trying to keep these guys organized."
"Yeah?" He cocked his head, grin widening. "Could've fooled me. You got that... smart girl thing goin' on. All serious eyes and gentle voice. Dangerous combo."
Kimiko snorted. Frenchie mouthed mon dieu.
Y/n smiled politely, shaking her head. "That line probably worked better in the 80s."
"Oh, sweetheart," he said with a chuckle, "everything worked better in the 80s."
He winked. She looked away, suppressing a smile.
Butcher was across the room, arms crossed, pretending to focus on a weapons checklist. Every word grated on him like sandpaper.
Soldier Boy sauntered around the couch, hands in his pockets. "Tell me somethin', doll—what's a girl like you doin' with this bunch of misfits? You don't strike me as the killin' type."
"I'm not," she replied calmly. "But somebody has to make sure you don't blow us all up."
That earned a bark of laughter. "Fair point. Still, can't help thinkin' you'd look better anywhere else."
Butcher's pen snapped in half in his hand.
Y/n tilted her head, cool as ever. "And yet here I am."
"Yeah," Soldier Boy said, eyes flicking over her before meeting hers again. "Lucky me."
There was a moment — brief, electric — before she went back to her screen. Soldier Boy's grin lingered. Butcher didn't move.
That twisting in his gut? It wasn't irritation anymore. It was jealousy, and it burned like hell.
—
The flirting didn't stop there.
At breakfast the next morning, Soldier Boy plopped down beside her again, plate piled high with bacon.
"You make this?" he asked.
Y/n nodded. "Yeah. Trying to make the best of canned eggs and instant coffee."
He gave her a once-over, eyes glinting. "You could serve me shoe leather and I'd still say it's the best breakfast I ever had."
She laughed quietly, shaking her head. "That's a lie."
"Maybe," he admitted, leaning back in his chair. "But it's a good one."
Butcher, sitting across the room cleaning a pistol, slammed the clip in harder than necessary.
Kimiko glanced between them, eyes narrowing. She'd caught the tension days ago and didn't like it. Y/n was her friend—and Butcher's emotional explosions weren't exactly subtle.
When y/n stood to rinse her plate, Soldier Boy followed her to the sink. "You got a soft touch, sweetheart," he said, watching her scrub. "Bet you're good at taking care of people."
"I try," she said simply.
He stepped closer. "Somebody oughta take care of you for a change."
She didn't answer—just dried her hands, gave him a polite smile, and walked off.
Butcher's eyes followed her the entire way.
—
That afternoon, they were planning routes. Y/n leaned over the map spread across the table. Her curls brushed against Soldier Boy's arm as she pointed to a marked zone.
"This is the last known location of one of your teammates," she said.
He wasn't looking at the map. "You smell good."
Y/n blinked, thrown off but not flustered. "That's... not helpful information."
"Sure it is. Helps morale."
Hughie choked on his drink. "Jesus, man."
Butcher grunted from the doorway. "Oi, save it for the brothel, Captain America Reject."
Soldier Boy smirked. "You jealous, Butch?"
Butcher stepped forward, voice low. "Of you? Not bloody likely."
Y/n straightened, clearing her throat softly. "Alright, that's enough testosterone for one day."
She gathered her notes and walked out, calm as ever.
And that calm... that was what drove Butcher mad.
He'd broken her once with words, and she'd taken it, smiled, and kept her composure. But now she was untouchable—kind, gentle, and indifferent. It made him feel like the fool in the room.
..
That night, Butcher found himself outside her door. He didn't even know why he knocked—maybe just to check on her. When she opened it, she looked tired but soft, hair up, oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder.
"Need something?" she asked, tone neutral.
He wanted to say yeah, you. Instead, he muttered, "We leave at dawn. Don't oversleep."
Her brow arched faintly. "Right. Wouldn't want to hold up the mission."
He hesitated, then said, "You know, that prick's not the type to—"
She cut him off gently. "You don't have to worry about me, Butcher. I can tell when someone's just playing a part."
He frowned. "And what part do you think I was playin', then?"
She held his gaze, calm and knowing. "The one where you pretend you don't care."
Then she closed the door before he could respond.
—
The next day, the tension hit a breaking point.
They were packing up gear when Soldier Boy came in, grin lazy as ever. "Y/n, you mind helping me strap this on?" he asked, holding up his chest rig.
Butcher froze mid-step.
Y/n gave a quick nod and went to help him tighten the buckles. Soldier Boy leaned down slightly, voice low near her ear. "Didn't know angels did fieldwork."
"Guess you learn something new every day," she said, smiling faintly.
The strap clicked. She stepped back.
Butcher couldn't take it anymore. "That's enough," he barked.
Everyone turned.
Soldier Boy raised an eyebrow. "Relax, boss man. I'm just getting dressed."
Butcher stepped closer, eyes dark. "You touch her again, I'll take your bloody arm off."
The room fell silent.
Y/n looked at him, expression unreadable. "You don't get to do that, Butcher," she said quietly. "You made it clear I'm nothing to you. Remember?"
His throat went dry.
Soldier Boy chuckled under his breath. "Seems like someone's eating his words."
Butcher's hand clenched into a fist.
Y/n turned to the door. "I'll wait in the van."
She walked out, calm and graceful as ever. The door shut softly behind her, but it might as well have been a gunshot.
For once, Butcher didn't have a comeback. He just stood there, staring at the empty doorway, every ounce of composure slipping through his fingers.
______________________
Butcher Ending:
The team is asleep. Butcher can't. The sound of the van door closing keeps replaying in his head. He walks outside, finds y/n sitting on the hood, arms around her knees, staring at the stars.
He clears his throat softly. "You always this calm after a bloke makes an arse of himself?"
Y/n doesn't look at him. "It's easier than wasting energy on anger."
He exhales, voice low. "You shouldn't have to be calm. Not after what I said. I was cruel, and I knew it. Been a long time since I had someone give a damn, and I didn't know what to do with it."
Y/n finally glances over. "You could've started by not breaking it."
He nods, stepping closer. "I deserved that."
For a long pause, there's just wind. Then she says quietly, "I don't hate you, Butcher. I just stopped expecting you to care."
That hits him square in the chest. He moves closer until he's standing in front of her. "I do care. More than I bloody well should."
Her eyes soften a little. "Then prove it."
He hesitates, then reaches out—hand brushing her cheek like he's afraid she'll vanish. "I ain't good at this," he mutters. "Never been. But if you'll let me... I'll try."
Y/n studies him for a beat before leaning in slightly. "You're already trying."
He presses his forehead to hers—no rush, no bravado, just quiet relief. His thumb traces the corner of her jaw; she closes her eyes.
"I'm sorry, love," he whispers.
She smiles faintly. "Apology accepted, Butcher."
When he kisses her, it's soft—unexpectedly gentle for a man made of sharp edges. A moment later, she rests her head against his shoulder, and for once, he lets the world feel still.
Soldier Boy Ending:
They're holed up again. Soldier Boy has been quieter lately, watching y/n more than talking. Then, after a mission gone right for once, he approaches her while she's patching a scrape on her arm.
"You did good out there," he says, voice lower than usual. "Didn't think you had that kind of steel in you."
Y/n smiles faintly. "People surprise you."
He steps closer, brushing his thumb near the edge of her bandage. "Guess I needed the reminder."
It's the first time he's touched her without a joke behind it. She doesn't pull away.
From across the room, Butcher notices—and looks murderous.
Soldier Boy smirks over his shoulder, then leans in to whisper, "You really got him twisted up, y'know that?"
"Not on purpose," she says quietly.
"Doesn't have to be," he replies, eyes meeting hers. "Some things just... happen."
Y/n outside the safe house, sitting on the steps. Soldier Boy joins her, his flask in hand.
He offers it. "Apple brandy. Don't worry, it's clean."
She takes a sip, coughing softly. "You're trying to kill me."
"Nah," he says, smirking. "Not you. You're the only thing worth keeping alive in this mess."
She laughs, shaking her head, and he reaches up—tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His touch lingers just a second too long.
He's all heat and swagger, but in that quiet moment, he looks at her like she's something sacred. "You make me forget how damn long I've been alive," he admits. "That's not easy to do."
Y/n meets his gaze, heartbeat uneven. "You don't have to forget," she says softly. "Just... start over."
He leans in—slow, deliberate—and kisses her. Not rough, not hungry. Just soft. Real.
When they part, he rests his forehead against hers. "Careful, sweetheart. I might start thinkin' I deserve somethin' good."
"You already do," she murmurs.
From inside, Butcher watches through the window, jaw tight, eyes burning with a mix of regret and fury.
Three months had passed since the incident with Homelander.
That was how Vought phrased it.
The incident.
As if it had been a press malfunction. A PR hiccup. A bad night they could bury under enough NDAs and smiling headlines.
Vought covered it up like they always did. Cameras glitched. Witnesses vanished. Statements were rewritten until the truth no longer resembled itself. Homelander returned to television with his usual blinding smile, draped in red, white, and blue—clean, untouched, untarnished.
And the world applauded.
She was offered an unlimited amount of therapy for two months. Trauma specialists flown in. Private offices. Soundproof rooms with soft lighting and careful voices.
She declined.
Talking wouldn't change the fact that she no longer trusted silence.
⸻
Life didn't go back to normal.
It became something else entirely.
Careful..Measured..Controlled.
Every day was built around routines meant to keep them alive.
They moved twice in the first month. Then again. Each place smaller, quieter, less visible than the last. No windows without blackout curtains. No predictable schedules. No public appearances. No social media. No neighbors they spoke to longer than necessary.
The baby never left her sight, not once.
If she showered, the baby was in the bathroom. If she slept, the bassinet was pulled close enough that her fingers brushed the edge. If she left the room, Butcher took over—eyes sharp, body tense, gun always within reach.
Butcher barely slept anymore.
When he did, it was light and restless, his body jerking awake at the smallest sound. Some nights she found him sitting on the edge of the bed long after midnight, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.
He didn't say much about it.
But he checked the locks three times before bed. Sometimes four.
He installed cameras in every room. Then replaced them. Then replaced them again. He swept for bugs so often it became ritualistic—hands methodical, jaw clenched, muttering curses under his breath.
None of it made him feel better.
Because they both knew the truth.
If Homelander wanted in, no lock would stop him.
⸻
She learned to live with tension coiled beneath her skin.
She startled easily now. A floorboard creaking. A hum of electricity. A television flickering for half a second too long before turning on.
The baby slept peacefully most nights, oblivious to the fear that haunted the room. Sometimes that frightened her more than the crying ever had.
There were moments..small, quiet ones—where everything felt almost normal.
Butcher feeding the baby at three in the morning, his massive hands careful despite himself. The way his voice softened when he thought no one was listening. The way he lingered in doorways, watching them both, like he was afraid the moment would vanish if he looked away.
She loved him fiercely for that.
And feared him for what Homelander had done to him.
Butcher had changed.
The rage was still there—boiling, violent, ever-present, but now it had direction. Purpose. He wasn't reckless anymore. He didn't chase death the way he used to.
That terrified him more than anything.
Because for the first time in his life, he had something to lose.
⸻
Homelander never made contact again.
That was the worst part.
No messages.
No appearances.
No threats.
Just absence.
And absence, with someone like him, felt deliberate..Calculated.
Some nights, she stood in the dark hallway, listening to the quiet hum of the house, convinced she could feel eyes on her. Watching. Waiting.
But there was never proof.
No signs of forced entry.
No disturbances.
No evidence he'd been there.
Which meant either he hadn't returned—
—or he didn't need to leave evidence anymore.
⸻
One evening, while Butcher was out checking a perimeter route he'd memorized by heart, the baby stirred in her arms. A soft sound. Half-asleep.
She froze.
Not because of the baby.
Because the television across the room flickered.
Just once.
Static crackled for a fraction of a second before the screen went dark again.
Her heart hammered so hard she felt dizzy.
She stood there, unmoving, listening for something—anything.
Nothing happened.
When Butcher returned, she didn't mention it.
Some things felt too dangerous to say out loud.
⸻
They survived on vigilance.
On exhaustion.
On love sharpened by fear.
And somewhere out there, Homelander waited.
Not angry..
Patient.
Because he knew something they didn't.
Time always broke people eventually.
And families...
families were his favorite thing to ruin.
__________
2|
The first sign came so quietly that the reader almost convinced herself it hadn't happened at all.
It was late afternoon, the kind of dull, gray day where the sky felt low and heavy, pressing down on the city. The baby was asleep against her chest, warm and solid, breath puffing softly against her collarbone. She hadn't moved in nearly an hour, afraid even the slightest shift would wake him.
The house was silent.
Too silent.
She noticed it when the refrigerator stopped humming.
She lifted her head slowly, listening.
Nothing.
No city noise. No distant sirens. No neighbors. Just a thick, suffocating stillness that made her skin prickle.
Then— the baby monitor crackled.
She froze.
Static whispered through the speaker, low and soft, like breath across a microphone. The nursery camera flickered on the small screen beside her, the image briefly distorting before settling.
The room was empty.
The crib untouched.
Everything exactly as it should be.
Still, her heart refused to slow.
She reached over and turned the monitor off.
For a long time, she sat there in the quiet, holding her breath, waiting for something else to happen.
Nothing did.
She didn't tell Butcher- not yet.
⸻
The signs came slowly after that.
Never dramatic. Never obvious. Always small enough to explain away if she tried hard enough.
A bottle left on the counter when she was certain she'd already washed it.
The faint scent of something unfamiliar lingering in the air—clean, sharp, almost sterile—gone by the time she tried to identify it.
The front door locked exactly as she'd left it... but with the deadbolt turned the opposite direction.
Butcher noticed some of it too.
She could tell by the way his shoulders tightened, the way his eyes swept the room more often, sharper, angrier. He didn't comment, but his grip on his weapon grew firmer, his movements more precise.
Paranoia became routine.
Routine became survival.
⸻
The first time she saw him outside the house, she almost missed it.
They were driving—one of their rare trips out, necessary but brief. A doctor appointment under a false name. A location Butcher had vetted three times over.
She sat in the passenger seat, the baby secured in the back, her hand twisted tightly in the strap of her bag.
They stopped at a red light.
She glanced up—
—and her breath caught.
Across the street, reflected in the glass of a storefront window, was a flash of red and blue.
Gone in a blink.
She whipped her head around.
There was nothing there. Just pedestrians. Cars. A man walking his dog. A woman checking her phone.
Normal.
Too normal.
Her hands trembled.
Butcher noticed.
"What?" he asked, already scanning.
"I thought I saw—" She stopped herself. Swallowed. "Nothing. I'm just tired."
He didn't look convinced.
The light turned green.
They drove on.
⸻
That night, she dreamed of him.
Homelander stood in the nursery, bathed in soft light, his expression unreadable. He didn't move. Didn't speak.
He just watched.
When she woke, her throat burned like she'd been screaming.
The baby slept soundly beside her.
⸻
The next sign was unmistakable.
She found it folded neatly on the kitchen table.
A tiny American flag.
The kind given out at rallies- At public events meant to inspire pride.
She stared at it for a long time.
Her chest felt hollow.
Butcher stood frozen in the doorway behind her, face darkening as soon as he saw it.
"How long?" he asked quietly.
"I don't know," she whispered.
He picked it up with two fingers like it might burn him, eyes scanning every corner of the room.
No forced entry.
No broken locks.
No alarms triggered.
Nothing.
Butcher crushed the flag in his fist.
"He's fucking with us," he growled.
She nodded.
They both knew that already.
⸻
After that, the house stopped feeling like shelter.
It felt like a stage.
Something meant to be observed.
Some nights, the lights flickered. Just once. Sometimes twice. Always brief enough to doubt.
Other times, the baby would go from crying to calm in seconds—without either of them touching him.
That terrified Butcher the most.
He started sleeping in the hallway.
Gun in hand.
Back to the nursery door.
⸻
The moment that broke her came quietly.
She had just finished feeding the baby and laid him down in the crib. His eyes fluttered shut almost immediately, peaceful and unaware.
She turned toward the door—
—and stopped.
The rocking chair in the corner was moving.
Barely.
A slow, steady sway.
She hadn't touched it.
Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure it would wake the baby.
She stepped back, shaking, eyes locked on the chair until it finally stilled.
When Butcher rushed in moments later, she was still standing there, frozen.
He didn't ask questions.
He just wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close.
For the first time in weeks, she felt him tremble.
⸻
The final sign came three nights later.
She woke to a sound.
Not loud.
Not urgent.
Just... wrong.
A soft hum.
Low. Familiar.
Her blood ran cold.
She sat up slowly, heart in her throat, and looked toward the nursery doorway.
A figure stood there.
Tall.
Still.
Backlit by the faint glow of the hallway light.
Homelander.
He didn't step inside.
Didn't cross the threshold.
He simply stood there, watching the baby sleep.
When she gasped, his head turned slightly toward her.
Their eyes met.
He smiled.
Not wide.
Not cruel.
Just knowing.
Then, just as suddenly, he was gone.
No wind.
No sound.
No trace.
Butcher burst in seconds later, weapon raised, fury written across his face.
"What?" he demanded.
She couldn't speak.
She just shook.
And for the first time since all of this began, she knew—without doubt—that Homelander wasn't testing them anymore.
He was settling in.
___________
3|
One day she was home alone with the baby. She went to put clothes in the dryer for just a moment in the other room.
Something about the house felt wrong.. she could sense someone , a presence.
"Butcher?" she called.
No answer.
He'd only been gone an hour. A supply run. Quick and quiet, he'd said. She hadn't liked it, but she'd agreed.
The baby had been asleep when she left him in the crib.
She began to walk, every step measured, heart beginning to beat faster with no clear reason why. Her instincts screamed, sharp and sudden, but she forced herself to breathe through it.
The hallway light was on.
She hadn't left it on.
Her stomach dropped.
"Hello?" Her voice sounded thin, fragile in the open space.
No reply.
She reached the living room doorway and stopped.
The world seemed to tilt.
Homelander sat on the couch.
Casual. Comfortable. One leg crossed over the other, elbow resting against the back cushion like he'd been there a while. His cape draped loosely behind him, bright and obscene against the muted tones of the room.
And in his arms—
The baby.
Cradled properly. Head supported. Small body tucked securely against his chest.
Peaceful.
Her vision blurred.
Her heart slammed so violently she thought she might pass out.
She made a sound — a sharp, involuntary inhale — and Homelander looked up.
His eyes met hers.
"Hey," he said gently, as if greeting an old friend.
Her legs refused to move.
Her mouth opened, but no words came.
He glanced down at the baby, adjusting his hold with careful precision, rocking slightly.
"He's a good sleeper," Homelander continued, voice low, almost reverent. "Not fussy at all. That's rare."
She finally found her voice.
"Put him down," she whispered.
Homelander smiled.
Not wide. Not cruel.
Just amused.
"Relax," he said softly. "You're going to wake him."
Her hands shook.
"How did you get in?" she demanded, louder now, panic creeping into her tone despite her effort to contain it.
Homelander shrugged lightly. "You know locks don't really mean much to me."
She took a step forward without thinking.
His eyes flicked up.
She stopped.
"Careful," he warned calmly. "You don't want to startle him."
The words hit like a slap.
She froze, every muscle screaming.
He shifted again, almost instinctively, his thumb brushing over the baby's back.
"He likes this," Homelander said. "The pressure. Makes him feel safe."
Her chest burned.
"You don't get to touch him," she said, voice shaking. "You don't get to be here."
Homelander hummed thoughtfully.
"I was invited."
"No," she snapped. "You weren't."
He tilted his head. Studied her.
Her breath caught.
She could feel it then — the sheer effort it took him to appear this calm. This controlled. Beneath it, something restless simmered, watching her closely, gauging her every reaction.
"I didn't come to hurt you," Homelander continued. "Or him."
She laughed weakly, the sound breaking apart as it left her throat. "You kidnapped me. You made me give birth in front of you."
His jaw tightened for just a fraction of a second.
"I watched," he corrected quietly. "There's a difference."
Her nails dug into her palms.
"You can't just—show up," she said. "You can't pretend this is normal."
"I'm not pretending," he replied. "This is normal. For me."
He leaned back into the couch, relaxing further, like he had all the time in the world.
"I wanted to see him again," he admitted. "See if anything had changed."
She swallowed hard, dumbfounded.
He smiled faintly.
"No," he said. "Still special."
Her blood ran cold.
She took another step forward before she could stop herself.
"Give him to me."
Homelander hesitated.
Just long enough for her to notice.
Then, carefully, deliberately, he stood.
He carefully sat the baby down on a blanket on the couch.
He began walking towards her with a look she hadn't recognized before.. was it- determination?
Before she could grasp what was going on, she tries to pull her arm back , but he reaches out and grabs a hold of her hand.
He carefully holds onto her, with delicate pressure, as to not scare her.
"I will leave, he says. But- I need one thing from you first".
"What? She snaps."
"I want you to kiss me" he says boldly. "For my own sake. To see if my feelings are real".
"I don't have any feelings for you!" She exclaims.
"It doesn't matter what you feel or want.. don't you understand that by now?" he says with sheer confidence.
"Just do it"
.."now"
A tear leaves her eyes, as fearful as she can be.
He leans forward, tilting his head and furrowing his brows. He grips her face so hard her lips automatically pucker. As his lips are an inch away from her face, he loosens his grip.
He kisses her deeply, putting his hand on the nape of her neck. Her body betrayed her as she can't help but let a low-sounding moan out as he bites her bottom lip.
His eyes fill to the brim with excitement.
______
The kiss ends.
He doesn't move away right away. He studies her, breathing steady, like he's listening for something only he can hear. Whatever he was waiting for—whatever confirmation he needed—settles behind his eyes.
Relief flickers there.
Not hers.
"Good," he murmurs, almost reverent. "I knew you'd feel it."
Her skin prickles. "Feel what?"
He smiles—not wide, not cruel. Certain. Like the answer is obvious.
"Me."
The word echoes too long.
She steps back. The room doesn't change, but something about it does—like it's already letting her go. Like it knows she won't be staying.
"You don't understand," she says, and hates how small her voice sounds.
"I do," he replies. "You're the one who doesn't."
⸻
She loses time.
Not all at once. Not cleanly.
Moments slide out of sequence—standing, then sitting, then darkness folding over itself like a door closing softly. There's no panic at first. Just a growing sense that her body has stopped asking permission.
When awareness returns, it does so cautiously.
The air hums.
Movement beneath her.
Her first thought is wrongness. Her second is terror.
Then she hears it.
A sound so small it almost doesn't exist. A fragile, instinctive noise that tears something open in her chest.
Her breath stutters. "No—"
Her body responds before her mind can. She turns, heart hammering, dread and hope tangling until she sees—
Alive.
Her vision blurs. Relief crashes into her so hard it hurts.
"You see?" his voice says calmly, from somewhere nearby. "I told you."
She looks up.
He's watching her the way someone watches a storm from behind glass. Interested. Removed. Victorious.
She whispers. "You can't—this isn't—"
Her blood runs cold- mind filled with disbelief.
"You called me the moment you kissed me."
"That's not—"
"You felt it," he insists. "That pull. That recognition. You just didn't know what it meant."
Her hands tremble. Her thoughts scatter. Something inside her claws at the truth, desperate to deny it.
"What do you want?" she asks.
He tilts his head. "That's the wrong question."
The hum continues. The world keeps moving.
"I'm not here for you," he says finally. "Not the way you think."
Her heart sinks.
"I'm here for what comes after."
_____
Silence stretches between them, heavy and deliberate.
She searches his face for cracks—rage, hunger, anything human—but finds only certainty. It's worse than cruelty. Cruelty would mean impulse. This is conviction.
"You don't get to decide that," she says hoarsely. "You don't get to decide anything."
He considers her words like a child humoring a question he already knows the answer to.
"I always do."
The hum around them deepens, steady and endless. Somewhere beyond the walls, the world keeps moving, unaware that something has already been claimed.
"You think this is about control," he continues calmly. "About wanting. About taking."
He steps closer—not threatening, just close enough that she feels the air shift.
"It's not."
Her stomach twists.
"This is about preservation," he says. "About ensuring nothing touches what shouldn't be touched."
"You're not protecting us," she says, shaking her head. "You don't get to act like this is some noble thing."
A flicker crosses his face then. Not anger.
Offense.
"You don't know what protection is," he replies quietly. "You've never lived in a world where everyone wants something from you."
His gaze drifts—downward, thoughtful. Intent.
"They will come," he goes on. "They always do. Men like him."
A pause.
"Men like Butcher."
Her breath catches.
"They'll see the baby as leverage. As weakness. As a weapon." His jaw tightens. "I won't allow that."
"So you cage us instead?" she snaps.
He looks back at her, unbothered. "I keep you alive."
The words land wrong. Heavy. Final.
"You don't even have a right to him," she says suddenly, desperation sharpening her voice. "The baby isn't yours."
For the first time, something shifts.
Not doubt.
Amusement.
He exhales slowly through his nose, almost a laugh. "That's what you think this is about?"
Her heart pounds. "He's not yours," she insists. "You don't get to claim him."
"I don't need him to be," Homelander says calmly.
She stares at him.
"He's mine because I decide he is," he continues. "Because the world will see me when they look at him. Because they'll come for him through me."
Her throat tightens.
"You don't understand what this child is," he says. "What it represents."
"It's a baby, MY baby" she whispers.
"No," he corrects softly. "It's proof."
She shakes her head, tears burning. "Proof of what?"
"Proof that something survives me," he says. "That something carries me forward. That I don't disappear."
The truth settles into her bones like ice.
"You're not keeping us safe," she whispers.
He meets her gaze fully now. Unblinking.
"I'm keeping what's mine from a world that would destroy it."
Later—when the city lights stretch beneath her feet and the wind screams around the rooftop—she understands.
She understands why she's still breathing.
Why the baby is untouched.
Why he watches the skyline like a god guarding an altar.
She isn't a hostage.
She's an anchor.
And when Homelander finally turns toward the man across the rooftop—the one fueled by hate and grief and blood—she realizes something far worse than fear:
He isn't afraid of losing her.
He's certain she'll survive him.
And whatever comes next
will still belong to him.
_____________
4|
Butcher
The flat feels watched.
Billy notices it before he notices anything else — the way the air sits too still, the way the silence presses instead of empties. Like the room is holding onto something it doesn't want to give back.
He shuts the door quietly.
"Oi," he says, low.
Nothing answers.
He stands there longer than he should, listening. No movement. No breath. No life. His eyes track the space automatically, cataloguing what hasn't changed.
Nothing's broken. Nothing's out of place.
That's the first warning.
He moves deeper into the flat. Each step feels deliberate, as if the floor itself is waiting to see what he'll do. The kitchen comes first. A mug on the counter, untouched. Cold. She never leaves it like that.
The chair's pushed in.
Billy swallows.
Bedroom. Bathroom. Empty. Clean. Too clean. Like the rooms have been finished with.
He reaches the crib last.
It takes him a second to understand what he's seeing. Or rather — what he isn't.
The blanket is folded. Not tossed aside. Folded neatly, deliberately, as if someone cared enough to leave it that way.
The crib is empty.
For a long moment, Billy doesn't move. His hands rest on the rail, knuckles whitening slowly, the pressure building without release.
She wouldn't leave.
Not without the baby.
Which means she didn't leave at all.
His eyes scan the room again, sharper now. The absence feels curated. No note. No message. No threat left behind. Whoever did this didn't need to explain themselves.
They expected him to understand.
A cold sensation crawls up his spine.
This wasn't a snatch-and-run. No forced entry. No panic. Someone walked in here calmly. Someone she didn't fight. Someone she hesitated with.
Billy exhales through his nose, slow and measured.
"Right," he mutters.
The name comes to him uninvited.
Homelander.
But even as it forms, doubt follows. Homelander doesn't erase people quietly. He leaves warnings. Bodies. Fear.
This was something else.
Billy's gaze lingers on the crib. On the space where the baby should be. The air around it feels dense, charged — like a storm that's already passed but left its pressure behind.
Whoever took them didn't want chaos.
They wanted continuity.
His jaw tightens.
"That's it, then," he says softly to the empty room. "You've crossed it."
There's no shouting. No smashing. No release.
Only certainty.
Billy turns and leaves the flat exactly as he found it, shutting the door with care. Because whoever did this wanted control — and the worst thing he can do right now is give them the satisfaction of knowing he's rattled.
But as he walks away, one thought follows him, heavy and unresolved:
They didn't just take her to hurt him.
They took her to keep her.
And that means this isn't over.
It's only just begun.
___________
5|
Billy doesn't tell anyone.
That's the first decision he makes.
No calls. No planning board. No arguments about odds or fallout. This isn't a team job. Teams hesitate. Teams compromise. Teams die messy.
This needs to be clean.
He strips the mission down to essentials. One route in. One way out. No witnesses. No backups that can be used against him. Whatever happens next happens between him and the bastard who took everything.
Weapons are checked once. Then again. Not because he doubts them — because routine keeps the noise out of his head.
He doesn't think about her.
That's the second decision.
Thinking about her means anger. Anger leads to mistakes. Mistakes get people killed. Instead, he thinks about structure. About height and access points. About sightlines and blind spots.
About how Homelander likes to be seen.
That's the tell.
Billy pulls up outside the building just before dawn. The city hasn't woken yet. Everything looks softer in low light — less honest. The tower cuts into the sky like a threat that's learned how to smile.
Vought property.
Of course it is.
He sits in the car longer than necessary, watching the windows. There are hundreds of them. Too many places to hide. Too many places to watch from.
"Arrogant prick," Billy mutters.
Homelander won't hide.
He never does.
Billy steps out of the car and feels it immediately — that familiar pressure behind the eyes, like the air's grown heavier around him. Like something up there already knows he's arrived.
He looks up.
And there he is.
High above, framed by glass and light, Homelander stands perfectly still at one of the upper windows. No movement. No surprise. Just a man waiting where he wants to be seen.
Their eyes meet.
Billy doesn't flinch.
Neither does Homelander.
The distance between them is vast, but it doesn't matter. Billy knows, with sick certainty, that the bastard can see him perfectly. Every line of tension. Every intention.
Homelander smiles.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Like this has been scheduled.
⸻
Inside, far above the street, Homelander doesn't look away.
He keeps his gaze fixed on the man below — the inevitable one — until he feels her shift behind him. Tense. Watching. Waiting.
He doesn't turn to face her when he speaks.
"See?" he says softly. "He always comes."
The city hums beneath them, oblivious.
Homelander finally glances back at her, eyes bright with anticipation.
"Now," he murmurs, almost pleased,
"we can begin."
___________
6|
Butcher
The building lets him in too easily.
That's the first mistake — or maybe it's intentional. The doors slide open without resistance, lights humming softly overhead like nothing's wrong. Like this place isn't a shrine to monsters.
Billy steps inside anyway.
The air changes the moment the doors close behind him. Not colder. Thicker. Like gravity's been adjusted slightly in someone else's favor.
He keeps moving.
Elevators line the far wall. All of them dark.
"Figures," he mutters.
The stairwell door opens with a heavy groan. Concrete. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The kind of space that amplifies every footstep, every breath. Billy takes the stairs two at a time, counting levels without thinking. Keeps his pace steady. Predictable is dangerous.
Halfway up, the lights flicker.
Billy stops.
The hairs on the back of his neck rise.
A voice drifts down the stairwell, calm and amused, carried effortlessly through the concrete.
"You know," Homelander says, conversational, "most people run."
The pressure hits then — not physical, not exactly — just enough to make Billy's vision blur at the edges. Like standing too close to a jet engine. Like being reminded, very gently, who controls the air.
Homelander continues, unhurried. "I thought you'd bring friends."
"Didn't want witnesses," Billy says. "Or distractions."
"Smart," Homelander agrees. "Selfish. But smart."
The lights go out.
Not all at once — just the ones above him, plunging the stairwell into shadow. Emergency lights kick in seconds later, bathing everything in dull red.
Billy's grip tightens on the railing.
"You feel that?" Homelander asks. "That little spike in your heart rate?"
Billy exhales slowly through his nose. "You get to the point, or we gonna chat all night?"
There's a pause.
Then the pressure lifts.
Homelander's voice sounds closer now. Not louder — nearer.
"I wanted to see how long it would take you," he says. "Whether you'd hesitate."
Billy starts moving again.
"I don't hesitate."
"No," Homelander agrees. "You don't."
Another pause.
"She didn't scream, you know."
Billy stops.
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't turn.
"She didn't fight," Homelander continues gently. "She thought about it. I could see it. That moment where she realized exactly who she was dealing with."
Billy's teeth grind.
"And the baby," Homelander adds, almost thoughtfully. "Perfectly quiet. Like he understood."
"You should be thanking me," Homelander says. "I kept them safe. I kept them calm. I made sure nothing... unfortunate happened before you got here."
Billy's pulse pounds in his ears.
"You wanted me here," he says.
"Of course I did," Homelander replies. "This is the part where you stop pretending you're in control."
The pressure returns — heavier now — pinning Billy in place without touching him. Not pain. Not yet. Just dominance.
"Look up," Homelander says.
Billy doesn't.
The pressure increases — just enough.
Billy lifts his gaze.
At the top of the stairwell, behind reinforced glass, Homelander stands casually, arms folded, cape draped like this is a photo op. His expression isn't angry.
It's curious.
"Good," Homelander says softly. "Still defiant."
He leans closer to the glass, eyes bright.
"I wanted you tired," he continues. "Off-balance. Thinking about the wrong things."
The pressure vanishes.
The door at the top of the stairwell unlocks with a click.
Homelander straightens.
"Go on," he says lightly. "She's waiting."
Billy stares up at him, chest rising and falling.
"This ends tonight," Billy says.
Homelander smiles.
"No," he replies. "Tonight is just the introduction."
And then he's gone.
____
Butcher
The building goes quiet after that.
No voice in the stairwell. No pressure pressing against his skull. Just the steady thud of his boots and the sound of his own breathing — too loud in the empty spaces.
Billy keeps moving.
The higher he gets, the more the air changes. Thinner. Sharper. Like the building itself knows what's waiting at the top and is trying to pull away from it. He passes locked doors, darkened offices, glass walls that reflect him back at himself — jaw set, eyes hollowed out by purpose.
He doesn't slow.
He doesn't rush.
Rushing means fear.
The final stairwell door is heavier than the rest. Reinforced. Meant to keep things in as much as out. Billy presses his shoulder into it and feels the wind immediately — cold, open, alive.
The roof.
The city spreads out beneath him in every direction, lights blinking, traffic crawling, life continuing like nothing's about to fracture.
They're there.
___________
7|
Billy sees her first.
She's tied to a low structure near the center of the roof, wrists bound, body pulled too tight to be comfortable. Her hair's loose, face streaked, chest rising in sharp, uneven breaths. Crying — quiet, contained, like she's afraid to make noise.
Alive.
The relief hits him so hard it almost knocks the wind out of his lungs.
"She's alive," he breathes, already moving.
The world narrows to her. To the rope biting into her wrists. To the way her shoulders tense the second she sees him, eyes widening in something between hope and terror.
"Billy—" she tries.
He doesn't slow.
"Hey," he calls back, voice rough. "I'm here."
He scans her instinctively as he closes the distance — looking for blood, for injuries, for the baby.
The baby—
His heart stutters.
The space beside her is empty.
"No," Billy mutters, steps faltering for half a second. His eyes snap around the rooftop, frantic now, adrenaline spiking hard and fast.
Then he feels it.
The shift.
The air changes — sharp, pulling, like standing too close to an open drop.
Billy turns.
Homelander stands at the very edge of the roof.
One foot planted casually on the concrete, the other near nothing at all. The city yawns beneath him, lights blinking far below, uncaring.
And in his arms—
The baby.
Held close against his chest, one massive hand splayed protectively across the child's back. The baby is quiet. Too quiet. Nestled there like this is where he belongs.
Billy's blood runs cold.
"Get away from him," he says instantly, voice breaking sharp across the rooftop.
Homelander doesn't look at him.
He looks down at the baby instead, head tilted slightly, expression soft — almost reverent — as if he's listening to something no one else can hear.
The wind tugs at his cape.
The distance between them feels impossible.
She screams his name.
Billy takes a step forward—
Homelander finally looks back at them and smiles.
_____
Homelander steps closer to the edge.
Not abruptly. Not to threaten.
Casually.
The movement is small — barely a shift of weight — but the effect is instant. Billy's breath catches like he's been punched. The city yawns wider beneath them, wind rushing louder, hungry.
"Don't," Billy snaps, every muscle locking. "Don't you fuckin' move."
Homelander doesn't look at him.
He adjusts his hold on the baby instead, tucking the child closer to his chest as the wind whips at his cape. One arm cradles the baby with unsettling ease. The other hangs loose at his side, relaxed.
"You see this?" Homelander says softly, still not looking up.
"This is what trust looks like."
Billy takes a step forward despite himself.
"Put him down," he says, voice raw now. "Put him back with her."
Homelander finally glances over his shoulder.
Amused.
"You rushed past me," he says mildly. "Did you notice?"
Billy doesn't answer.
"You went straight to her," Homelander continues. "Didn't even check the edge."
Another step.
The baby shifts slightly — a tiny sound, barely there.
Billy's heart slams against his ribs.
"That's far enough," he growls.
Homelander smiles wider.
"Is it?" he asks.
He moves again — just an inch this time — boots close enough to the ledge that there's nothing beneath him but air.
The baby remains cradled against him, disturbingly calm.
"This," he says, nodding toward the drop,
"is why you're here."
The wind howls.
And Homelander takes one more step closer to nothing at all.
____
Homelander doesn't move for a long moment.
He stands there at the edge, wind tearing at his cape, the baby secure against his chest like the drop below doesn't exist. Billy hasn't advanced another inch. He can't. Everyone knows it.
Homelander exhales slowly.
Satisfied.
"You know," he says casually, "this is the part where you think I'm supposed to do something dramatic."
He glances down at the baby again, softer now.
"Threaten. Hurt someone. Make a point."
His eyes lift back to Billy.
"But I already did."
Billy's jaw is clenched so tight it aches. "Put him down."
Homelander hums, considering. "You see, that's the funny thing."
He shifts his grip slightly — not loosening, just adjusting — and the baby makes a small sound. Not a cry. Not fear.
Comfort.
The reader feels it like a knife.
"He knows me," Homelander says quietly. "Not my name. Not what they call me on the news."
He taps his chest lightly with one finger.
"Me."
"That doesn't mean anything," Billy snaps.
Homelander finally looks amused.
"It means everything."
He steps away from the edge at last, slow and deliberate, crossing the rooftop as if there's no urgency at all. As if the danger has already passed.
When he reaches her, he crouches.
Carefully.
He lowers the baby into her arms with surprising gentleness, adjusting his weight, making sure the baby is settled properly. Making sure he's safe.
The baby doesn't protest.
That's the worst part.
Homelander lingers for just a second longer than necessary, eyes on the child.
"This is how it starts," he says softly. "Not with fear. With familiarity."
He straightens, brushing invisible dust from his gloves.
"You'll tell yourselves it doesn't matter," he continues. "That he's too young to remember. That it was just proximity."
His gaze flicks to Billy.
"But every time he hears my voice," Homelander says, almost pleasantly-
A pause.
"He'll feel it."
The baby shifts slightly in her arms — calm, content.
Homelander smiles.
"I don't need to come back," he says. "That's the beauty of it."
He takes a step back.
Then another.
"This already belongs to me."
The wind rises as he lifts off the rooftop, hovering just long enough to look at them one last time — not angry, not triumphant.
Certain.
And then he's gone.
____
The silence is the worst part.
No wind howling anymore. No pressure in the air. No presence pressing down on their chests. Just the city below, distant and uncaring, and the sudden, brutal normalcy of sound returning.
Billy doesn't move at first.
Neither does she.
The baby shifts slightly in her arms, warm and real and alive. His small breath ghosts against her skin, steady. Unbothered.
Safe.
Billy exhales hard, like he's been holding it in since the moment he stepped onto the roof. His knees threaten to buckle, but he locks them, jaw clenched.
"You okay?" he asks finally.
It's the wrong question. He knows it the second it leaves his mouth.
She nods anyway. Once. Too fast.
"I—" Her voice breaks immediately. She swallows and tries again. "He didn't hurt him."
Billy nods. Slow. Grim.
"I know."
That's what makes it worse.
He steps closer, cautious now, like the space Homelander occupied might still be dangerous. Like standing too close to her might break something fragile and already splintered.
She tightens her hold on the baby instinctively.
Billy notices.
He looks away.
"I should've been here sooner," he says quietly.
She shakes her head. "He wanted you to come."
That lands heavy.
Billy rubs a hand over his face, exhaustion crashing into him all at once now that the adrenaline has nowhere left to go.
"Yeah," he mutters. "Sounds about right."
They stand there for a moment longer, the weight of the rooftop pressing in now that the spectacle is gone. The ropes at her wrists chafe. Billy notices them belatedly and moves to cut her free, hands rough but careful.
The moment the restraint falls away, she sags.
Billy catches her without thinking.
For half a second, she lets herself lean into him.
Then the baby stirs.
A small sound — soft, curious.
She freezes.
Billy feels it too. The way her body tenses. The way her breath catches.
The baby isn't upset.
He isn't confused.
He's calm.
Content.
Billy pulls back just enough to look at him.
The baby's eyes drift — not to Billy's face, not to her voice — but upward. Toward the open sky. Toward the space where Homelander disappeared.
Billy's stomach drops.
"Hey," he says softly, trying to redirect, forcing gentleness into his voice. "It's alright. He's gone."
The baby makes a quiet sound in response.
Almost pleased.
She clutches him closer, panic flickering sharp and sudden in her chest. "Billy... why is he—?"
Billy doesn't answer right away.
Because he doesn't have one that won't make this worse.
"We're leaving," he says instead. Firm. Decisive. "Right now."
They don't look back as they move toward the stairwell. The rooftop door closes behind them with a heavy finality that feels like punctuation rather than relief.
But even as they descend, even as the building swallows them whole again, Billy can't shake the feeling crawling up his spine.
This wasn't an escape.
It was a release.
And whatever Homelander left behind didn't stay on the rooftop.
It went with them.
___________
8|
Nightmare POV
The nightmares don't come all at once.
They slip in quietly, the way he always did.
She dreams of light first — not blinding, not violent — just present. A glow behind her eyelids, pulsing gently, insistently, like someone standing too close with the lights on.
In the dream, she can't move.
She's aware of the room before she's aware of herself. The hum of electricity. The faint click of something turning on. The air changing — heavier, warmer — like a storm pressing down without rain.
Then the baby stirs.
She wakes with a gasp, hand flying instinctively to the crib.
Still there.
Her heart hammers anyway, sweat cooling at the base of her spine. The room is dark, untouched. No sound but the baby's soft breathing and the distant whine of traffic outside.
She tells herself it was just a dream.
But her eyes drift to the light switch.
It's flipped on.
She doesn't remember turning it on.
⸻
Sleep becomes something she avoids.
When she does drift off, the dreams change. They stop being images and start being feelings.
Being watched.
Being evaluated.
Being... allowed.
She dreams of standing in the doorway of the nursery, unable to cross the threshold. Someone else is already there. Someone tall enough to block out the windowlight. Someone who doesn't touch anything — doesn't need to — because the room itself seems to respond to him.
The baby doesn't cry.
In the dream, the baby never cries.
He coos softly, content, little hands flexing in the air like he's reaching for something familiar.
She wakes up shaking.
The baby is awake this time.
Not crying.
Just staring at the ceiling, eyes wide and calm, following something that isn't there.
Her breath stutters. "Hey," she whispers, rushing to him, scooping him up. "Hey, it's okay."
He settles instantly against her chest.
But his gaze lingers past her shoulder.
Toward the corner.
⸻
It's the little things that undo her.
The lights flickering once — just once — when the baby fusses.
The way he calms when the television turns on, even if it's muted.
The way his eyes track movement on the screen with an intensity that feels wrong for someone so small.
One night, she flips past a news channel too fast to register the image fully.
The baby laughs.
A sharp, delighted sound — brief, unmistakable.
Her hand trembles on the remote.
She doesn't turn it back.
She doesn't need to.
Later, in the quiet, she remembers things she doesn't want to remember.
Moments she dismissed as exhaustion.
The hum in the walls at night.
The way the baby would settle suddenly, inexplicably, when nothing she did worked.
The shadows that didn't move right.
The certainty — unearned and terrifying — that someone else had been there.
Not every night.
Just often enough.
She presses her forehead to the cool edge of the crib and squeezes her eyes shut.
Babies get attached easily, she tells herself.
They don't know what they're feeling.
They don't remember.
But the thought won't leave her.
What if he does?
What if he learned the shape of safety wrong?
What if the voice he heard in the dark wasn't hers — or Billy's — but something deeper, steadier, impossibly calm?
She rocks slowly, heart aching.
The baby sighs contentedly, cheek warm against her collarbone.
And for one horrible moment, she wonders—
Not if Homelander came back.
But how many times he never really left.
____________
9|
Time Skip**
It happens on a Tuesday afternoon.
Nothing special. Nothing charged.
The living room smells faintly of laundry detergent and something warm she forgot about in the oven. Sunlight spills in through the blinds in thin, uneven stripes. Toys are scattered across the rug — blocks, a stuffed animal missing one eye, a plastic truck with a cracked wheel.
He's sitting on the floor, legs tucked under him, juice cup abandoned nearby.
One. Maybe two.
Old enough to walk. Old enough to point. Old enough to recognize faces.
The television murmurs quietly in the background — something she isn't really watching. News she lets run because silence feels worse lately.
She's half-turned away, folding clothes, when she hears it.
A sound she hasn't heard from him before.
Not laughter exactly.
Recognition.
She turns.
On the screen, the image sharpens as the anchor steps aside. A familiar red, white, and blue fills the frame. A cape. A smile polished for cameras. The banner at the bottom of the screen flashes his name.
Homelander Addresses the Nation.
Her breath catches.
Before she can reach for the remote, her son reacts.
He lights up.
His whole face changes — eyes widening, mouth opening in a soft, delighted sound. He pushes himself upright clumsily, toddling a few steps closer to the television, one small hand lifting.
"Da," he says.
Not a question.
Not a mistake.
A greeting.
Her stomach drops so hard she feels dizzy.
"No," she whispers, barely audible. "No, sweetheart—"
He laughs then. A bright, happy sound. He presses his palm against the screen, fingers splayed over Homelander's image as the man speaks calmly about safety and strength and the future.
Homelander smiles on-screen.
The toddler mimics it.
She lunges for the remote, fumbling, turning the television off too fast, plunging the room into sudden quiet.
The silence screams.
He whines immediately, confused, upset. He turns toward her, eyes shining, reaching.
"Da," he repeats, insistent now.
Her hands shake as she scoops him up, heart pounding so loud she's sure he can hear it.
"That's not—" Her voice breaks. She swallows hard. "That's not—"
She doesn't finish.
Because what is she supposed to say?
He squirms in her arms, craning his neck toward the dark screen, upset now that it's gone. He pats her shoulder distractedly, still searching.
She presses her forehead to his hair, breathing him in, grounding herself in the warmth and weight of him.
It doesn't mean anything, she tells herself desperately.
He's too young.
He doesn't understand.
But even as she rocks him gently, trying to soothe him, she can't stop thinking about all the times the lights flickered. All the nights the house felt full. All the moments she told herself she was imagining things.
About how calm he always was.
About how safe he seemed to feel.
Her son sighs, settling at last, cheek warm against her chest.
Still smiling.
And somewhere, far away, a man in a cape continues speaking to the world — unaware, or maybe perfectly aware — that a child has learned his face before he learned fear.
She holds her son tighter.
And for the first time since the rooftop, she understands something with terrifying clarity:
