I don't understand why Grace Mallory had to die. Just have her manage to capture Ryan at the end of season 4 and "train" him. It changes nothing about season 5. Ryan could act the same way in it without contradicting how he was in previous seasons, because we'd know why he changed his mind on killing, on dying for Grace and Billy's cause, and on fighting Homelander. We'd even have a solid reason for his reduced screentime in season 5, as we'd know going into the season that Ryan is in a CIA black site going through a truncated version of what Homelander went through. Billy can still give in but not really to Kessler and start betting on the virus. Just have him/Kessler yammer a bit about needing a contingency because he's not sure Ryan has what it takes.
If history is bound to repeat in any case due to Stan and Vought surviving the series, let's just lean into it. Get into it during the final season. Ryan follows the path Vought most likely would have set him on in the same way they would have. Let our protagonists fight fire with fire.
Then we'd also have a reason for MM abruptly starting to care about Ryan in the finale. He learned what Mallory and Butcher did to him, feels awful for not realizing what they were capable of doing to a kid, and resolves to look out for Ryan going forward.
Author's Note: This is story non-canon compliant, with the two main differences being; 1) Butcher doesn't have brain cancer, because I said so. 2) All of Gen V didn't take place, because I don't want to deal with the whole supe-plauge thing. Also that's too many characters to keep track of squad. Because of this, the story will start in a similar setting as s4e5, but with different events leading up to it, and will deal with similar themes and have similar events to the rest of s4, but at an inconsistent rate. If you have any questions about other, smaller changes I have made, feel free to ask! Enjoy!
Word Count: 4k
Chapter Summary/Warnings: See the Masterlist for Summary. Contains usual tags.
Chapter title is from Growing Up by Fall Out Boy.
Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff.
You were not, and never had been, in the business of fighting your wars bloody. You fought them smart, and you fought them dirty. You wouldn’t call yourself callous—if anything, you could use a little more misanthropy in your life—but your moral compass was… subjective. You would steal bread to feed your family, you would cheat if you knew you wouldn’t get caught, and, as you had spent the last six months learning, you would quickly cover your hands in all the blood and grime in the world so that nobody else would have to.
Which was, unfortunately, not a figure of speech.
You let yourself lie in the mud, the cool texture soothing your always-warm skin, and fought the urge to sleep. You could hear someone shouting your name, strung together with an impressive array of obscenities and barely audible over whatever phase of the argument your companions were on, but god, you just could not bring yourself to give a fuck. Sure, the blood on your face was already dry, and the hay mixed into the mud itched and needled at your skin, but you’d live. You’d survived much worse, and at this point it was scientifically impossible for you to get sick, so everyone could just come back for you in a week or two. Maybe three. However long it took for the nightmare sheep to die and Vought’s stock prices to be lower in the mud than where you lay. Maybe a bit longer. Maybe until Homelander wasn’t a you problem anymore. Maybe they’d feed his corpse to the nightmare sheep when they came to get you.
You felt yourself smile a little at that thought. Dead Homelander, weak and pathetic, golden hair grimy, awful blue eyes milky and hollow. Dead Homelander, hands unable to hurt you, mouth unable to twist into that horrific smile. Dead Homelander, pretty face mauled and stupid outfit smelling like shit from being dragged in it to the barn. Being torn to tiny pieces and eaten by sheep. The worst thing that ever happened to you, finishing his reign of terror shat out next to a creek somewhere.
Your smile covered your whole face at this point. It probably looked weird and creepy—the dire, life-or-death situation you were smack dab in the middle of not doing it any favors—but it was too perfect a daydream. You could live here forever, in the mud, with your fucked-up little fantasy on loop.
Tragically, you barely had twenty seconds in this ideal world when something hit you in the face.
“What the fuck?!" You sat up, ignoring the hand offering aid from Frenchie, glaring around the barn for your assailant.
“’Bout time you join the land of the living, love. We’ve got a fucking problem, and you don’t get to nap until it’s fixed.”
Across the barn, Billy Butcher shot you a cocky grin that didn’t meet his eyes. To be fair, you weren’t sure it ever did.
“You didn’t have to hit me in the face, you ass.”
“That was me,” Frenchie cut in. “And you should thank me, Monsieur Butcher was going to shoot you.”
“You were going to shoot me?!”
“Would’ve felt the same either way, wouldn’t it?” Butcher shrugged.
“No! I’m not bulletproof, you dick!”
“You’d live.”
“So would MM if you shot him! I don’t see you gearing up for that!”
“Well, MM wasn’t sleepin’ in the middle of a crisis!”
You rolled your eyes, meeting Butcher’s glare from across the room. "Oh, please, you just wanted an excuse to try and kill me!”
“If I wanted to kill you, sweetheart, it’d look more like this.”
Butcher’s arms started to move behind him, where you knew he kept his gun, and you braced yourself, hands fisted at your side.
“Hey!” MM stepped forward, arms raised. “You, if you shoot anyone, I will throw you out to the sheep, I swear to God. And you,” he turned his gaze from Butcher, “turn it down, it’s the middle of winter in Maine, and I feel like I’m standing in the goddamn sun.”
You blinked, realizing that the room had rapidly become impossibly hot, and everyone had moved far as possible from where you stood. The new, alien feeling that sat under your skin was alight and sharp, almost buzzing through you.
“Sorry,” you mumbled, stepping back. MM lowered his arms, a look of what might have been concern flashing across his face, but turned away as the conversation returned to the murder-sheep issue.
You took a few steps back, nobody stopping you or asking for your contribution. You were allowed to fully shrink into the wall. You felt your hand move up to your throat, trying to slow the tense, short breaths passing in and out of your body.
“Try thinking of something that calmed you down before.”
You jumped, not having noticed Victoria Neuman move to your side, and gave her a small frown as you responded. “What?”
“Something familiar. Anything that takes the edge off. Trust me,” she gave you a tight-lipped smile. “I’ve been dealing with this my whole life. It won’t get easier on its own. And that,“ she gestured to your hand. “Won’t help it long-term.”
You nodded slowly, forcing yourself to drag your hand from your throat. Something happy. Something happy from before. What had been happy before?
Briefly, city lights flashed in your head, a song on a stereo accompanied by your own hum ringing silently in your ears. It vanished just as fast, but something in your chest loosened, and the feeling waned. Glancing over at Neuman, you saw a small nod of approval before she left your side, allowing you a second to steel yourself before following.
You found yourself standing next to Annie, who gave you a quick and, as far as you could tell, genuine smile before returning her attention to the tense conversation between Butcher and Stan Edgar. The former's voice had grown to a shout, somewhat ranting about a goose-chase for the bioweapon supposedly on this farm, the latter just watching with a cold, indifferent gaze.
“Are you done, Mr. Butcher?” Edgar’s voice betrayed no anger or fear; the only signs of emotion on his face his tightened lips and raised brows. “Because if you are, I would finally be able to share my plan to get us out of this hellhole you dug us into.”
Butcher scoffed, but before he could call Edgar either a cunt or a twat—both seemed equally plausible at the moment—the stone-faced man continued.
“While I will be the first to admit that an error was made in regards to a possible weapon against Homelander, I could not call today a complete waste. After all, you introduced me to this… charming young woman. The Anomaly,” he turned to you, and a shiver ran up your spine as he used your supe name. “Is going to help us.”
“Uh,” you paled under the pressing eyes of your team. “No. I don’t, uh, I… no.”
“Yes. You will,” Edgar said. “The V variant you carry is Homelander’s attempt to duplicate the original, the one used on Soldier Boy. Most likely a good attempt. And though the original V was unstable and less than suitable in any practical means, it was potent. I do not think I would be wrong in guessing you are just as strong as Soldier Boy, and likely immortal as well.”
“No.” Annie cut it in. “If you’re going to suggest we use her as- As bait, the answer is no.”
“I was not going to suggest that, Ms. January. Why would I waste such a good product on sheep bait? I am proposing that she simply eliminate our issue. I hear sheep catch fire quite easily.”
Everyone was looking at you now. Waiting for you to step forward and say something, anything. But you were frozen, mouth slightly agape, a million scenarios playing out in your head. You saying yes, and failing to do anything but start a forest fire, the barn burning around you as everyone remained trapped inside. You saying no, and the sheep breaking in and eating everyone alive. You saying yes, but losing control and hitting someone, watching them burn to ash as they screamed. You saying no, and everyone just rotting away in the barn; you yourself unable to do the same. The silence hung in the room, taunt with the way breathing had become labored in your chest, and you thanked a god you didn’t believe in as Annie stepped forward.
“She can’t control it,” she told Edgar. “We’ve been working on it for a while, and-“ She gives you an apologetic look. “She’s gotten better, but she can’t. It’s more complicated than it usually is, and it’s new.”
“Well, then I guess we should start to pray she gets lucky. I simply will not die in a barn in Maine, and unless anyone else has a plan, I must insist we start moving. Before the structural integrity fails us, and we all become dinner.”
The room was quiet for another moment, Annie looking as if she wanted to argue, but MM spoke first, his voice laced with reluctance.
“He’s right. We don’t have time to come up with something better.” He sighed, turning to you. “You’re the best bet we’ve got.”
“Still a shit bet,” Butcher muttered.
You agreed.
But Edgar was right.
“Everyone will need to stay inside,” you said softly. “Even if it works, this could get… messy.”
Murmurs of agreement were made, and you turned to Kimiko. “You’re the strongest,” you told her. “You can open and close the door the fastest. Crack it open, I’ll run through, and slam it as fast as you fucking can.”
She nodded, moving to the barn's entrance. As she passed you, she paused, giving your arm a small squeeze and you a small smile before moving on. You smiled back, trying to ignore the flash of her anxiety running through you at the touch. Everyone else began to move to the opposite side, hiding pointlessly behind hay and barrels. Neuman paused, though, looking at you with an unreadable expression.
“Something calm,” was all she said before turning to follow Edgar.
Something calm.
City lights. Music. Cheap burgers and cheaper beer. Carefree smiles. Music.
You stood before the doors, giving Kimiko a small thumbs up. She raised her hand, fingers falling from five to four, from four to three.
Two.
One.
You sprinted forward, waited for the sound of a slam behind you, and let go.
The world lit up.
It felt like a hurricane was spilling out of you, like a part of you was being ripped out and launched away. You could see the fire, but not quite feel it. If anything a chill had set itself through your veins, your skin becoming flushed not from heat, but exhaustion. Already darkness was creeping into your eyes, the effort to control the flames splitting the sky taking a toll. It was like a volcano trying to control its eruption, if any of its magma was under the control of the mountain.
But you had to. You could pass out after; you could sleep for a hundred years, but right now you had to control it.
The blood and muck on your skin had been long seared off, the clothes on your back turning into foul-smelling smoke. Your job was long finished now, nothing but bone and sinew remaining of the sheep, but a new problem emerged.
You couldn’t stop. You were burning and burning and burning, and the feeling in your skin wasn’t dulling, but growing. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by pure adrenaline, yanking you up and up, away from relief.
Something calm, Neuman’s voice echoed in your head, and you closed your eyes, trying to hear that long-gone music and see those phantom lights.
It wasn’t working. And you were only getting closer to an edge, a drop into something you’d been so careful to avoid. It was eating you, pushing you further and further. You'd jump into the freezing water of the river but it would just evaporate. You’d bury yourself in the mud but it would just boil, feeding into itself.
Sing, a small part of you begged the rest. Just sing. No use hiding yourself if you’re dead.
You gave in, and began to hum. An empty tune, your voice on key but strained. Slowly, you felt yourself come to, your body returning to your control. You followed the song to the end, and as it finished—just before you collapsed on the ground—relief rushed through you. The fire had lingered, a saving grace from your song. You hadn’t felt any effects, with no hallucinations plaguing your vision before it went dark.
The first thing you realized when you woke up was that you’d been moved from the dirt to rest against a tree. The second was that you were no longer naked. Someone had apparently managed to find you clothes, and though they were itchy and a few sizes too big, you were still grateful. The third was that you smelled like shit. You had thought you were covered in blood before, but that now seemed as if it had been bubbles and floral perfume. One might have thought thoroughly barbecued sheep would’ve smelled at least tolerable. They would’ve been wrong. Because you were covered in what of it hadn’t dissipated into smoke, and you smelled like a dumpster full of rubber and fish.
The only person who would come near you was Frenchie—who had forsaken his sense of smell years ago—and had evidently dressed you and pulled you to where you currently sat. Everyone else stood closer to the fence, waiting for their ride back to New York to pull up on the dirt road. You sat alone, eyes still drooping, startled out of your own head as Edgar’s voice cut through the air.
“I must say, I am glad to see my faith in you was not misplaced.”
"Yeah, well,” you shrugged, looking up at where he stood, only a few feet away. “I wouldn’t ask for an encore.”
“I am afraid I may have to. In our prior introduction, it seems you deeply undersold your capabilities.”
“Forgive me, I didn’t have time for self-evaluation when I was being kept in a fucking dungeon.”
Edgar sighed. “I must apologize for that. Though I was not made aware of Homelander’s little escapade, I recognize that you might feel as though I hold some blame.”
“Not an apology,” you muttered. “And I find that hard to believe.”
“Unfortunate, but I cannot force you to accept the truth.” He looked you up and down once before continuing. “And regardless, it is not what I am here to say.”
“I was wrong only once today, and it was when I said you were just as strong as Soldier Boy. You are not. You are much, much stronger. Not physically, of course, but overall. Overall, your power surpasses Soldier Boy’s, surpasses Homelander’s. I know you wish him dead, I would imagine you prefer it to be painful, and very few deaths inflict the suffering felt when one is burned alive. I suggest you learn how to control your gift, and learn fast. You were looking for a weapon, and I am telling you that you are it. Do not waste yourself.”
And he walked away, leaving your mouth open and your eyes wide. You stood to follow him, painfully pulling yourself to your feet, but made only a few steps before you felt a rock hit your back, and you whipped around to find Frenchie behind you, holding a hose.
“Starlight says you might want a shower before our drive back,” he said, gesturing to the hose.
You blinked, looking back at Edgar, only to watch him be loaded into an armed van. Your brow wrinkled, a part of you wanting to chase the car down and demand Edgar elaborate, but you just turned back to Frenchie with a sigh.
“Sure, just count down before you–“
You cut yourself off as the freezing water hit you in the face.
Thankfully, Frenchie had thought to bring a towel—a gross, possibly moldy towel—but a towel nonetheless, and he handed it to you the moment the hose-down was finished. As his arm stretched out, you noticed a deep gash poking out from his sleeve.
“I can fix that,” you gestured to him. “I mean, I’ll have to touch you, but I won’t tell anyone what I feel, and you won’t have to let MM give you stitches.”
Frenchie frowned, looking at his arm as if only he now noticing his injury. “Are you sure? You must be tired, I would not assume–“
“I’ll be fine. Won’t hurt me for more than a few seconds.”
He hesitated, but gave you a nod, rolling up his sleeve before offering his injury to you. You took a deep breath and placed your hand over the wound. It hit you fast, it always did, the onslaught of emotions. You were suddenly twice as tired, a powerful and painful guilt sitting on your shoulders and a self-loathing that was familiar, but not yours, carved itself into your chest. After a second to adjust, you started to work. Your own arm, mirror to Frenchie’s, began to sting as the skin turned raw and red. You bit your tongue, ignoring it and focusing on keeping yourself going until the cut was gone, the skin was healthy, and there were no signs of any issues in the first place.
“Huh,” Frenchie stated at his unmarked arm, glancing at your own, which was already fully healed itself. “Merci.”
“No problem,” you offered him a grin. “Just don’t tell Butcher you accepted my evil supe healing.”
“You do not,” he frowned slightly. “You do not feel everything, yes? Just, simple, children’s emotions?”
It was your turn to frown. “Children’s emotions?”
“Oui. Joy, fear, sadness. No more.”
Oh. You hesitated to answer, debating if it was worth the lie. It would make him feel better, you reasoned with yourself.
But he wouldn’t trust you, a little voice whispered. And he’ll hate you.
You settled on the truth. You didn’t think you could stand another person hating you.
“No, I feel… everything,” you admitted. “But I wasn’t lying before. I won’t tell anyone.” You paused, watching his face carefully as you continued. “I won’t tell Kimiko.”
A look of shock passed over his face, but Frenchie nodded. “Good. Good. Tres bien,” he gave you a grateful look. “Merci.”
“Anytime,” you gave him a close-lipped smile, and the two of you returned to your group just as your ride pulled up. As you loaded into the car and began the long, tense drive, Edgar’s words replayed on loop in your head.
Your power surpasses Soldier Boy’s, surpasses Homelander’s. Learn how to control your gift, and learn fast. Do not waste yourself.
Do not waste yourself.
You thought back to the last time you saw Homelander. Though it had been from a distance, and he had not even known you were there, your body had frozen. Fear, white-hot and freezing and all consuming, had coursed through you. You had almost passed out from it. If you had been face-to-face with him, it might have killed you all on its own.
Do not waste yourself.
You couldn’t fight Homelander. You just couldn’t. You could be capable of overpowering him tenfold, and you still wouldn’t be able to fight him. You knew, in your heart, that his eyes would meet yours and you would be sent right back into that tiny white room, feel his hands holding you down. You’d only be able to feel that hollow, empty hopelessness leak from you into the air.
But he needs to die, a small voice whispered in your head. And you’re the Anomaly. You could kill him. You’re the only one who could stop him forever, make sure he never hurts anyone, ever again.
No. No, you couldn’t be the only one. Yes, the biochem weapon had been a bust, and no one else could possibly rival Homelander and come out of it alive. But there had to be other options.
Your power surpasses Soldier Boy’s.
Do not waste yourself.
An idea started to form in your head. A terrible idea. A reckless and dangerous idea. Really one of your worst. But an idea all the same. And as it became fully formed, you managed to convince yourself more and more that it might somehow work.
Now all you had to do was convince everyone else.
“No. No fucking way.”
The air in the meeting room was tense, mouths hanging open in shock. MM was glaring at you with a disdain you had previously only seen directed at Butcher, Butcher watched at you with a reverence you hope to never see on his face again, Grace Mallory looked all at once disgusted, intrigued, and impressed, and President-Elect Singer frowned as he listened, but gave you a nod to continue regardless.
“I know it’s crazy, but the problem last time was that you couldn’t control him, right? And I could. You can have us isolated, making sure we're out of the public eye and away from any possible collateral until you need us. I’d keep an eye on him, keep him in line, and he wouldn’t be able to hurt me.”
“I, for one, think this is an amazin’ idea. Best one I ever heard,” Butcher grinned at you. “Worst case scenario, it goes sideways, he kills her, we knock ‘im out, and everyone still wins.”
“What part of ‘he wouldn’t be able to hurt me’ don’t you understand?” You snapped back.
“What about when he blasts you with his fucking reactor?” MM jumped in, short and angry. “Makes you just another human? What’s your plan then?”
“That won’t work on me.”
Butcher snorted, but Mallory raised an eyebrow.
“Really? What makes you so sure?”
“One of the tests that was run on me was putting me in a room and blasting it with nuclear energy. They dropped Hiroshima on me, and it did jack shit. Soldier Boy throwing a temper tantrum won’t be any different.”
“And how do you think you could control him?” Singer asked.
“I can burn up to 5500 degrees Celsius. That’s hotter than a bomb. Won’t kill him, will knock him the fuck out. And it’ll hurt.”
“I just can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner,” Butcher mused. “It’s fuckin' perfect.”
You glowered at him. “Stop helping me.”
MM looked at Mallory. “The fact that America’s number one unstable asshole,” he gestured to Butcher. “Is on board should be enough to tell you how stupid this is.”
“Number two unstable asshole,” you said under your breath.
“Thanks, Love,” Butcher winked at you.
“Yeah well, don’t be so pleased. You’re only just losing to Homelander.”
Butcher shrugged, and you returned your attention to Singer. “Sir, please trust me. I, more than almost anyone, I know how dangerous this could be. But Homelander is more dangerous. We needed a weapon,” you echoed Edgar’s words. “This is it.”
Singer nodded slowly, and MM scoffed.
“You can’t be seriously considering this. He’s a fucking unstable asshole murderer and a goddamn liability. What if we wake him up, she can’t control him, and he gets free?”
“We said whatever it takes,” you snapped. “I wouldn’t be pitching this if I thought it wouldn’t work. I can control him, I promise.”
“You’d bet your life on it?” Mallory asked.
“My life?” You snorted. “In a heartbeat.”
Mallory sighed. “Then fine,” she shot a look to Singer. “I’ll sign off if you do.”
“Sir,” MM said, sounding almost desperate. “I am begging you, do not do this.”
Singer just shook his head slightly. “Desperate times, they make you do desperate things. If I saw another way, I’d take it, but for now we’ll have to make do. I approve the request.”
“Thank you, sir.” You gave Singer a grateful nod, ignoring the searing feeling of MM’s glare.
“Don’t thank me, girl. If this goes south, it’s your head. Grace, set up a safe house for them ASAP, if I’m signing off on this I want it moving fast.”
Mallory nodded. “It’ll take a few days. We’ll have to transport him there before we wake him up.”
“Do whatever you have to,” Singer said as he stood to leave. “If this is our only shot, we can’t afford to miss.”
The events of The Boys get paused because Stan Edgar has to take Grace out to dinner. They talk long into the night about the proper handling of supes, their delightful pseudo-grandkids that would be almost perfect if it wasn't for those pesky powers, and what on earth they're going to do with their problem 'children', Billy and Homelander. By the next morning, Butcher and Homelander are engaged to be married - whether they like it or not.
If Ryan is the one to ultimately finish Homelander...
I want it to be because he has no choice.
That everything else he's tried has failed.
That he tried to save him and couldn't.
If Ryan is immediately 'my dad destroyed the country and raped my mom i have to kill him grr' then it makes Grace Mallory's death pointless. Then he just ended up doing what she wanted with zero thought whatsoever - so why did Grace die? Make her death matter as Ryan finds his way in the world and has some actual character development this season. He has hard decisions ahead regarding not only Homelander, but Butcher too.
Ryan is not like Homelander. He is not like Butcher.
And he said it himself: he wants to save people.
If he can't save his dads, then he'll save the world from them both.
Honestly, I don't think I will ever be able to get over the scene in the Hazlet safehouse between Grace and Ryan.
Apart from being very angry about her for threatening to drug a teenager, I also just can't get over what she says.
She has this heartwarming monologue. About him essentially being like a third grandson to her. Like family she thought she didn't have any longer. How she loves him and sees him as literally a relative. How she raised him and everything.
And then, when Ryan asks why the walls are six feet solid, she says:
"This place was made to hold PEOPLE LIKE YOU."
In the end, despite her obvious love for him, he will always be a supe first and foremost. No matter how much she accepts him, she will only ever think of him as something OTHER. Something to be carefully watched and contained if necessary.
And it destroys all the love she built beforehand.
Big "one of the good ones" energy. "Oh, he's a nice, well-behaved boy... for a supe."
No matter how much Ryan shows he doesn't want to hurt people and, in fact, wants nothing more than to help, the humans in his life will never see him as an equal.
And honestly, I think part of the reason why Ryan's powers are still so uncontrolled is because he can't accept them. Becca loved him most when he was "human". Grace loved him most when he was "human". Billy legit only seems to love him when he's "human". Of course it's hard for him to accept the part of himself that just inherently isn't. He barely ever uses his powers, and when he does, usually not fully deliberately. Which, in turn, just cements the notion he needs to be watched and contained instead of just being taught.
