Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bathroom door creaked open, releasing a faint hiss of steam as Marie stepped out, her damp hair clinging to her neck. She rubbed her face with the towel but her gaze lingered on the discarded uniform draped over the tub’s edge, the dull gray of captivity, splattered with dried blood and still vividly fresh memory.

A tremor escaped her chest before she shut the door and tossed the towel aside, as though shedding the past hour with it.

She stepped out of the room—and froze.

He stood at the end of the hall, leaning against the wall like a sentinel. Arms crossed. Shoulders rigid. The light caught the shadow on his jaw—thick stubble, dark roots bleeding through the gold of his hair. A fallen god in halfway disguise.

Her throat tightened. The sight of him still felt unreal. This man, who was publicly pronounced dead, now breathing, watching, existing. Even when his eyes stayed fixed on the floor, she knew he’d clocked her the second she stepped out.

Marie cleared her throat softly, to hint at her presence anyway. “Thank you. And I’m sorry about… Starlight. And everything.”

Her voice wavered, trying to bridge the chasm between wariness and gratitude. The story he’d told her on the drive here—about what had been done to him by Starlight and Vought, to Marie herself by Vought—still crawled under her skin. This apartment, hidden in some forgotten corner of Connecticut, felt like merely a pause between catastrophic storms.

Homelander didn’t answer right away. He just blinked once, his expression unreadable like a man standing between two mirrors and not liking either reflection. Then, a quiet breath escaped him as he pushed off the wall.

“Is this okay?” he asked, motioning vaguely toward the modest house.

Marie nodded, managing a polite smile. “Yeah. It’s… good. Thanks.”

He gave a single nod, almost mechanical, and turned to leave. “Alright then. I’ll get out of your way. Settle in. Call me if you need anything.”

She watched him start down the short hallway, his boots dull against the old wooden floor. Something about the ease in his tone didn’t match the wrath she knew was buried beneath it.

“Wait—” she called out.

He stopped, hand resting on the doorknob but not turning it. The tilt of his head was slight, a flicker of curiosity.

“So… what now?” Marie asked, stepping closer, hesitant but unable to hold back. “Are you going to kill Starlight? Take revenge?”

The words fell into the air like a match striking oil.

Homelander gave a slow shrug, lips quirking into that half-hearted smirk that never quite reached his eyes. “I don’t know… probably,” he said, tone almost casual, which somehow made it worse. “But you don’t need to worry about all that. I'll find your sister soon. And in the meantime, you just focus on your little blood tricks and your studies. I might need your help patching up an old friend one of these days.”

Marie crossed her arms, her brows knitting. “I don’t mind helping people,” she said, firmer now. “But don’t you think this… blind vengeance thing could end up burning everything down? Including you?”

He was silent for a long moment, gaze dropping, the air thick with an unspoken ache. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, no smugness, no smirk. Just a raw, tired honesty.

“You don’t get it, kid,” he said. “This isn’t about vengeance because I’m Homelander. It’s about vengeance because I’m a father. I want to avenge my son. That’s the difference.”

His eyes lifted to hers, cold and steady. “So tell me—will you stand in my way, or trust me enough to let me handle it?”

Marie let out a disbelieving laugh, short and sharp. “I’m not like you,” she said. “I’ll never be like you. How can I even trust you?”

He nodded once, without offense, just quiet acknowledgment. “You’re right,” he murmured. “You’re not. You’re the lucky one who got to grow up behind the safety walls of Red River.”

Marie frowned, her head tilting slightly, unsure if that was pity, resentment, or both.

Homelander’s gaze drifted past her, unfocused, as if watching ghosts play out scenes only he could see. 

“You ever notice,” he started, voice low and rough, “that no matter where we go, there’s always a trail of destruction behind us?” His jaw flexed, the weight of self-awareness cutting through his arrogance. “We’re destroyers, Marie. Built that way—enhanced in labs, programmed for war. But you…” He looked at her now, something almost pleading in his eyes. “You could be different. You could be the redeemer.”

Marie clicked her tongue, unimpressed. “Why are you saying all this to me?”

He blinked, then exhaled through his nose, a dry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s just say being dead for two weeks puts a lot of things to perspective. You start realizing how small you really are—and then, somehow, you still manage to feel bigger than God.” He gave a humorless laugh that died quickly in the air.

Marie folded her arms tighter around herself, her tone quiet but defiant. “Then, by your logic, if we’re both made from the same purpose… we can both choose to be redeemers too.”

A faint crease ghosted across Homelander’s face, something between a frown and a smirk. Then he let out a quiet, hollow chuckle. 

“I’ll never be a redeemer, Marie,” he said, voice dipping into an almost fatherly tone, though the warmth was counterfeit. “We’re two sides of the same coin. Yin and Yang. Good and bad. We exist to keep each other in check—so neither of us forgets what we really are.” His tone hardened, as if he needed to convince himself of it more than her.

Before Marie could open her mouth to argue again, he turned the knob and stepped out. The door shut behind him with a muted thud that lingered like a period at the end of a tragedy.

Marie stood in the silence that followed, pulse still thrumming. She could feel it, the air he left behind—heavy and charged. The man was fractured, unpredictable… and somewhere behind those cold blue eyes, he was planning something monumentally fucked. 

Chapter Text

The apartment was thick with the mouthwatering scent of steak, its edges crisping as the fat hissed and blackened in the pan. On the side burner, Jessica orchestrated a small symphony of vegetables—baby corn glinting like gold, cauliflower chunks puffed and tender, long beans curling, and potatoes caramelizing to a perfect golden brown. She dusted them with a careful flourish of herbs and spices.

The steak quivered slightly in the pan, just shy of perfection—medium, exactly how she liked it. Jessica let both steak and vegetables rest in a final simmer, savoring the hiss and pop as if it were applause. Pouring herself a glass of deep red wine, she swirled it, letting the scent curl through the kitchen. 

A year and five months. That’s how long it had been since she and Annie had taken down Homelander with the V-inhibitor, that revolutionary serum that had finally earned FDA approval. Of course, the drug was now as restricted as nuclear codes—only to be used as an assisting drug for the death penalty in cases of superhuman criminality. And yet, the memory of that moment still tasted sweeter than any victory wine.

Meanwhile, Sage had ascended to the vice presidency under Robert Singer’s administration, the man who now ran the country with the sort of calm authoritarian efficiency that made Jessica’s teeth itch. Together, they’d imposed laws that strangled superhuman freedom with a velvet glove. No more unsanctioned crime-fighting, no more flamboyant heroics—superhumans were now chained to either showbiz or mundane civilian careers, a far cry from their golden-era worship and fear.

Even casual use of powers was a legal minefield. Self-defense? Only if it was credible enough to fool a jury of ordinary humans. Defending yourself from someone who couldn’t touch you otherwise? Laughable. And yet, the propaganda campaigns were relentless, drumming the message into the public: superhumans were no longer gods, just freaks to be controlled and pitied. They couldn’t even go by their old superhero names anymore.

It was a world turned upside-down, a society that had once bowed, worshipped, and feared them now sneering from beneath their breath, a bitter, ironic echo of past glory. 

Jessica raised her glass, the wine catching the light like blood, and toasted silently: to surviving, to thriving, to enjoying the moment before the world could try to take it back.

Today, Jessica and Robert had pulled off a high-stakes deal with China, one of those headline-grabbing, “nations-breathing-a-sigh-of-relief” kind of achievements that promised to fatten coffers and ego alike. Robert had spent the last month pacing like a caffeinated meerkat, teeth clenched, forehead damp, mentally running through every possible disaster scenario. And yet, deep down, he trusted Jessica—formerly Sister Sage—to orchestrate the entire fiasco with flawless precision. She didn’t just handle deals. She owned them.

In Robert’s narrow circle of superhuman “trust,” Jessica and Annie were essentially untouchable. He liked them, depended on them, and secretly feared their ability to make or break him with a single miscalculated move. They were the architects behind the obliteration of Vought, Homelander, and his whiny spawn Ryan. And sure, putting yet another superhuman—this time in the Vice Presidency—into power might have seemed ironic given the iron-fisted muzzling of their entire species. But Robert didn’t care. Jessica was the smartest person on the planet. That, he decided, counted as a superpower. And with Annie by her side, both had proven their worth beyond question. Keep them close, reap the benefits, pray they didn’t get bored and torch the place.

Robert, of course, had insisted Jessica attend the obligatory celebration party afterward, a parade of cocktail-clutching politicians and artificially enthusiastic smiles. But Jessica had made it abundantly clear that mingling with sweaty, overconfident suits—people whose only superpower was nepotism—was beneath her. Instead, she opted for a quieter victory lap: wine, steak, solitude.

By the time she sank into the dining chair, plate steaming, wine glass in hand, the clock had crept past midnight. A weekend night. No alarms, no schedules, no stifling small talk. Maybe she’d linger over a book later. She thought. 

In the background, music threaded through the silence like red-hot chili threads, spicing the night. A few bites in, her phone buzzed insistently on the table. Jessica’s eyes darted toward it, unimpressed. She swallowed her bite, reached for the device, and with a flick of her wrist plucked it into her hand. 

It was a text from Annie, pinging across iMessage like a spark in the quiet:

“Congrats on the new Sino-American Prosperity Accord! 🥂 Riv says hi, and to bring chocolates for her mom this Christmas.😂”

Jessica chuckled mid-chew, a rare, soft sound that didn’t quite fit the sharp edges of her life. Annie’s daughter, River, was seven months old. She was an adorable little bundle that Jessica couldn’t help but find herself fond of. 

 She set her fork down, thumbs darting across the screen like twin lightning strikes:

“Thanks! Sure will :) She’ll get all the chocolates in the world. I hate that I missed her first words. :( What time is it in Bangkok rn?”

The reply came almost instantly:

“11:17 AM. How've you been doing? I miss you!”

Jessica’s fingers hovered a beat before typing back:

“Miss you too. You really didn’t have to move all the way to Thailand, yk. You could be stationed in the States. 🙄”

She sipped her wine with a relaxed ease, letting the conversation flow like warm silk across the distance. By the time Annie responded again, Jessica was nearly done with her celebratory feast, carrying the last plates toward the kitchen. Her gaze flicked between the plates in her hands and the glowing screen on the table. A minor hesitation—then she dropped the plates in the sink. No sense in dragging out the chore; the dishwasher would claim them.

She yanked open the drawer for the dishwasher compartment when a low, uninvited thud broke the otherwise relaxed silence of her apartment.

Jessica froze mid-motion, a plate hovering above the drawer. Her eyes swept the kitchen, over the dining area, searching for shadows or movement, and then back to the dishwasher. Nothing. Probably just the building settling… right?

She reached for the wine bottle in the cabinet above, turning, only to have her stomach drop like it had discovered gravity all over again.

Someone was sitting at the table. Her table. Where she’d just been. Her phone was in their hand, likely scrolling, reading.

Jessica’s brow furrowed, a faint twitch of caution creeping in, though terror didn’t register immediately. She was all about assessing the situation before overreacting—years of dealing with monsters had trained her well. Before she could speak, the man swiveled toward her, flashing that infuriatingly familiar grin, equal parts devilish, smug, and unapologetically vengeful.

“Hello, Sage. Long time.” He tilted his chin in a mock, insincere greeting, the kind that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

Jessica cocked her head, curiosity sharpening her gaze. Time slowed, each detail of the man carving itself into her mind: white, short stubble dusting his jaw, blonde hair streaked with brown roots, eyes so blue they almost hurt to look at, body sculpted like some ancient Greek sculpture. All of it wrapped up in the casual outfit of sweatpants, a dusty blue t-shirt, and a black zip hoodie half-open, as if comfort could somehow disguise his on-brand menace.

Recognition slammed into her like a gut punch. It was the eyes. The voice. That impossibly infuriating cadence she’d never forget. The stubble confused her for a split second—but the grin? That smug, “I-own-everyone-even-though-I-shouldn’t” grin confirmed everything.

Homelander.

Alive.

The realization should have sent her heart into full panic mode, but shock was strangely absent. What gnawed at her was far more immediate: he had just read her messages with Annie. He knew exactly where Annie was right now.

His grin softened into a knowing, lethal smirk as he rose, towering over the table with her phone still clutched in his hand. He inhaled, slow and purposeful, setting the device down on the counter as he advanced.

Jessica’s eyes followed every inch of him, calculating, teasing, daring. The tension between them was almost… cinematic, a predator and a prey-sized ex-friend in the same frame.

“You’re alive.” Her voice was calm, measured, a statement rather than a question. Almost casual—though the edge beneath it promised she wasn’t someone to be toyed with lightly.

He shrugged, casual as if checking his watch for the time. “Obviously.” Leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, he let a faux warm smile creep across his face. “Did you really think that your pitiful little V-inhibitor stunt would finish me? I wasn’t even injected with Compound V after birth, woman. It was at the blastocyst stage… you knew that.” He threw back his head and barked a laugh, shaking it off like he’d just remembered the funniest private joke in the universe.

Jessica’s brows shot up, a mix of curiosity and mild irritation.

Turning back to her, grin sharpening into a razor-edged smirk, “Did you really not consider that once the inhibitor’s effects wore off… I might come back? I thought you were the smartest, Sage.” He sounded amused, almost affectionate in the way a predator might toy with its prey before dinner.

Jessica exhaled, intentionally slow, leaning back against the sink counter as if the world—and the homicidal superhuman leaning across from her—was nothing more than a mild annoyance. 

With her arms crossed, a sly smile tugging at her lips, she finally responded. “I did consider it. But we rolled the dice anyway. Was worth a shot. So—” she tilted her head, gaze locking onto him with amused nonchalance, “What’s the plan now? Kill everyone to avenge your broken heart and then call up a talent agent for a cameo in your own tragic story? Spoiler alert: you’ll still not find fulfillment when it’s all over.”

“Pft!” Homelander scoffed, rolling his eyes like she’d just offended his entire existence. “See, Sage, I’ve finally learned from my mistakes. Biggest one? Trusting women. Really.” He gestured vaguely, pushing off the counter with that understated menace only he could carry, stepping closer so the tension practically hummed in the air. “Second biggest? Not killing the people who disrespected me immediately. Thrill factor, you know? Fun little hobby.” His grin widened, unapologetic, almost playful. 

“Gone now. Cost me everything… including my son.” His grin slowly sharpened into a barely contained snarl, teeth flashing as his piercing blue eyes bored into hers, the room suddenly too small for the tension, for the tragic history, for the simmering danger between them.

Jessica’s smirk faltered for the briefest fraction of a second at the mention of his son. A soft, almost pained sigh escaped her. “We didn’t mean to kill him.” Her head shook involuntarily, replaying that morning like a cruel memory—Ryan’s wide eyes, the precise jab of the supe-killing virus, the sickening certainty of what had to be done.

The eerie smile wavered from his face, leaving behind an expression of pure, cold hatred. He rolled his eyes, looming mere inches from her, the air between them dense with unspoken hurt and despair. Then, with a predatory grace, he leaned in, invading her space. His breath was hot, unnervingly close, carrying the scent of unfiltered rage.

“I don’t appreciate your audacity… to even begin explaining Ryan’s death.” His voice dropped into a low, guttural whisper, eerie and intimate, as if each word were a blade pressed just beneath the skin. His face tightened, sharpening like bone beneath taut flesh.

Jessica held his gaze, a mixture of fascination and calculated composure in her eyes. She knew the storm he carried, and that storm was focused radically on vengeance.

Homelander tilted his head back, eyes closing, inhaling as though drawing the very atmosphere into his lungs. When he exhaled, it was slow, an almost ritualistic release of power and fury directed at her.

Before she could process the next moment, his hands shot upward with terrifying speed. In a brutal, almost mechanical motion, his palms slammed into her skull from both sides, compressing her fragile frame with a force no human could survive. Her head seemed to implode, the world reduced to crimson pulp in an instant.

Seconds later, Jessica’s body collapsed onto the kitchen floor with a muted thud, grotesquely still. Homelander’s hands lingered in the aftermath, coated in blood and fragments of her skull, his face a twitching mask of satisfaction and cold detachment. Slowly, he inhaled again, parting his palms as if savoring the grim trophy of his wrath.

He crouched over what remained of her, scanning for any fragment of brain tissue that might, against all odds, regenerate. For the next ten minutes, he meticulously gathered every salvageable piece that wasn’t pulverized, methodically tossing them into a blender along with the wine before flushing the grisly mixture down the toilet. The ritual complete, he turned his attention to the skeletal remnants, stepping deliberately to crush each joint underfoot with sickening, precise crunches.

Jessica—Sage—was gone. Her mind obliterated, her body reduced to nothing that could rise again. No more schemes, no more plotting. She was finished.

He left the apartment casually, the faint clink of two intact wine bottles echoing in his hand, leaving her phone lying innocuously on the counter. Not a courtesy, though. It was a calculated move. Her device was monitored by the government. He had no intention of being traced; he only needed Annie’s location, and that had already been secured.

Even with the brutality complete, the act offered only hollow satisfaction. His son was still lost. His vengeance remained unfinished. What he’d just done was merely the opening act—the prelude to the hurricane that was still coming.

—

MM had been out cold on the couch all evening, sprawled like a surrendered corpse. It had been a long one—rounding up two B-list supes for some laughably petty barroom crimes. The Boys had been spreading their mayhem across the states for months now, operating in that blurry, post-Vought gray zone where the CIA winked and said, “Go ahead… break some heads, arrest some freaks.” It was Butcher’s wet dream incarnate: legally sanctioned supe-hunting.

Since crashing back at the apartment, MM had declared domestic duties null and void. Cooking? Clean-up? Responsibilities? Forget it. Sleep was non-negotiable.

Meanwhile, Kimiko and Frenchie had been locked in an hour-long culinary skirmish—her sign language fire matched only by his improvised French-English tirades. A minor war over chopping technique, seasoning, and, apparently, who got to taste-test first.

MM stirred occasionally at the noise, a low grumble vibrating in his chest, but nothing could drag him fully from slumber… until the doorbell rang.

Kimiko shot Frenchie a perfect, unapologetic middle finger before peeling off her apron and heading to answer the door.

It was Butcher, swaggering in like he owned every floorboard in the building. A doctor’s appointment had slowed him down, but never enough to dim his theatrics. He tilted his chin toward Kimiko, a smirk playing at the edge of his mouth as she shut the door and followed him back toward the kitchen.

“What’s for dinner?” Butcher asked, stretching arms like a cat and cracking knuckles with relish, before plopping onto the couch—directly onto MM.

Both men jolted, MM flailing half-asleep.

“What the fuck, Butcher?!” MM barked, rubbing his eye and glaring with an incredulous sleepy fury.

Butcher smirked and slouched toward the single armchair, completely unbothered.

“Pasta and bottomless beer, Monsieur Charcuter. No beer for you, though,” Frenchie called from the kitchen, voice sharp and theatrical.

Kimiko rolled her eyes, flipping the bird again mid-step as she returned to the kitchen. She was already heating the pan for some frozen, marinated chicken—because pasta alone wouldn’t cut it. After the massive weed session on the way back, there was no way she was going light tonight. Feast or nothing.

Butcher exhaled, sinking further into the armchair with a lazy, almost theatrical sigh, resting his head on one palm. “Hurry up already, would ya?” he drawled, as if they existed to serve him dinner.

His gaze fell on the half-finished beer bottle perched on the table. With the speed of a man who’d spent too much time ignoring rules, he leaned forward, but MM was faster, snatching it away like a vigilant parent catching a child with matches.

“Which part of no alcohol do you not comprehend?” MM scolded, voice scarily calm, almost fatherly in its infuriating serenity.

Butcher rolled his eyes, throwing back an exaggerated exhale. “MM, I’m dying any day now. Might as well die doing what I love, yeah? Don’t you agree?”

“No,” MM said simply, strolling to the counter and depositing the bottle with a lingering glare. He turned to Frenchie, voice sharp: “How many times have I told you not to leave your half-assed bottles lying around?” His glare pivoted back to Butcher. “This motherfucker’s sick and shameless. Keep anything that ferments away from him.”

Frenchie shrugged, unbothered, distributing the pasta onto four plates with a casual flair, clearly entertained by the domestic ruckus.

Butcher opened his mouth to protest but was cut off by a violent fit of coughing, clutching at his chest like the universe had personally betrayed him. 

MM didn’t even flinch; the point had been proven. 

The reckless abuse of Temp-V nearly two years ago had left a slow-burning toll on Butcher’s body. Despite the fleeting, godlike highs the serum delivered, the radioactive poison inside him had been quietly dismantling his organs ever since—liver first, heart soon enough, and everything else trailing behind. Lately, meals were a gamble; one bite too many, one moment of overconfidence, and he found himself hunched over the toilet, retching his guts into oblivion. And yet, the thrill—the chaotic rush of tearing supes apart—kept him alive, fueled him, and made him laugh in the face of his own mortality.

Meanwhile, the chicken sizzled over the hot oil, the aroma filling the kitchen like a welcome domestic distraction. Kimiko set the spatula down and padded over to MM, signing furiously that his phone had been buzzing for nearly an hour. Frenchie had tried rousing him before dinner prep, but MM had been lost in the blissful vacuum of sleep.

MM scratched the back of his neck, smacked his lips, and muttered, “Oh… my phone. Right. Thanks, Kimiko.” Then he launched a groggy, fumbling search for it.

Kimiko chuckled behind him, snatching the device from the counter and stepping up, tapping him on the shoulder as she handed it over.

MM shot her a sheepish grin. “Thanks,” he muttered, unlocking the screen, and stepping aside, trying to look casual.

Not even a full minute of peace passed before MM’s head jerked toward the group, eyes wide, voice catching with an uncharacteristic edge. “Uh—guys…”

The entire room paused. Every head turned toward him, their faces a sudden, telling mix of caution and sharp curiosity.

MM’s eyes darted between his screen and the group, a faint unease creeping into his expression. “Stan sent an emergency alert… to my phone. Three hours ago,” he muttered, glancing at the clock again as the subtle guilt of not checking his phone early crept in.

Butcher heaved a sigh, pushing himself up from the armchair with a grimace. “Call him?”

MM nodded, thumbs flying over the keypad as he dialed Stan Edgar’s number. The room fell into tense silence, the kind that made even the sizzling chicken in the kitchen feel like a cruel joke. Rings after rings. Straight to voicemail. He tried again. Nothing.

Desperation creeping in, he dialed Zoe’s number—if anyone knew where Stan was, it was her. Again, silence. A frown etched deeper across MM’s face. Dry swallow. Concerned glances flicked between the others. “I think we need to head there. Now.” 

Frenchie groaned, pointing at the plates of steaming food. “Now? What about dinner?”

Butcher’s gaze snapped between MM and Frenchie. Hunger gnawed at him, sure—but an emergency from Stan Edgar was a different breed of serious. He exhaled, shaking his head. “Fridge. All of it. Chop-chop.”

No more words could be exchanged before the room’s fragile casualness was obliterated with a sudden shock. A deafening crack ripped through the apartment—the massive dome-shaped window across from them exploding in a cascade of jagged glass like a bomb had detonated. Everyone ducked instinctively, hearts slamming against their ribs.

When the dust and shards settled, a long, chilling shadow stretched across the living room floor, impossibly wide, impossibly commanding.

Homelander.

For a long, impossible second, no one breathed.

The man in the wreckage wasn’t supposed to exist. Dead. Buried. Decomposed, even. And yet—there he stood. Not in the iconic red-white-blue glory of his god complex, but in a plain black hoodie and jeans. His stubble was rough, his once-perfect hair grown out, light brown roots creeping through the blonde like mould under paint. Somehow, that mundanity made him even more terrifying.

Butcher’s shock lasted all of half a heartbeat before that signature, sardonic smirk slithered onto his face. “Ah,” he breathed out, blinking like this was the weather forecast he’d been expecting. Truth was, without Homelander to hate, life had been painfully dull. Like the world had lost its favorite punching bag.

Behind him, MM, Frenchie, and Kimiko rose slowly, dread crawling up their spines as recognition hit.

Homelander stood there, hands clasped neatly behind his back—no cape, no theatrics. Just that eerily perfect posture like he didn’t need an audience anymore. Stripped of all that patriotic pageantry, he looked disturbingly… human. And somehow, that was far worse because everyone knew he must have hated looking that way.

Then, the silence fractured. A long, deliberate exhale. A grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Hello, William,” Homelander said softly, venom curling in every syllable. “Miss me?”

Butcher’s smirk widened, eyes narrowing with twisted delight. “Only ‘cause I didn’t get to kill you myself. Guess I should’ve grown a fanny for that privilege. Starlight sure made it look easy.”

That earned him a low chuckle—half aroused, half deranged. Homelander tilted his head, smirk blooming into something dangerously playful. “God… I missed our little hot-talks.” He gave an exaggerated, shivering sigh, pretending to swoon. “It’s almost… erotic.”

He stepped forward, the sound of crunching glass under his soles the only thing breaking the tension, eyes flicking lazily over the others like he was browsing the meat aisle. His fingers trailed over the coffee table, brushing a layer of dust that didn’t even exist.

Butcher stayed put, arms crossed, watching the resurrected god stroll through his living room like a nosy landlord. 

“I know you’ve got a fetish for drama,” He said, voice calm, eyes tracking him. “But maybe this time, you skip the foreplay and just kill us all. Get it over with. Fulfill your bloody prophecy or whatever.”

Homelander clicked his tongue, spinning lazily on his heel like a performer taking the stage. He jabbed a finger at Butcher. “See, that’s what I’ve always liked about you, William. So direct. So brutally honest. You’re like… my favorite talk show host.” He grinned, broad and boyish. “And yeah—I am here to kill. But…” He leaned forward, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “…I’ve got my favorites.”

Butcher arched a brow. “So you’re saying we’re not all on the menu?”

“Eh,” Homelander shrugged, casual as a god on vacation. “Not exactly. Just sparing you because—”

The line of gunfire cut him off before he could finish. Frenchie and MM unloaded full mags into him like that was ever going to help. The rounds thunked into Homelander’s body with the effectiveness of bubble wrap. Not even a flinch.

Homelander just… blinked. Then sighed—long, theatrical, and deeply disappointed—like a teacher whose students refused to learn basic math. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You see what I mean? No one listens anymore.”

His eyes began to glow crimson, the air around his face humming with heat. But before could attack, Butcher launched himself at him, pure instinct, pure idiocy. Both men crashed to the floor. Butcher rolled off, groaning, wiping sweat and glass from his face.

Homelander stayed down for a beat, staring at the ceiling, then burst out laughing. Deep, unrestrained, unhinged laughter. “Christ, William,” he gasped between cackles. “You’re fucking cute, you know that?”

Butcher snorted at him. Unfazed. 

The gunfire faded into an eerie hush. Smoke hung in the air, curling like ghosts above the wreckage. Kimiko had already stepped in front of Frenchie and MM, her stance sharp and feral. 

Butcher stayed back, eyes fixed on the demigod laughing before them — not the kind of laugh that came from humor, but from pure, unfiltered arrogance.

When Homelander’s laughter finally subdued, he exhaled loudly, theatrically. He turned to Butcher, straightening to his full, impossible height. Not a drop of sweat. Not a scratch. The bastard looked like he’d just stepped off a photoshoot.

Arms crossed over his chest, he tilted his head, that smirk stretching. “Did you know your mate Marvin here, handed over the virus to Starlight? The one she and Sage used to kill Ryan?”

Butcher froze. His eyes darted to MM, searching for the lie — the denial — but MM’s gaze had already dropped. Shoulders heavy. Guilt radiating like a confession.

Even Frenchie looked stunned, whispering something under his breath in disbelief. Kimiko’s eyes flicked between them all, confused, uncertain.

Homelander gave a slow, almost pitying nod. “Didn’t think so…”

Then came the red, again.

No wind-up. No warning. Just a flash — and the apartment split apart. His eyes lit like twin suns, and the beams tore through flesh and bone before a thought could form. One breath ago, they were alive. The next, they were in ribbons, a macabre smear of color against the walls.

Homelander blinked once, the glow fading. “Oops.”

Butcher’s eyes went wide, not the ordinary kind of shock, but the full-body, marrow-deep horror that buckled his insides. It wasn’t just one revelation hitting him; it was an avalanche. Three blows at once.

First — Ryan. Dead. Dead. The kid he’d been told was tucked away at some elite Swiss boarding school, rubbing elbows with billionaires’ brats, his future secured. That lie had been easy to believe because it hurt less. Because it let him sleep at night. Butcher’s stomach churned; the boy wasn’t just gone, he’d been taken.

Second — MM. Marvin Milk, the solid one. The father. The anchor of this group. The man Butcher would have sworn on his own grave wouldn’t cross a line like that. Yet here it was, spelled out in blood. He’d handed Starlight and Sage the weapon that killed Ryan — who’d been the only living tether to Becca. Butcher felt his ribs tighten, a scream lodging itself somewhere under his tongue.

Third — his friends. Gone. Not even time to scream their names. Frenchie, MM, Kimiko… pieces of them scattered across the floor like discarded dolls. The smell of scorched flesh and copper filling the room. Butcher could feel the cruelty of it pressing against his skull like a migraine. His face flickered, disbelief, grief, fury; but none of it landed properly because his brain was refusing to catch up with reality.

Homelander, meanwhile, watched Kimiko’s body knitting itself back together as if he were witnessing a mildly interesting science experiment. His lips curled into a grimace, more disgust than awe. Then he flicked his gaze back to Butcher, waving a hand as though dismissing a boring guest at a party.

“Anyway, nice catching up with you, William,” he said, light as air. “We’ll do this again.”

Before Butcher could even form words, Homelander was on him — stepping close, sliding an arm around his shoulders in a mockery of camaraderie. A scandalous, almost playful side-hug. Butcher stiffened, every muscle locked, but before he could react, Homelander had brushed past him.

One foot on the shattered window frame, the city’s night wind brushing his untamed blonde locks, Homelander paused just long enough to twist the knife a bit more. “Oh, and I killed Stan. And Vicky’s brat — what’s her name again?” He squinted theatrically, then shrugged. “Yeah. Her. And Sage too.” He tossed it over his shoulder like gossip at a cocktail party, then shot upward into the night sky, vanishing as though the whole thing had been a hallucination.

Butcher stood there, his wordless stare locked on the broken window frame long after Homelander had gone. He finally turned, and the scene behind him snapped into focus like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

Kimiko was sitting up, her body reassembling, breath ragged, trying to make sense of her surroundings. Then her eyes landed on Frenchie and MM, or what was left of them. Her expression faltered, confusion shattering into a primal reaction. She looked at Butcher, then at the remains, back and forth — and then the sound began.

It started as a silent tremor, a tear rolling down her face, but then it cracked. A sound, raw, jagged, erupting out of her like a wound finally bursting. A loud scream and a sob tangled into one. The first noise she’d made in so long. The sound of a dam breaking. And Frenchie, the one person who would have reached for her hand, wasn’t there to hear it.

Butcher’s mouth parted, but nothing came out. He could only stare, frozen in the debris, feeling something inside him sag and wither. He wanted to say something, to hold her, to scream — but the words were gone.

In that moment, the thought came unbidden, curling through his skull like smoke: I should’ve died a long time ago.

Chapter Text

Bangkok glistened like a fever dream. The late afternoon heat hadn’t relented, just changed tactics, thickening into a humid haze that hugged the skin like a wet cloth. Street vendors shouted over one another near the intersections, exhaust fumes blended with the smell of grilled chicken skewers, and the sound of motorbike horns merged into the city’s constant, uneven heartbeat.

Annie January, sunglasses hiding her tired eyes, adjusted the strap of her tote bag as the bus screeched to a stop. She stepped off, almost losing her footing on the uneven pavement. “Smooth landing,” she muttered to herself in a tone halfway between sarcasm and exhaustion. Her shirt clung to her back, and her head felt like someone had stuffed it with cotton and caffeine residue.

She had dropped the evidence packet and mission report at the CIA’s Bangkok field office earlier that day—a windowless government box pretending to be discreet in a city that noticed everything. 

Then a quick coffee with Alia, one of the few colleagues she actually tolerated. They’d joked about how half the agency’s black-ops division secretly had dating profiles with fake names. Annie had laughed, but her laugh felt hollow in her throat.

Now, halfway home, she wasn’t sure if it was the caffeine, dehydration, or just the Bangkok heat making her dizzy. River’s babysitter could wait. Her place was a traffic nightmare at this hour anyway. Annie’s apartment was barely ten minutes away; she could rest there for a bit before heading out again.

The condominium rose sleek and pale against the skyline, one of those expat complexes that came with polite doormen, wide smiles, and overpriced filtered air. The lobby smelled faintly of jasmine and new money.

She nodded politely to the concierge and took the elevator up, trying not to think about how badly her pulse was drumming in her ears.

By the time she reached her floor, the dizziness had grown stronger. The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and the hallway stretched out quiet and cool, lined with identical white doors and imported art that tried too hard to look cultural. Annie fished out her keycard, fumbling slightly.

“Jesus,” she muttered, exhaling sharply as she finally swiped it.

The lock clicked. She pushed the door open. The chilled air inside felt like mercy.

She let the door swing shut behind her, toes kicking off her shoes. The tote bag hit the console table with a soft thud, followed by her phone and sunglasses. Her hand lingered on the edge of the furniture as another wave of lightheadedness rolled through.

“Okay… okay, you’re fine,” she told herself under her breath. “Probably just heatstroke. Or karma.”

Her voice bounced off the clean surfaces of the living room, an open-concept space lined with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the restless sprawl of Bangkok. The sky outside had gone gold and bruised, the city buzzing beneath her like circuitry.

She made her way to the sofa, half-stumbling, and dropped onto it gracelessly. Her elbow came up to rest on the armrest, head cradled in her hand as she tried to slow the spinning room. Her other hand absently found her lower stomach.

“Just need a minute,” she whispered.

The apartment hummed softly around her. Air conditioning, distant traffic, the faint echo of her own heartbeat. Everything normal. 

Annie pressed her free palm over her eyes and focused on her breathing—slow, steady, and grounding. The dizziness should’ve ebbed by now. But it hadn’t. Her pulse was still trying to break out of her throat.

Then, from the corner of the world, came a voice she hadn’t heard in five hundred and twenty exact days.

“I thought these spells didn’t occur in the second and third trimester.”

The sentence slid through the air like a bullet.

Annie froze. Every hair on her body stood up. Her brain tripped over itself trying to process—those weren’t hallucination words. That was him. That was his tone, that smug curl of mockery, the unmistakable music of a voice she’d sworn she’d silenced.

Her breath hitched audibly. She didn’t even look at first; her body was doing the math faster than her mind could catch up. Her hand went instinctively to her chest, then to her phone on the coffee table, but it was too far.

“...No,” she whispered to herself, wondering whether she was really hallucinating. “No. You’re—”

“Dead?” The voice answered. “I know. I was. But now I'm not. Thanks for the reminder, by the way.”

Her head snapped toward the far end of the apartment—and there he was. 

Homelander stood half-shrouded in shadow, back to the wall like he’d been standing there for hours, watching. His hands were neatly clasped behind him, posture regal, expression mild. The overhead light caught the edges of his face as he pushed off from the wall and took a step forward.

The sight of him stole her breath in one clean slice.

He wasn’t wearing his suit. No cape, no durable leather. Just black jeans, a casual shirt, and a day-old stubble that made him look almost human. The blonde of his hair had grown out into dull brown at the roots. Mundane. And yet, somehow, the sheer normalcy of him made her stomach drop harder than if he’d shown up in full patriotic drag.

She stayed perfectly still on the sofa, eyes locked, trying to decide if screaming would even matter.

He smirked—slow, conspiratorial, like they were sharing an inside joke that she didn’t remember agreeing to. 

“Hi, Annie.”

Her throat tightened. “...You’re not real.”

Homelander chuckled softly, stepping closer. “Oh, I’m very real. The pregnancy couldn't have caused psychosis. Come on now.” He flicked his hand in the air, laughing lightly. 

He perched on the armrest of the opposite sofa, the way someone might in a casual conversation with an old friend. The light from the glass walls cut across his face, highlighting the amused glint in his eyes, that familiar cruelty simmering under charm.

Annie’s gaze dragged over him from head to toe and back again. Her mouth parted, but words refused to form. She looked like someone trying to make sense of seeing a ghost walk in wearing jeans and a Homelander smile.

Homelander tilted his head, amused at her speechlessness. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said lightly, then leaned forward, elbows on knees. “What’s wrong, Annie? You didn’t really think burying me in the dirt would stick, did you?”

Annie didn’t move at first. Couldn’t. Her mind lagged several seconds behind her body, caught somewhere between the spinning in her head and the horror that had just spoken her name. The silence stretched until it hurt. Then—like something had snapped—she jolted upright, her muscles finally obeying panic’s command.

“Ho—Homelander…?” The name left her mouth like an exhale, fragile and disbelieving. 

Homelander spread his arms with a mock flourish, every inch of him smug divinity reborn. “Live and in person!” he announced, voice bright and cruelly playful.

Her jaw clenched, words trembling between fury and disbelief. “What do you want?”

He out a sharp, barking, and theatrical laugh; then let it spiral into cold malice. “What do I want?” he echoed, head tipping back like he was thinking it over. “You know, that’s the problem with me, Annie—I never quite know where it starts… or where it ends—what I want.” His voice softened, almost tender, almost confessional.

Then he leaned forward just slightly, the grin still there but hollowed out, brittle. “Maybe I’ll still want it even after I get it.”

The air grew heavy with his signature threat, a terrifying charm, a deceptive humor, both tightly wound around his cruelty.

And then, with infuriating casualness, he pointed at her stomach. “Anyway, congratulations on the pregnancy. What are we at? Five? Six months?”

Annie froze again. Her throat tightened; breath hitching in her throat. She couldn’t force a sound. Every muscle screamed run, but her mind had already gone to River. Keep her safe. That was all that mattered. Homelander had been buried before he learned about River. Or so she thought.

The babysitter’s family was trustworthy. They’d deliver her to Donna or Jessica if anything went wrong. Annie knew exactly what this visit meant. Homelander wasn’t here for games. He was here to finish what she’d started, to kill her. 

She opened her mouth to speak, but the dizzy spell hit like a physical blow—stronger this time, snatching her balance, her breath, and her consciousness in one cruel wave.

Homelander caught it before gravity could. Literally.

He moved in an instant—one blurred step, one outstretched arm—and she was in his grasp before her knees could buckle. His strength felt the same as it always had: absolute, terrifying, warm in the worst way. Her body pressed against the chest of the man she had buried. The irony would’ve been funny if she hadn’t felt seconds from blacking out.

“Hey…” His voice softened, carrying an edge dangerously bordering on sincere concern. A faint frown cut across his face—an expression that, on anyone else, might’ve been genuine. “Why’d you even need another kid from a faceless local hookup when you already had one?” he asked, clicking his tongue like he was mildly inconvenienced, not standing in front of someone who had destroyed his life.

The sound snapped Annie out of the brief blackout. He knew about River. Her breath came shallow and uneven as she felt his steady grip still holding her up; firm, careful, and disgustingly familiar. She shoved off him with all the strength she could muster and stumbled back, not out of fear, but in defiance of that intimacy that she’d fought so hard to keep at bay. 

He didn’t move, just stood there with his arms half-raised, watching her regain balance. Then a short laugh broke out of him—dry, amused, and ugly. “Okay,” he said, tone suddenly polite, almost rehearsed. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just wanna talk.”

A beat later, he burst into laughter, sharp and manic. “Just kidding. I’m definitely here to hurt you. And meet my kid.” He gestured around with mock curiosity. “So—where is she?”

Annie’s silence pressed between them like static.

His grin grew. “Where’s my girl, Annie?” His voice dropped low, dangerous. “Don’t fuck with me.”

“She’s not here,” Annie forced out. Her throat burned, her tone clipped and trembling with restraint and arrogance.

He nodded slowly, jaw ticking. “Yeah, I can see that very clearly. Where is she, then?” The question wasn’t a question anymore, it was a threat pretending to be one.

Annie’s shoulders squared, eyes hardening to ice. “You want to kill me? Kill me. Leave her out of this.”

Homelander let out a mocking sigh, almost pitying her delusion. “Seriously? Leave my daughter out of this?” He laughed again, louder this time; wild and echoing. “She is this. You think she’s not part of the story? She’s the whole sequel.”

Annie’s jaw tightened until it ached. Now that his intent had peeled itself bare—taking her daughter—everything inside her turned to steel and venom. Of course that’s what he was after. Of course. Kill Annie, claim the child, rewrite history in his image. The only thing standing between him and that victory was her silence.

And she would guard that silence with her life.

She thanked whatever cruel god was listening for that dizzy spell earlier—because if not for it, she would’ve gone to pick up River, and Homelander would’ve found them both. The thought twisted her stomach with dread and relief in equal measure.

She lifted her gaze to meet his. Cold and final. “I’m not going to tell you where she is,” she said. Her voice was sharp, steady, even as her insides trembled. “The best you’ll get out of me is my life. And like I said—you’re welcome to take it. It’s fair.”

The smirk that had plastered itself on his face began to decay, morphing into something sour and feral. His nostrils flared, jaw flexing with restrained violence. The air between them became dense, the silence pulsing with the faint hum of his fury. It wasn’t just her words that burned him—it was what they revealed.

She really didn’t care. Not now, not ever. Not about him.

The realization sliced through his soul like shrapnel. For a man who could shrug off bullets and nuclear impacts, it was astonishing how much a woman’s indifference could hurt. She hadn’t even looked shaken—no tremor of guilt, no flicker of the woman who’d once made him believe he was someone other than a monster in red and blue.

And that, the lack of even a shred of remorse, ripped through him worse than any betrayal.

She’d fooled him. Tricked him into believing her friendship was real. Made him fall, hard and helpless, before burying him like a secret shame. She’d killed his son. Moved on. And now, she wouldn’t even give him the decency of seeing his daughter—his only blood, his only remaining link to a humanity he could barely recognize anymore.

It stung in places he didn’t know still existed. The edges of his vision trembled, and for half a second, the threat of tears flickered behind his eyes. But he blinked them away viciously, jaw tightening until the muscle pulsed like a heartbeat. No tears. Not for her. Not for this.

Then he snapped.

The air cracked as he surged forward in a blurry motion of fury. His hand wrapped around her throat before she could even breathe, the world jerking violently as her back slammed against the wall. The impact split the drywall like glass under a hammer.

Her groan was sharp and raw, cut short by the rough grip pinning her in place. Her fingers clawed at his wrist, the instinct to survive taking over even as her mind screamed at her not to. She coughed, ragged and uneven, the sound echoing in the tight space.

Homelander’s grip was crushing, but not choking—intentionally controlled. He wanted her conscious. Wanted her to feel it.

His breath hit her cheek, hot and trembling; not from exhaustion, but from the weight of everything he couldn’t say without tearing the world apart. His rage stretched thin over heartbreak, hatred flickering behind his eyes like dying embers too stubborn to fade. And when he finally spoke, the words slithered out of him like some poisonous grief.

“Funny how history repeats itself, huh?” His tone was almost conversational, which made it even more terrifying. His gaze burned into her, the faintest glint of grief trembling beneath the fury. “Last time we did this... was in an elevator at the Seven Tower.”

Annie’s fingers clawed weakly at his wrist, her vision blurring around the edges. Her nails scraped his skin but he didn’t even flinch. Her lungs ached; her throat was a live wire beneath his palm. She squinted through the tears threatening to spill.

And then—he loosened his grip.

The sudden relief of air hit her like a slap. She gasped once, then stilled when his face came close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath on her face.

He pressed a kiss against her forehead.

Soft. Almost reverent. So gentle it made her stomach twist.

Her mind couldn’t reconcile the contradiction, the monster and the tenderness coexisting in the same heartbeat. She froze completely, breath caught in her throat, every muscle screaming for distance while something else, something traitorous, faltered deep inside.

Then, without warning, he lowered his head and buried his face in her hair.

The contact sent a shock of unwanted memory through her—his warmth, his scent, the ghost of what used to be. His breath grazed her ear, slow and trembling, and though his grip on her throat remained firm, there was a strange affection in him now.

Her chest rose against his as his heartbeat thudded against her ribs.

He inhaled her like a dying man savoring his last breath of air. It wasn’t lust, it was starvation. A hollow man trying to taste something that once made him feel human.

When he finally spoke again, his voice cracked—still low, still steady, but touched by something heartbreakingly tender.

“Did you know I was in love with you?”

The words landed like Dracula's stake in her chest. Annie’s eyes widened, the sound of her pulse roaring in her ears. For a second, she forgot to fight, forgot to breathe, forgot everything except the quiet devastation in his tone.

In love with her?

It was absurd. Tragic. Terrifying. Because the worst part wasn’t disbelief, it was that she’d always known there was something dangerous beneath his obsession, something close enough to love that it made her hate herself for recognizing it.

Her throat tightened, a soundless gasp trembling at the edge of her lips. The ache in her stomach deepened—sharp and sickening, the same pain she’d felt that night when she’d buried him and swore she’d never look back.

But now he was here. Alive. Bleeding his feelings all over her like an open wound.

And she couldn’t answer. Not even if she wanted to.

Homelander’s voice thinned, cracking along its own edges as if each word were dragging itself out of the rawest part of him.

“For a while,” he began, barely above a whisper, “I actually believed I was getting better. That maybe—I could finally be a good man.” His jaw twitched. “That I could leave behind everything that made me… me. The killing, the voices, the desperate need for power.”

He paused, swallowing hard, his gaze unfocused, as though the memory of that hope itself mocked him. Then his tone hardened, almost fractured.

“But you…” His mouth twisted, trembling. “You cheated. You fundamentally broke my reality.” He barked a laugh.

“I mean, I was already broken, Annie. I know. But I wanted to heal, right? I really did. And you didn't let me.” His voice cracked again, choked between fury and grief, as if it hurt to even confess to those deepest thoughts. “That—” he hissed through his teeth, eyes narrowing, “— that was your biggest mistake. You should’ve stopped with Vought.”

Annie’s body sagged slightly against the wall, her pulse hammering under his hand. Her breaths came out uneven, trembling with guilt she didn’t want to feel but couldn’t deny. The tears came quietly, almost ashamedly; she didn’t even bother to hide them. Each drop slid down his wrist, tracing thin lines over his skin like some quiet confession she’d never say aloud.

Because he was right—at least, a part of him was. He had been changing. There had been something vulnerable, almost childlike, about him in those final days. Something that made her think, just for a second, that redemption wasn’t an impossible fantasy for monsters like him. But she buried that version of him anyway. She buried him alive in her mind long before the dirt covered his body.

And she fell for him. God help her, she fell for him in the process. And she hated it. 

Homelander tilted his head, his jaw pressing against her hair, a sound like a broken laugh dying in his throat. He sniffed once—sharp, shaky, almost rueful.

“Do you know why I came back?” he muttered, voice completely shaking now, each word sounding like it was being ripped out of his throat. “Not because I can’t die, but because you wouldn’t fucking let me.”

The last syllables tore themselves apart. He broke—completely, helplessly. His face dropped into her hair, the tears coming hot and unrestrained.

Annie went still. She didn’t push him off this time. Didn’t flinch or speak or resist. She just stood there, letting him break against her shoulder like a wave that had been waiting over a year to crash. Her silence wasn’t submission, it was understanding. The kind that hurts more than hate ever could.

For a few long minutes, he just cried. The great Homelander, weeping like a lost boy in the arms of the woman who’d killed him. His tears dampened her hair, his breath trembling against her ear. For that single, fragile moment, monstrous, tender, and cruel all at once; they stood suspended between what they were and what they could never be. An aching moment of a bittersweet reunion.

When the sobs finally began to ebb, Homelander drew in a deep, shuddering breath. His chest heaved once—twice—before he slowly straightened, pulling back until there was barely an inch left between them. His exhale came rough, trembling, the warmth of it ghosting over her face like a fever dream.

“Look at me,” he said. The command wasn’t cruel. It was almost pleading in its firmness, a quiet demand like he’d already been denied too much.

Annie hesitated, her lashes wet and heavy, before she lifted her eyes to meet his. Red-rimmed, glassy, raw. 

His gaze caught hers and for a long, unbearable second, neither of them moved. Then he sighed, slow and weary. Ironically, seeing her after so long somehow brought him comfort and torment in equal measure, as if every trace of her face was both a wound and a remedy. If he could stop feeling it, he would. If he could unlove her, he’d do it in a heartbeat. But he couldn’t. And that was the cruellest truth of all.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said finally, his tone calm now, hollowed out of mercy. “Death would be too kind of a gesture.”

He let the words linger, watching them sink into her like a blade sinking slow.

“I could kill you,” he continued, voice low and deliberate, “and find my kid. But I won’t. I’ll give you something worse. I’ll watch you die in pieces—bit by bit, every day—until you beg me to kill you. And when you do, I still won’t. I’ll keep you alive and make you witness my destruction. Watch what you turned me into.” His jaw flexed, eyes burning with venomous promise and heartbreak intertwined. “This is all your fault.”

His next words came quieter, but they hit harder than all the others combined. “I fucking hate you,” he whispered.

Annie’s expression cracked, the pain slicing deeper than she thought possible. Her throat tightened as she fought the instinct to crumble in front of him. It shouldn’t have mattered—she should’ve welcomed his hate, should’ve clung to it as a deserved punishment—but somehow, it gutted her. Hearing it from him made the whole thing unbearable.

Because beneath the hatred, she could still hear the ghost of the man who she knew had loved her. The echo of what might’ve been if she hadn’t buried him alive.

She forced her jaw to set, even as her heart fractured in silence. She didn’t speak—what could she possibly say? The man before her was both her executioner and victim, and she was the reason he became both.

Homelander stood there, letting her sit with the weight of it. Letting his words, his grief, his vengeance—all of it—sink into the marrow of her silence.

Then, as if bored of his own theatrics, he sighed and let the moment collapse into a casual, conversational cadence.

“Anyway—” he drawled, waving a hand, brushing away the weight of it all. “You’re having a boy this time.” A smile split his face, too wide, too deliberate to be human.

His tone dropped to a near whisper. “Which gives me the perfect opportunity to even the score. A son for a son.”

Annie froze. Her eyes darted to his, raw terror blooming in them. “No—no, you wouldn’t—”

“I would.” His answer came smoothly, almost kindly, as his free hand drifted down to rest on her lower abdomen. His touch was deceptively gentle, like a mockery of tenderness. His fingers curled into a fist and slowly began digging into her stomach. 

She struggled, trying to twist away, but his hold didn’t waver. The wall caught her breath before she could.

Homelander leaned in, his whisper brushing her ear. “Shhh….Don’t fight it. It’ll make it worse.” He tenderly rested his chin on her shoulder, burying his face deep into her skin as his fist began to press into her stomach, digging deep into her pelvis with every passing second. 

Annie kept thrashing in a manic attempt to defend her unborn child, but it was futile. Soon enough, she began to feel the pain, the unwelcome sensation of her bones slowly cracking under the cruel pressure of his fist. A guttural flurry of screams escaped her. She tried to vainly break free, to save herself, to save her unborn child, but she was failing miserably. 

He carefully listened to her struggles, face still buried into her shoulder, hearing the heartbeat of the fetus stopping—slowly, painfully—until there was none. He’d splintered a bone in her pelvis in the process.

Annie's guttural screams tore from her throat, a relentless, raw sound of agony. She understood the grotesque bargain: he was extracting her son, life for life, killing her by keeping her alive.

When he was certain that the fetus had died, his fist finally stilled against her stomach. A long, measured breath slipped through his nose as he withdrew his hand, the tremor of restraint visible even in his fingers. He eased his grip from her throat, leaving behind a dark bruise that would tell the story better than he ever could.

He stepped back, studying her the way a scientist might examine the aftermath of an experiment—cold, assessing, ensuring the subject would survive just long enough to feel the consequence.

Annie crumpled to the floor. Crimson began to bloom through her pants in slow, spreading petals. The sound of her shallow breaths mixed with faint, broken whimpers, each one an echo of betrayal, grief, and disbelief. He’d broken her physically, emotionally, and psychologically.

Homelander stood over her in silence. No smirk. No thrill. Just the empty stillness of a man who’d lost the boundary between punishment and penance. It brought him no satisfaction to perform that heinous act, but she had unchained his demons, letting them roam free in his head, and they bore witness to the rawest, darkest corners of his soul—and there would be no forgiveness, no forgetting—not ever.

He turned, grabbed the landline, and dialed emergency services. His voice softened into an almost human tone; a calm, concerned neighbor reporting strange noises, a possible accident. Once the dispatcher promised help was on the way, he hung up.

He waited until distant sirens began to rise from the streets below.

Annie was barely conscious now, slipping in and out, her eyes glazed, her lips moving with no sound. 

He crouched beside her again. Reaching out, he brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face, his touch unsteady—tender, almost mournful. “They’re here,” he murmured. “You’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’ll come back.”

With that quiet vow, he rose to his full, imposing height. His silhouette loomed for a fleeting moment against the broken light, then faded into the shadows as the world around her dimmed.

Annie’s vision blurred one last time, his figure dissolving into nothing, before the darkness claimed her completely.

Chapter Text

The safehouse didn’t feel safe.

It was quiet, sure—tucked somewhere in suburban Maryland, too ordinary to draw attention, but silence had never comforted Annie. Silence was what before catastrophic storms. The hum of the refrigerator felt too loud. The creak of the walls at night felt like a prelude to someone breaking in.

She hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Every night she woke up half-expecting to see a shadow hovering outside the window, his shadow. Homelander had ruined even the sky for her—it no longer symbolized freedom, just the possibility of him.

The CIA agents had been clinical about the move—no small talk, no sympathy. Her reasoning was perfect—she blew her cover in the prior mission, and that she had an accidental miscarriage. They’d patched her up, handed her a new identity, and left her here with a toddler who deserved a better childhood than the one she was trying to construct on fear and caffeine.

Three weeks since Thailand, and she still hadn’t said the word alive out loud. Not about him. Not to anyone. The sheer panic among the government officials would be monumental. If the Agency found out Homelander was alive and back, they’d unleash hell on Earth in the name of “containment.” She didn’t want another war—she just wanted to disappear.

Jessica had gone silent first. Calls straight to voicemail. Then the line died. Annie had told herself maybe Jessica was deep under—off-grid for an op, or ducking press. But deep down she knew. When the news broke, Vice President Jessica Bradley found dead in her Washington residence, it didn’t even feel shocking. Just another confirmation that the world was collapsing on schedule. Under the wrath of a banished god. 

The media framed it as political retaliation. “A threat to world powers,” they said. But Annie could read between the lines. Jessica was too cautious, too paranoid, too good to be caught off guard by humans. Which left only one possibility.

He’d found her.

That realization hit harder than any physical wound. Jessica had been one of the few people who’d genuinely cared. Not out of pity, not out of obligation; she just saw Annie. She was a reliable friend. And now she was gone, erased by the very man Annie couldn’t stop having nightmares of. 

And yet, some stubborn corner of her soul still ached for him—a quiet, shameful pulse that refused to die. Seeing him alive had stirred something she’d tried to bury beneath all her righteousness and arrogance. But he’d taken her child from her. And she’d taken his. Both losses circling one another like ghosts in the dark. It was a grief too complex to name, too heavy to lay down, because somewhere beneath the hate, a part of her still understood him. And that was the worst part of all.

It was a strange kind of grief, mourning her own loss while living with the ghost of the one she’d taken from him. Still aching for him. And fearing him at the same time. 

Annie stood by the window, watching the empty street bathed in orange lamplight. Somewhere down the block, a couple was laughing. A child ran after a glowing toy. Normal life. She envied how easily the world moved on.

Her reflection in the glass looked unfamiliar—pale, drawn, with hair that hadn’t seen a brush in days. The woman staring back wasn’t Starlight, wasn’t the hero, wasn’t the survivor. Just a mother trying to stay two steps ahead of a ghost who could hear heartbeats from miles away.

She kept whispering to herself, reassuring herself—he hasn't found me.

Not yet.

That “yet” was the word that made her blood run cold.

That night, Annie finally gave in to the impulse that had been gnawing at her for days. She picked up the burner phone and dialed Robert Singer’s secure line. It took a full minute of redirects, beeps, and metallic transfers before his voice came through—tired, weathered, but unmistakably him.

“Annie. Jesus, kid… it’s good to get your call.”

She didn’t know what to say. Her throat closed up for a second, so she just murmured, “Hey, Mr. President.”

Robert gave a short, dry chuckle, but it died too quickly to be genuine. “I heard about… what happened. The accident. I’m sorry for your loss, truly. How's the girl?”

“She’s fine. Thanks,” she whispered. “You holding up okay?”

He hesitated. When he finally spoke, his tone had shifted, agitated and uneasy. “If I’m being honest? Not really. Jess being gone—this whole damn country feels like it’s lost its brain.”

Annie straightened, breath catching. “How did it even happen?”

Robert sighed audibly, the sound of papers shifting in the background. “You didn’t hear? We found her after two nights of being dead in her home. No forced entry. No struggle. Whoever did it knew her—studied her. It was… clean. Too clean.”

Her fingers went cold around the phone. “How—how’d she die?”

He cleared his throat, voice heavier now. “Her skull was crushed. Not sure how many hits. Coroner doesn’t know what the hell was used; nothing matches the pattern. And the brain—” He stopped, then forced himself to continue. “It was destroyed. Mixed into her wine cellar stock. Intentional. Whoever did it didn’t just want her dead, they wanted to erase her. No regeneration, no extraction, nothing.”

Annie pressed a hand to her chest. The bile rose before she could stop it. The mention of her brain, of the immaculate brutality of it—there was no doubt in her mind. Homelander.

She tried to speak, but Robert cut in again, softer this time. “Listen, Annie. You need to lay low. Find somewhere quiet—countryside, anywhere off-grid. Use your new identity. We’ll handle the rest. I’ll call when it’s safe.”

Her brows furrowed. “Why? What’s going on?”

A long pause. Then a reluctant sigh. “Because it’s getting bad. The Boys are gone.”

She froze. “What?!”

“Marvin Milk and Sergei… both dead. Happened some time around Jessica's death. Looks like a superhuman retaliation hit. Hate crime, maybe. They’d been hunting too many of them under official sanction. The blast took most of their remains, but Kimiko and Butcher—no bodies. No comms. Missing.”

Annie’s hand trembled slightly. “So you think the supes are organizing again?”

“That’s what it looks like,” he said grimly. “They’re rallying, pushing back against the government’s leash. If they’re smart, they’ll go underground before we can tighten control again. Just stay put, Annie. Don’t go making yourself a target.”

She swallowed hard, heart pounding in her ears. Robert Singer didn’t know. None of them did. Homelander wasn’t just alive, he was already several steps ahead.

“Thank you, sir,” she said quietly. “I’ll do what you said.”

“Good. And, Annie—”

“Yes?”

“Don’t trust anyone. Not even your own shadow.”

The line went dead with a click, leaving Annie staring at the silent phone in her hand, pulse trembling beneath her skin.

She sat there for a long while, realizing she might be the only person alive who truly knew what kind of hell had just crawled back into the world.

The next morning, she woke from another nightmare, heart still pounding in the hush before dawn. The sky outside was just turning from black to blue. Annie slipped out of bed and crossed the hall to River’s room.

Her daughter, barely eight months old, slept soundly—a small, steady rise and fall beneath the blanket. 

River stirred in her sleep, a tiny sound escaping her. Her hair, soft and golden like sunlight through silk, clung to her forehead. When her eyes fluttered open for a moment, Annie caught that familiar ache again—one iris a warm, honey brown, the other a piercing ocean blue. A cruel inheritance, a perfect split between love and loathing. Two small teeth peeked from her gums as she sighed and drifted back into dreams, blissfully unaware of the storm that made her.

Annie stood there for a long time, watching her, a quiet ache softening into a solemn smile. Running wouldn't save her. Hiding wouldn't help for long. 

Homelander will find them—eventually. 

Maybe it was time to stop running.

She sank into the chair by the crib, hands clasped, mind racing. She couldn’t keep letting fear dictate everything. She had to try—for this little girl who hadn’t asked to be born into a war. Doing something, anything, was better than sitting still and waiting for the world to collapse again.

Her thoughts wandered to who she could possibly trust. Who could she tell that Homelander was alive?

Stan Edgar’s name surfaced first, a cold, calculating man; but dependable in his own way. If anyone could help her navigate the storm that was coming, it would be him. And by some luck, or maybe cruel design, he was in Maryland too—residing in a government mandated protection service. Not underground. Because he was also the legal guardian of Zoe, a supe, now. They had to live where they could be observed by the government. 

Annie dug out an old paper map from the safehouse’s emergency kit, tracing the route with her finger. Two and a half hours by road. Manageable.

She waited until daylight crept across the window before moving. Showered. Dressed herself in something plain and forgettable. Fed and bathed the baby. Then, after tucking River securely into the car seat, Annie started the engine; all digital devices off. 

It wasn’t courage, not really. Just the refusal to keep being afraid. For now, that was enough.

The drive stretched long and lonely, broken only by the hiss of tires on wet asphalt and the occasional hum of passing trucks. Around the halfway point, Annie stopped at a nameless roadside diner that smelled of grease and coffee gone cold. She scarfed down a sandwich she barely tasted, fed River from her bottle, then hit the road again. Three hours in total, and Maryland’s fog-washed countryside finally gave way to Stan Edgar’s estate.

But something was wrong. No guards. No movement. The iron gate hung slightly ajar. The garden was an untamed mess, weeds swallowing the path, the once-perfect lawn a patchwork of neglect. Her gut twisted. She drew in the faint buzz of electricity from the nearby lines, feeling it coil beneath her skin as she approached.

Then, her foot caught something soft. She looked down. A body. One of the guards, throat split open, eyes glazed toward the gray sky. Annie stumbled back, heart hammering. The front door creaked open almost around the same time—it was already unlocked. 

Inside, the air reeked of decay and copper. A stray dog nosed through half-eaten leftovers on the counter while the television flickered static and random infomercials.

The living room told the rest. Stan Edgar lay sprawled near the hearth, his torso opened like a butcher’s display. Zoe was slumped beside him, blood dried into the rug beneath her locks.

Annie’s breath caught in her throat. Her mind didn’t need proof—it screamed the name before she could form it. Homelander. Each body falling was a breadcrumb leading back to him.

She stumbled out of the house and didn’t stop until she reached the highway. From a payphone at a gas station, she shakily reported the scene to the authorities, using a name that wasn’t hers. Then she drove home in silence, headlights carving through the dusk like knives.

By nightfall, the walls of the safehouse were closing in. Annie paced the floor in a frantic loop: cook, clean, feed, cradle, repeat. River cried; Annie whispered promises she didn’t believe. 

Then—the phone buzzed on the table, and she nearly dropped it when she saw the number—one of the government encryption lines.

She answered, voice brittle; half expecting news about Stan and Zoe's death. 

“Annie,” the voice on the other end said. “President Robert Singer is dead.”

The world tilted. The voice went on: broken neck, found in his office, no sign of forced entry, no footage of anyone going in or out. But Annie barely heard it. The only thing that rang clear was the pattern.

Homelander wasn’t just back. He was wiping off anyone who'd even remotely participated in the coup against him. 

The call ended, but the ringing in her ears didn’t. It lingered there like tinnitus—sharp, invisible, and maddening. She stood there, phone still in hand, the silence of the room pressing in like a heavy stone.

Jessica. MM. Frenchie. Stan. Zoe. Robert. One by one, like dominoes collapsing in perfect sequence.

The three most powerful names in the room—gone. The rest, collateral damage; most of them gone before Homelander dropped at her place back in Bangkok. And now, what remained of the old order was decomposing, one corpse at a time.

For the first time in months, Annie felt something colder than fear, finality. Like someone had crossed her name halfway down the list but hadn’t gotten to the bottom yet. She was running out of allies, and time, and places to hide.

She let the thought sit for a breath, then shoved it down. No—she wasn’t stopping here. She refused.

She’d survived the worst once before.

She was Annie January—Starlight. She didn’t kneel. Not to Vought, and sure as hell not to him. 

And now she had River. The one thing in this blood-soaked world worth surviving for. If Homelander wanted to burn everything to ash, fine. She’d do something about it—anything at all. 

That left her with one move. The only person who’d ever stood toe-to-toe with him: Butcher. And Kimiko was probably with him, both off-grid. Singer had said their bodies were never found. 

Then, a week passed like a slow bleed. Days of watching the sky, flinching at every distant rumble of thunder, every passing plane. Her nerves were a live wire, stretched thin. But she kept working—calling old contacts, decoding encrypted chatter, tracing hospital data logs through dead terminals.

And then luck, for once, didn’t feel cruel.

One of her contacts, Agent Monroe, an undercover field officer—called from a hospital in Tennessee. His voice was jittery, still riding on post-adrenaline.

“You’re not gonna believe this, Annie,” Monroe said, lowering his voice. “I went in to get an anti-hep shot. Some junkie pricked me with a needle during a bust last night. Anyway, while I’m waiting, guess who walks out of urgent care?”

“...Who?” Annie asked, already feeling her pulse pick up.

“William Butcher. Bloody nose, fresh bandages, bad attitude. Looked like he’d been stitched together by a drunk on Red Bull. Walked out before the nurse could even get his papers signed.”

Annie’s mind went into overdrive. Butcher alive meant Kimiko was almost likely with him—and if they were laying low, it meant they knew or saw something. Or someone.

“Did you follow him?” she asked.

“Tried. Lost him near the highway—northbound.”

Annie thanked him, heart hammering so hard it hurt. She didn’t even hang up properly before she started planning her route.

One more sleepless night of research before she finally had a clear direction to his hideout. And then there was no delay before she headed out with River in tow. 

—

The car rolled to a stop on the narrow dirt road that cut through the endless green of Tennessee’s farmland. Heat shimmered off the hood, making the horizon ripple like a mirage.

Annie sat there for a few seconds, fingers tight around the steering wheel, staring at the old wooden barn up ahead. It leaned slightly to one side, ribs of faded red paint peeling off in strips under the punishing sun.

Annie adjusted the baby carrier and got out, the wind instantly heavy with the smell of livestock and grass baked warm. River stirred faintly against her chest, but didn’t wake. The ground squelched faintly under her shoes, not quite mud, not quite dust. Somewhere in the distance, cicadas screamed like broken alarms.

By the barn, an old man stood ankle-deep in cow dung, pitchfork in hand. His shirt clung to him with sweat. When he noticed her, he squinted hard, raising one hand to shield his eyes from the light. His other hand kept the pitchfork angled like a suspicious guard dog.

“Lost?” His voice cracked, dry and skeptical, carrying over the lowing of a cow nearby.

Annie gave a polite half-smile, though her nerves hummed with tension. “Not exactly,” she said. “I’m looking for someone.”

The farmer spit to the side, still staring. “You government?”

“No. Just… a friend.”

That got a snort out of him, the sound of a man who’d stopped believing in friends decades ago. “You sure picked a hell of a friend. If you’re lookin’ for the bastard under that barn, good luck knockin’ some sense into ‘im. I been tryin’ for weeks.”

Her pulse skipped. So she was in the right place.

The old man jabbed the pitchfork into the dirt, leaning on it like a makeshift cane. “Ain’t paid rent since he showed up half dead and full’a whiskey. Comes out when he’s sober enough to yell at me, which ain’t often. Thought about callin’ the sheriff, but then… figured I didn’t wanna know what kinda trouble he’s runnin’ from.”

Annie’s throat went dry, probably because she knew what Butcher was running from. “He’s still here?”

“Unless the ground swallowed him whole.” The farmer’s gaze flicked to the barn. “There’s a hatch in the back, under the hay. Try not to wake the cows. And don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

Annie gave him a brief nod of thanks and started toward the barn, sunlight pooling around her boots and the baby’s quiet breaths echoing softly against her chest. The world around her was so alive — cicadas, birds, wind — yet her heart thudded with that same silent dread she’d been carrying for weeks.

She moved through the barn like a thief, each step careful not to disturb the heavy stillness that hung among the rows of sleeping cows. The air inside was radically thick with hay, dust, and that unmistakable musk of livestock. A few of the cows stirred, their tails swishing lazily, but none seemed to care enough to open their eyes.

Her boots made soft impressions in the straw as she reached the far end of the barn, where sunlight filtered weakly through slanted wooden planks. Her gaze swept the floor until it landed on a mound of hay stacked unnaturally neat. Bingo.

With one hand, she brushed aside the golden strands to reveal a large wooden hatch with a metal handle. She barely had to put effort into it; the thing came up with a creak like it was made of cardboard. Beneath it, a narrow wooden staircase disappeared into dim yellow light.

The air changed the moment she stepped down: cooler, staler, and carrying the sour mix of mildew, sweat, and spilled beer. The shelter walls were concrete, painted long ago but now the color of weathered bone. An old couch sat crooked in front of a flickering TV, tuned to static. A single bulb swung faintly above, illuminating the mess: beer bottles, crumpled takeout boxes, a dirty towel that could’ve once been white.

Butcher was sprawled on the couch, dead to the world. His boots were still on, one arm slung over the backrest, the other dangling a half-empty bottle of beer that tilted dangerously close to spilling. He snored — not peacefully, but like he was losing an argument in his dreams.

Annie wrinkled her nose, pulling River’s carrier slightly away from her chest. “God,” she muttered under her breath, “smells like a frat house married a landfill.”

The baby stirred softly, so she rocked her gently while moving deeper into the room. Her eyes darted across the wreckage, unimpressed. Somehow, this was exactly what she’d pictured when she thought of Butcher hiding out.

She perched herself on the corner of a battered table, taking in the sight of him; the once unstoppable brute reduced to a drunk, snoring in a tornado bunker under a barn. For a moment, she almost pitied him. Almost. The Temp-V sure had taken its toll on his health. 

Then, with a flick of her boot, she nudged a nearby chair hard enough to send it crashing to the floor.

The effect was instantaneous. Butcher jerked upright, half-asleep but pure instinct — his hand shot to his hip, gun drawn, eyes wild and unfocused.

River whimpered faintly, but Annie’s hand was already patting her back in a rhythmic hush. “Shh, it’s alright, baby,” she whispered, eyes still fixed on him.

Butcher squinted through the haze, blinking once, twice, before the sight in front of him settled in. Blond hair. Baby. Judgmental glare.

He groaned. “Well, I’ll be buggered.” He rubbed a hand down his face, then smirked. “Should’ve known the smell of self-righteousness would wake me up anytime now.”

He dropped the gun onto the couch cushion with a dull thud, dragging himself toward the tiny kitchenette. His steps were uneven, his hangover obvious. He rummaged through a cabinet until he found a tin of coffee beans that looked older than the barn itself.

Annie watched him with a look that could curdle milk; one brow arched, her lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line.

He didn’t look back, too busy fumbling with the kettle. “Homelander’s found you at last, eh?” he rasped, voice still rough from whiskey and sleep.

The words hung there between them — heavy, bitter, and just the beginning of a conversation neither of them wanted to have.

Annie exhaled at the mention of Homelander’s name; half relieved Butcher wasn’t wasting time, half terrified that the bastard had spared them for some twisted game. “I heard about MM and Frenchie. I’m sorry…” she said quietly. “Where’s Kimiko? And when did it happen?”

Butcher snorted, bitter and mocking, flicking the kettle on with a snap. “What happened is you got MM and Frenchie bloody killed. Kimiko legged it—off-grid, smart girl.”

Annie frowned, straightening up while patting the baby’s back. “What do you mean I got them killed?”

He didn’t answer right away, just gave her that smug, judgmental grin she’d always wanted to slap off his face.

She rolled her eyes. “Can you please just explain?”

Butcher poured half-brewed coffee into a mug that looked like it hadn’t seen soap since the Queen was alive. He downed it scorching hot, not even a wince, then slammed it on the table with a loud thud.

“I think it’s you who’s got some explainin’ to do, love,” he said, voice sharp as barbed wire. “Ryan’s dead. And MM—poor sod—he’s the one who slipped you that virus, yeah? No wonder that twat’s crawled back from the dead. I bloody would too.”

Annie’s throat clenched as the pieces fell into place. Homelander wasn’t just hunting his own conspirators, he was wiping out those too who were even remotely tied to Ryan’s death as well. She didn’t speak for a moment, letting the dread settle.

She looked up at Butcher again, eyes glassy but steady. “It wasn’t supposed to happen… Ryan. I was going to adopt him. Sage and I went to talk to him, and he attacked me. Sage jabbed him in the eye during the fight.” Her voice was low, remorse dragging each word.

Butcher snorted, already gearing up for something venomous, but Annie didn't take offense. “I know that’s no excuse. He’s gone. I was pregnant at the time.” She looked down at the baby, her voice barely above a whisper.

His smirk crawled back across his face like a bad habit. “Homelander’s, then?”

Annie grimaced. The truth stung every time she said it—or didn’t. The baby was hers and Homelander’s. Embarrassingly, undeniably so.

Butcher barked a laugh, harsh and joyless. “Hah! Selfish doesn’t even scratch it. Bloody typical, innit? All that sunshine hair and savior complex—turns out you’re just another supe shag story gone tits-up.”

Annie’s glare was instantaneous, but she held herself still. She wasn’t a mannerless savage like Butcher. Or like him.

“Sage, Stan Edgar, Zoe, MM, Frenchie, and now President Singer—dead. The president pro tempore’s about to take the oath. He’s pro-supe. The world’s on the brink of another war.”

“Good,” Butcher drawled, lips curling. “’Bout bloody time.”

Annie tilted her head, frowning. “You don’t want to stop him? I thought you lived to kill Homelander.”

“Nah…” He drained the coffee in one go, grimacing at the bitter sludge before leaning against the counter, the smirk never leaving his face. “Looks like he’s after you now. Shame the wanker hasn’t finished the job yet. And here I was thinkin’ I was the biggest bastard in the room.” He gave a short, dark laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Annie exhaled slowly. “He swore not to kill me,” she said. “Said he’d keep me alive to watch him destroy everything. I was pregnant, second time, when he dropped from the sky in Bangkok. He… killed my baby. Left me alive to live with it.”

Her voice cracked just enough to betray the pain before she forced it steady again.

For a flicker of a second, Butcher’s face softened — the ghost of empathy, gone before it landed. Then that familiar, sardonic twist returned. “Ahh, well. Makes perfect sense, that. Poetic, even. Punishment’s a bitch, innit? Still—” he shrugged, casual as ever, “serves you right, love.”

Annie’s head snapped toward him, disbelief cutting through the grief. “So you’re not gonna help me?”

“Help you? With Homelander?” He chuckled, low and cold. “Not a bloody chance. Even if I did lift a finger, it sure as hell wouldn’t be for you. You can kindly fuck off and enjoy the shite heap you built for yourself.”

Her jaw tightened. She stared at him, silent but seething, eyes heavy with judgment he didn’t care to dodge. Then she gave a small, curt nod. “Okay,” she muttered under her breath, turning on her heel without another word.

Butcher watched her climb the stairs back up through the hatch, the faint light from above catching the edges of her hair before she disappeared completely. For a moment, he just stood there, jaw clenched, the silence thick enough to choke on. There was pity—buried somewhere deep under the booze, the grief, and the human in him, but it never stood a chance. Annie bloody January had made her bed long ago. And now she was lying in it.

With a sigh that sounded more like a growl, Butcher slumped back onto the couch, the springs complaining as he sprawled across it again. Within seconds, the flickering light from the old telly painted his face, same as before, like nothing had ever happened.

Meanwhile, Annie made her way out of the barn. Had she really been that awful? That unforgivable? The question gnawed at her. Maybe Butcher was right. Maybe she had built her own ruin—brick by brick, bad decision by bad decision. The thought hurt more than she’d admit. With almost everyone she’d trusted now gone, Butcher had been her last thread of hope… and even that had snapped.

By the time she stepped into the sunlight again, the world felt emptier than ever. The wind was still, the fields too quiet. After a long time, Annie remembered again what truly alone felt like—and it was far worse than the last time when she decided to go rogue. No cavalry. No backup. Just her and the fragile heartbeat pressed to her chest. It wouldn’t be long before Homelander found them, she could almost feel the shadow of his form already, every single second.

Tears blurred her vision as she crossed the yard, whispering soft words to calm the baby every time she stirred. The old farmer looked up from his work, eyes narrowing against the light.

“Ya talked to him?” he asked, voice wary but curious.

Annie wiped her face, forcing a small, tired smile. “Yeah. Thanks.”

She got into her car, started the engine, and drove off without looking back. The dust rose behind her, swallowed by sunlight.

It was over. It was all over. At least, it felt like it.

—

And then, Annie had chosen Montana. 

Wide skies, endless plains, mountains that could hide anything. It was the kind of place Homelander wouldn’t bother looking twice at; too quiet, too human, too mundane, too small for his god-complex.

The house stood on the edge of nowhere, weather-beaten, two stories of wood and history; enveloped in silence and a thin veil of dust. The woman who’d sold it, eyes soft and kind, had said her husband used to feed the horses every dawn.

Annie hadn’t told her she’d never even owned a horse before. She’d just smiled, nodded, and passed the cash.

Now, two months since the nightmare in Bangkok, the place felt both like exile and sanctuary. The horses grazed lazily near the fence line, the porch creaked when she walked, and the nights stretched long enough for her to start counting the list of her regrets between the stars.

Most mornings, she’d wake before River stirred; not because she wanted to, but because she couldn’t stop. Her body was always ready to run. Her eyes flicked to every sound outside, every shadow stretching past the window. Sometimes, when a bird flew too low or a plane hummed overhead, her heart would seize, ready to blast off into the sky with her child in her arms.

She’d gotten stronger these last weeks. Practicing flight again, lifting hay bales with one hand, focusing energy through her palms until the air shimmered. It wasn’t to fight him — she knew better than to dream of that. It was to last a few more minutes when he came. Just long enough to get River away.

River was almost months now. A chatterbox of nonsense and giggles who didn’t yet understand that the world was a deathtrap. She’d started on solids: mashed vegetables, a mush of fruits. Half of it ended up on the floor, the other half in her hair. Annie didn’t mind. She’d take that mess over blood any day.

At nights, after River finally fell asleep, Annie would sit on the porch wrapped in a blanket, a joint burning between her fingers. The stars above were mercilessly bright. She’d take a long drag, exhale slowly, and stare at the sky like she was waiting for it to break open.

Sleep had stopped coming weeks ago. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Ryan — the way he’d screamed, the way Sage had lunged, the look on his face when he realized what was about to happen. Then the silence after. Always the silence after.

She’d press her hand over her abdomen, remembering the faint flutter she’d once felt there. A heartbeat that never made it past fear. The baby she’d lost after River haunted her as much as the ones she couldn’t save.

Sometimes, she’d whisper to the night. Not prayers, not really. Just fragments of thought, bits of guilt too painful to keep inside.  

“I’m sorry,” she’d murmur. “For all of it.”

Then River would stir in her crib, mumbling half a word, and Annie’s heart would steady again. This was what was left. A house too big for two, a ranch too quiet for comfort, a mother clinging to the only reason she hadn’t let go yet.

Tomorrow, she’d do the same things again — train, feed, clean, check the sky. Because that’s all survival really was now. Not living. Just waiting, armed with love, fear, and a lighter that always smelled faintly of weed and her anxiety.

Then one night, still as it had always been; too still for comfort. The moon hung half-torn over the Montana sky, silver light crawling across the porch and over Annie’s bare feet. A joint smoldered between her fingers, the ember flaring each time she took a drag. The air smelled like rain that never came, horses, and the stale ash of too many sleepless nights.

Suddenly—

A noise.

Low. Quick. Like something moving where it shouldn’t.

Annie froze mid-breath, pulse kicking in her throat. The joint slipped from her lips and rolled across the wooden floorboards. Her hands automatically went for the energy sources, an instinct, a reflex now. The lights from the porch flickered once, then died, their power funneling into her veins. Her eyes burned gold.

She moved. Silent, deliberate. Every muscle strung tight as a tripwire. The wind had gone dead, even the horses weren’t making a sound now. Only her heartbeat; loud, steady, and terrified.

Already expecting Homelander, she was half ready to fight and half ready to die.

The barn loomed ahead, its red paint dark in the moonlight, its doors cracked just enough for the shadows to breathe. Another sound—a faint scrape, the rustle of hay. Annie’s hand flexed, her palms glowing bright enough to bleed light between her fingers. She stepped closer, careful not to stir the gravel under her boots.

At the threshold, she paused, listening.

One breath. Two.

Then she raised her hands and let the light spill across the barn.

A figure flinched in the corner, throwing up a hand to shield her eyes.

Annie’s heart stopped. For a moment, her brain couldn’t catch up with her eyes. The energy wavered in her palms as the face slowly emerged from the dark.

Kimiko.

Her hair was tangled, her clothes torn at the edges, a smear of dirt across her cheek—but it was her. Alive and thriving.

For a suspended second, neither of them moved. Two ghosts staring at each other in disbelief.

Then Kimiko dropped her hands.

Annie’s light dimmed. And everything that had been locked in her chest for months broke free all at once.

“Kimiko?” she breathed. It came out half a sob, half a prayer.

Kimiko didn’t answer—she ran.

The two women collided hard enough to knock the air out of them both. Arms wrapped tight, desperate. They sank to the ground, knees hitting dirt and hay, holding on like they might vanish if they let go. Annie’s sobs came in gasps; Kimiko’s trembled silent against her shoulder. Months of fear, guilt, loss, and loneliness—all spilling out in the same breath.

It wasn’t grief anymore. It was relief. It was hope clawing its way back to life.

When their breathing finally slowed, Annie pulled back, cupping Kimiko’s face like she couldn’t believe she was real. 

“Frenchie’s gone,” Kimiko whispered.

Annie’s chest tightened. She nodded slowly, her trembling fingers tucking a loose strand of black hair behind Kimiko’s ear, gentle as if she were afraid it would all shatter again.

Then something strange struck her—something impossible. Her brows knit, her lips parting slightly in shock.

“Wait…” Annie whispered. “Did you just…talk?”

Kimiko’s eyes glistened, catching the faint golden light still glowing from Annie’s palms. She didn’t answer, only smiled; a small, fragile curve that felt like sunrise after a long, long black night.

For the first time in months, Annie smiled back, wide and hopeful.

Chapter Text

The neon buzz of Vegas never stopped, but inside The Mirage’s hottest bar, Kevin Moskowitz and Malik Thomas were untouchable kings of excess. The bass hit hard enough to rattle teeth, mirrors bounced strobe lights over skin slick with sweat and overpriced champagne. A cluster of models circled the duo like planets orbiting a star, each trying to outdo the other with thigh-high boots, glittery dresses, and a dangerously confident smirk.

“Bro, our merch launch is already trending,” Malik shouted over the thump of the DJ’s latest drop, raising a glass of pink champagne. “We literally printed our faces on socks and hoodies and the idiots are buying them like they’re gold.”

Kevin laughed, tossing his hair back and wiggling his fingers in a mock magician’s flourish. “I mean…we are gold, bro. Have you seen these faces?” He tapped his own chin, posing like the cover of a bad teen magazine. “Limited edition of our gorgeous faces on everything. The world will thank us.”

An Asian-American waitress glided toward them, hips swaying in rhythm with the music, hair shining under the lights like polished obsidian. She leaned in, voice playful, almost teasing. “Gentlemen,” she purred, “you’ve been invited to a private lounge upstairs. Someone is…eager to meet you. Wants you to sample something very exclusive.” She winked, the glitter in her eye catching the lights.

Malik raised an eyebrow, already grinning. “Exclusive, huh? Like, free cocaine exclusive?”

Kevin smirked, already halfway standing. “Bro, if it’s free, we’re basically saints for accepting.”

The waitress giggled, tugging her apron strap. “You two better behave…or at least look like it.”

They didn’t. Because apparently, choosing the wrong side of history seems to grant one absolute immunity when the war ends. While the good and the honest bleeds, they remain untouchable, enjoying the spoils in unbroken comfort.

In a matter of seconds, they were weaving through the crowd, spilling champagne, high-fiving some poor socialite who mistook them for actual royalty. The private lounge was everything a Vegas elite could dream of—velvet couches, gold trim, crystal decanters, and a scent of something sharp and powdery lingering in the air. Patrons lounged with models and bros alike, smirking and murmuring over tiny piles of powder and expensive alcohol.

Kevin and Malik didn’t even hesitate. Malik plopped down onto a chaise next to a model with a necklace that probably cost more than his rent for a year, while Kevin leaned back, letting the soft hum of bass and chatter wash over him. A small tray was slid their way, two tiny lines and a rolled-up bill each, already beckoning.

“Cheers, bro,” Kevin said, nudging Malik. “To selling socks and being gods.”

Malik snorted, lining up the white on the glass table. “To being untouchable.”

And for the next few golden, cocaine-fueled minutes, they actually were untouchable. 

A few more lines of snorting later, one of the models finally rose from her posh sofa, hips swaying like she was auditioning for the moon, and sauntered over to Kevin and Malik. “So,” she purred, tilting her chin toward the leftover lines of powder laid out before them, “what do you think?”

Kevin smirked first, Malik immediately mirroring him, and both briefly imagined threesome scenarios that would’ve made even the bartenders blush. “Tastes…pure, y’know? Top-tier,” Kevin said, snorting lightly. “Definitely…uh…definitely worth it.”

Malik nodded, voice slurred and slow, “Yep, top-shelf stuff. Really…really something else. Thanks a lot for the honor.” They both laughed, a little too loudly, as if they’d just solved world hunger.

The girl rolled her eyes, brushing back a loose strand of hair. “Don’t thank me,” she said, voice teasing. “Thank the man who sponsored it.” She pointed toward the far end of the lounge, a zone so private it had its own glass walls for partition. There, he sat alone, pale blonde hair catching the strobe lights in a subtle halo, drink in hand, solitude and silence enveloping him like luxury.

Kevin’s grin widened. “Well, then we’ll do it personally,” he said, nudging Malik, who was already nodding like a bobblehead. Fueled by cocaine and the thrill of ego, the two idiots made their way toward the private section.

The guard opened the glass door for them, eyes flicking once but otherwise disinterested, then closed it behind them with a soft thunk. They didn’t even glance at the man before thanking him, voices high and jittery, hands gesturing wildly in a symphony of nonsense. Once seated across from him on the luxurious blue velvet sofa set, their energy didn’t drop—they babbled on, every word a mix of awe and cocaine-fueled bravado.

The man didn’t move. He let them finish, eyes piercing from behind the faint shimmer of amusement, and then, finally, exhaled. Slow. Deep. Intentional.

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips as he crossed one leg over the other, lounging back like he owned both the room and the universe.

“Hello, Deep. Noir.”

The voice hit them like a thunderclap. Familiar. Impossible. Recognizable. Distinctly Homelander. The stubble was gone, hair perfectly combed but with the telltale brown roots beneath the blonde, and those ice-blue eyes, capable of shredding a person’s soul, stared straight at them. The suit was sharp, tailored, the kind that made billionaires squirm with envy, perfectly at odds with the destruction the man radiated.

Kevin froze mid-grin, the spark of excitement dissolving into a creeping dread. Meanwhile, Malik’s jaw slackened, eyes widening. For the first time that night, the two influencers—so untouchable, so brash—felt the full, freezing weight of terror, and maybe joy? Homelander was back. Alive. And he was looking at them.

The moment the initial shock wore off, it was Kevin—Deep—who lunged first. “Holy hell…Homelander! Sir!” He practically catapulted off the velvet sofa, arms flailing like a deranged fanboy possessed, and threw himself onto the man he’d once worshiped. He clamped onto him, squeezing with a fervor that bordered on invasive. 

“You’re alive!” he squealed, his voice a cocktail of disbelief and ecstasy, eyes glinting like he’d just discovered God had returned in human form.

Homelander recoiled, a flicker of disgust crossing his face as he gently shoved Kevin away, careful not to bruise him…too much. “Yeah, yeah…don’t—don’t do that,” he said, the words clipped, almost a growl, his tone threaded with patient irritation and the faintest hint of amusement. He still appreciated the sentiments, though.

Kevin, heart still hammering from the cocaine and sheer fanboy adrenaline, grinned wider. “Right, duh…sorry, sorry!” His teeth shining under the VIP lounge’s strobe lights.

Meanwhile, Malik—Noir 2.0—was still reeling, caught between disbelief and a hesitant euphoria. His jaw worked like it was testing the mechanics of words, before finally squeaking out, “B-but…how? Sir, we thought you were dead. Really gone. What the hell happened?” His voice wavered, equal parts awe and confusion, eyes darting between Kevin and the pristine lines of Homelander's impossibly tailored suit.

Homelander tilted his head, the corners of his mouth curling in that predatory, serene smirk. “I was…for a while. Thanks to Starlight,” he said, the words dripping with casual dismissal, like he’d just mentioned the grocery list. He shrugged lightly, all nonchalance, yet the aura of menace never left him. “Then I came back. Simple as that.”

Kevin flopped back onto the sofa beside Malik, chest heaving like a high-strung teenager, still buzzing from the drugs and the sheer audacity of the reunion. “I always knew it. The Seven got jinxed the moment that little whiny bitch Starlight stepped into the tower,” he huffed, exaggerating the words with cocaine-fueled conviction, hands waving as if painting the crime scene in midair.

Malik threw up his hands in a dramatic flourish, voice rising to an incredulous pitch. “Sir! The world—the world’s changed! Everyone hates supes! People hate supes! And not everyone’s got our luck. The others—they’re suffering. Bob Singer’s sucking the life out of the entire community!” His words tumbled out like a tantrum, a child scolding an estranged father who’d just returned from a decade-long prison sentence.

Kevin nodded vigorously throughout, occasionally punctuating Malik’s complaints with his own half-drunken, half-coked-up exclamations. “Yeah! Totally, bro! They’re destroying everything we built! The whole system’s gone to shit!”

Homelander just sat back, one leg over the other knee, arms draped over the velvet, letting the two spin themselves into a frenzy of noise and indignation, the faintest smirk playing on his lips, the calm storm at the eye of a very, very chaotic hurricane.

He dipped his chin once, slow and deliberate. “I know,” he said, voice smooth as lacquer—calm, amused, and eerily casual. “That’s exactly why I’m here.” He spread his hands like a maestro. “I’m bringing The Seven back. Don’t lose sleep over Singer. He won’t be standing much longer.”

Kevin and Malik swapped a look, half confusion, half tentative hope, like kids hearing a rumor about a canceled test.

“I want you two back in the fold,” Homelander continued, lounging as if announcing a new soap for laundry. “You’ll work for me until you are the new, resurrected Seven.”

Malik’s eyes widened. Kevin technically vibrated with glee. “Holy—Homelander, sir, that’s insane. A dream, man. Whatever you need. Anything.” Kevin’s grin was all coke and worship.

Malik looked between them; braced, curious, a little twitchy. The drugs made him bolder, but there was a caution in him that Kevin lacked.

Homelander chuckled, a soft, contemptuous sound, as if indulging two particularly entertaining puppies. “Good. For starters: Starlight is alive.” He let that sit like a warm stone in the air. “I paid her a little visit last week. She’s still breathing. I’ll keep her breathing. I’ve got…special plans.” His smile sharpened; the light caught the points of his teeth.

Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice sinking into a conspiratorial whisper. “And for you? A tidy job. Risky, yes—but doable. After all, you were The Seven once.” He shrugged as if it were no more difficult than ordering another round.

“Starlight’s alive?” Kevin blurted, exchanging a quick, stunned look with Malik. “Holy fuck—okay, what’s the job then?”

“Compound V,” Homelander said lightly, too casual. “Bring the little vials back home. All of them. But in phases.”

The air tightened. Malik and Kevin’s smiles flickered. The glamour drained out of their faces for the first time that night. “And…what if we get caught?” Malik asked, voice small underneath the debaucherous roar of the club.

Homelander’s smile didn’t change, but the room chilled. “Then you kill.”

The sentence landed like a guillotine. No flourish. No theatrics. Just cold, exquisite finality; an offer with a single, unmistakable hinge.

His smirk deepened, the kind that promised nuisance more than danger—as if being caught were only a minor hiccup. “You hide your faces,” he said, voice low and lethal, “if you get nailed, you finish the job. No mercy.” He leaned in, teeth bared in a slow, bitter grin, eyes narrowing until the light looked afraid to touch them. “It’s time we remind these motherfuckers that supes can’t and won’t be muzzled. Not anymore.”

—

A few nights after Annie’s visit, Butcher found himself booted out of the farmer’s house again—fourth bloody time this week. He didn’t even remember what he’d done this round; probably something heroic like calling the farmer’s wife a “sentimental lettuce.” Either way, it earned him another one-way ticket to the curb.

So, naturally, he did what any self-respecting dead man walking would do; went to a nameless dive bar where the beer was cheap. The lightbulbs there flickered like they wanted to die too, and the jukebox played songs about lifelong regrets and broken dreams sung by men who’d survived just long enough to write them.

He drank until his liver started sending smoke signals to God. Every gulp burned like a punishment he didn’t believe he deserved, and that only made it taste better.

By the time the bouncers tossed him out—two meatheads with more bicep than empathy—he was laughing. Laughing at nothing. At everything. He hit the ground hard enough to make the dirt feel sorry for him, but still grinned like he’d won the fight.

He staggered down the street, muttering obscenities under his breath, the kind that came from a place between rage and resignation. His boots scuffed the pavement like they had nowhere better to be, and neither did he.

Then the coughing hit. Violent, gut-wrenching, crimson. It ripped through him like his body had finally decided to file a complaint. He spat blood into the dust, glanced at it, and chuckled hoarsely.

“Guess that’s me taxes paid, then.”

He tried walking again, still clutching at his chest as if he could bully his organs into cooperating. But his vision started tunneling, the world wobbling like a drunk camera lens, and the next second—blackout.

He dropped like a sack of cement in the middle of the road, the smirk still ghosting on his lips.

When Butcher came to, it wasn’t graceful.

He jolted awake like his body had decided to reboot mid-malware infection. For a few seconds, he just sat there, blinking stupidly, trying to remember whether he was alive, dead, or stuck somewhere between God’s recycle bin and an awful hangover.

Then his eyes adjusted.

The room looked like money had mated with minimalism. Everything gleamed—polished silver, pale marble, furniture so pristine it looked allergic to fingerprints. The whole place screamed pretentious serenity, like a psychiatric retreat for rich sociopaths. Overhead hung a chandelier the size of a small galaxy, scattering light in shards across the ceiling. 

Butcher stared at it too long—forty seconds, give or take—and nearly had an out-of-body experience without the aid of pharmaceuticals. For a brief moment, it was… peaceful even. Like he’d accidentally stepped into heaven’s waiting room.

Then a voice broke through the calm. “Morning.”

Butcher froze. Every nerve in his body recognized that voice before his brain did. It was like hearing the national anthem of everything he hated. He turned slowly, and sure enough—there he was.

Homelander.

The bastard looked like he’d just dipped in some fictional chemicals he used to dip in two years ago while still at Vought. Hair perfectly bleached golden again, stubble gone, skin glowing with that god-tier vanity. Dressed down in casual clothes, but still carrying the air of “bow before me anyway.”

For a few seconds, Butcher said nothing. Not fear, not shock; just sheer, speechless what-the-fuckery. Then he remembered himself. Homelander never did anything out of kindness. If he’d pulled Butcher out of the gutter, there was a reason—and it sure as hell wasn’t charity.

Homelander smirked like he could read every word in Butcher’s head. “Are you just gonna keep narrating your thoughts internally, or do you actually have a question?” He flashed a saintly grin.

Butcher’s signature sneer crept back, that British brand of arrogance that made even dying look like a choice. He swung one leg over the edge of the couch and tried to stand. Tried.

The second gravity remembered who he was, his knees gave out and he slumped back down like a puppet with the strings cut.

Homelander chuckled. A soft, nostalgic sound, the kind you’d make while replaying an inside joke with yourself. And it was an inside joke—he’d seen this scene before, except the last star was Annie in Bangkok. Another fragile mortal he’d once hovered over with morbid fascination. His smile faltered for a beat. Pity. His favorite enemies were either dead or almost dead or could be made dead anytime. Oh, the unjust tests of godhood. 

He finally exhaled, tone flipping back to casual omnipotence. “You know,” Homelander said, almost cheerfully, “you’ve got maybe… what, a few days left? A week if you stop trying so hard.” He tapped his temple. “I scanned you. And I’m always right.”

He tilted his head, a pitiful frown on his face. “Now, if you’re done trying to resuscitate your pride, how about we have a little chat?”

Butcher barked out a laugh that sounded more like a dying engine trying to start. “Yeah, she came around. Starlight. Wanted me help taking you down—again. Apparently, the world’s got a queue now waitin’ to see your head pop like a piñata.” His grin widened, all yellow teeth and mock delight.

Homelander gave a short, amused snort. “Cute. I’m not exactly—actively, looking for her either. Because if I were?” He gestured vaguely, like the punchline was obvious. “She’d already be here. In several pieces. Don’t you think?”

Butcher’s smirk faltered for half a second, then returned, sharper. “So what’s your play then, sunshine? Because by your logic, if you wanted me dead, I’d be fertilizer by now.”

“Touché, William. Touché.” Homelander actually meant it. His voice carried that rare sincerity that made it sound almost human—almost. Then, without ceremony, he sat down across from Butcher in a ridiculously ornate armchair, motioning toward him to sit up properly like a therapist humoring his least cooperative patient.

Butcher squinted at him, sizing him up. Eventually, he straightened on the couch, shoulders slouched with exhaustion but eyes alive with venom.

Homelander folded his hands over his stomach, his posture screaming control. “So, William.” His grin spread slowly, that immaculate corporate smile that used to sell ‘hope’ to America. “What if—” he raised a hand preemptively, already seeing the insult forming in Butcher’s eyes, “Just hear me out, okay? You can then bark all you want.”

Butcher’s smirk turned feral. “Unless you’re about to offer to suck me off, I’ll interrupt whenever the fuck I like.”

Homelander’s face twisted instantly, like someone had hit him with a bad smell. “Jesus, William.” He drawled, smirking in amusement. “You’re dirty.” Then, waving the comment away with that godlike indifference, he leaned back. “Try to behave, hm? I’m offering conversation, not foreplay.”

The easy smile folded back into pure focus. “What if,” he began, pausing long enough to let the room finish the sentence for him, “I told you…your condition could be fixed?” He clicked his tongue against his teeth, watching Butcher for the micro-expression that gave people away.

Butcher barked a laugh, half a cough. “And why the fuck would I want that? So you can hand me a sword and we can play gladiators in your personal Coliseum?” His voice was greasy with sarcasm.

“Maybe,” Homelander said, shrugging like it was a charming hypothetical. “Maybe so we can actually finish this properly. We started something monstrous, William. You lit the fuse, I—well, I blew the roof off the house. We never saw the end of it. Millions got dragged into our dance. And I don’t want this to be a perpetual pas de deux.” He leaned in, suddenly earnest, eyes oddly raw under the surface. “We settle it. One of us ends it. No more half-finished wars.”

Butcher’s mouth flattened, brow arched with judgement. “So you want me alive so I can kill you? Bit desperate, innit? Sounds like a special kind of fetish, mate.”

Homelander rolled his eyes, patience thinning into a fine, dangerous wire. “Really? That’s your takeaway? You’re scandalously immature. And people think I’m the man-child.” He pinched the bridge of his nose like the idea itself offended him.

Butcher smirked, because what else was he going to do?

Homelander ignored him and carried on, quieter now, softer in a way that made it worse. “I think you can be fixed. Not with V—don’t be daft—but there’s another way.” He rose from the chair, the poise of being used to standing above others. “You don’t have to answer right away. Think about it. Just don’t think too long. You don’t have it.”

He paused at the doorway, casting one last casual glance over his shoulder. “And if you’d rather not be fixed—if you want to stay a broken, glorious mess—you’re welcome to fuck off anytime. If you can manage to walk.” He let the line hang there like a gauntlet, then left the room with unhurried certainty.

Butcher stared at the doorway long after Homelander was gone, like the bastard had left an afterimage burned into the air.

Did he really have it in him to keep doing this? To keep circling that overgrown schoolboy with a god complex until one of them finally perished? 

Did he want to?

Maybe this was his second chance — a divine irony. He couldn’t kill the cunt the first time, so the universe, sick fuck that it was, had hit retry.

Would it be so bloody terrible to crawl back from the edge of a grave and finish the job? Homelander did it. And if that smug, self-appointed messiah could rise from the ground, why not him?

He scoffed quietly. Resurrection — what a joke. He was already half-dead, all decay and whiskey fumes.

Maybe Starlight was right; maybe Butcher was just another Homelander without the cape and superpowers. The same rage, the same rotten morals, minus the god-tier PR. A monster with worse teeth and British humor.

He smirked bitterly to himself. Wouldn’t it be poetic — two devils who deserved each other, dancing their final round until one finally stopped twitching?

He leaned back, coughing until his ribs ached, eyes watering as he laughed under his breath.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Wouldn’t that be fuckin’ diabolical.”

—

For over a week now, Kimiko had been living with Annie and baby River. The house — an old, weather-beaten thing sitting on the edge of nowhere — had begun to adjust to her presence like it had been waiting for her all along. Ever since she showed up, Annie had felt something she hadn’t in months: the luxury of breathing. They took turns staying awake at night, trading off who kept the watch for a certain wingless nightmare that might decide to pay them a visit.

Annie had been researching underground bunkers and hideouts; the ones the government kept hush-hush for “emergencies.” Problem was, most were already occupied or conveniently “under renovation,” which Annie knew was bureaucratic code for don’t bother, you’re not on the list. Still, she searched, half out of hope, half out of stubbornness.

But Kimiko’s presence changed the atmosphere of the place. The dread still loomed like smog that refused to clear up, but with Kimiko there, the air was breathable. There was laughter again. There was sound. There was life. A fragile, hard-earned peace had begun to weave itself between them — a three-woman household patched together by trauma, resilience, and Kimiko's pancakes.

In the soft hum of morning, Kimiko moved through the kitchen. A song spun on the turntable, some scratchy old vinyl Annie had rescued from a thrift store — and she hummed along, shoulders swaying ever so slightly as she flipped pancakes. The smile on her face was small, real, fragile, like she was gradually stitching herself back together with self-generosity.

Outside, the nine horses in the barn stirred, their soft neighs threading through the morning air. Annie had shown Kimiko the dawn feeding routine, and now the sounds of the horses — gentle, impatient, alive — became a quiet orchestra for Kimiko's morning ritual: tending to the horses, then moving into the kitchen to make breakfast. It was a therapy she hadn’t known she needed, a ritual that grounded her, and she felt herself slowly falling in love with the creatures. Their empathetic presence brought a serenity she hadn’t realized she was missing.

Upstairs, Annie had just finished bathing River, who was now a squeaky, soapy bundle of wholesome chaos. The toddler giggled wildly, smacking bubbles at her and making those little nose-boop attacks that toddlers considered top-tier combat tactics. Annie laughed, genuinely laughed, as she wrapped River in a towel and carried her downstairs.

The smell of pancakes, butter, and eggs greeted her first. Then the sound — Kimiko’s humming, airy and confident. Annie stopped for a second at the bottom of the stairs, her heart tugging in that quiet, tender way only simple joys could manage. The best part? Kimiko could speak now. That miracle hadn’t worn off yet. Every sound she made felt like a sunrise.

Annie placed River on the rug, who immediately began her daily crawling expeditions; investigating the sofa, attempting to eat a slipper, and babbling at invisible conspiracies.

Annie joined Kimiko by the counter, shaking a formula bottle while Kimiko’s tune floated around them. They exchanged a look — that unspoken language of shared exhaustion and survival — then Kimiko sang a line louder, her voice soft but full.

Annie smiled, surprised, then joined her. Two voices in sync, cracking up mid-verse, dissolving into giggles. For a moment, they weren’t hiding, weren’t soldiers in an ugly, hopeless war. They were just women. Friends. Family even. The world outside was still spinning, still burning, still breaking news. But in this little moment full of laughter, music, and a nosy baby; it almost felt like a life worth fighting for.

Later that morning, the two of them sat at the table with River strapped in her high chair, smashing toast with militant precision. Annie reached for the remote and turned on the television. It hummed quietly in the corner as Annie and Kimiko sat across from each other at the breakfast table. 

River gurgled happily, oblivious, lathering the mashed food on her arms. But the adults’ eyes were glued to the screen, the chatter of reporters washing over them in the background.

On the screen, the live ceremony unfolded: the new President Pro Tempore, Lucius Halloway, stood tall at the podium, the oath ready to be administered. Beside him, the newly appointed Vice President, Maren Cross, straight-backed and impeccable in demeanor, smiled thinly at the cameras. Both were supes. Everyone watching knew it. Everyone watching knew what that meant.

“We’ll forge a path together,” Halloway intoned, voice smooth as silk yet carrying the weight of a masked promise. “For humans and superhumans alike. Justice will no longer be blind to abilities. We will correct the inequities that have long divided us. The superhuman community will thrive. No more persecution. No more unjust oversight.”

The words hung in the air like the clouds before an acid rain. Annie’s jaw tightened, while Kimiko’s fingers curled unconsciously around her mug.

The phrasing sounded benevolent — almost altruistic — but their experience told them otherwise. Offering the supe community recognition, a “fair” chance again, a place to breathe? That was nothing more than a political powder keg. A sanctioned opening for the narrative to flip. Human versus superhuman was an old war, and it was about to erupt again.

They exchanged looks, sharp and wordless, the kind that spoke volumes without breaking the fragile domestic calm around them. Annie’s mind spun. Homelander was alive. He had already started his vendetta, tearing through those who dared oppose him. And now the country’s highest offices were effectively giving him and his ilk a reason to flex, a reason to escalate. The system was handing them legitimacy, carte blanche.

The talking heads flitted between admiration and analysis. Experts debated the implications of Halloway’s policies, the “new era of integration,” the “fair governance for all.” But Annie and Kimiko didn’t hear the optimism. They saw the blood in the margins. They saw the calculated steps toward another impending war — bigger, uglier, unstoppable. They felt it, the chill creeping into their bones, that gnawing certainty that the coming months would test their limits, their loyalty, their survival.

And in the middle of it all, they — Annie and Kimiko, both still active CIA agents and supes— were stranded on the human side, government-sanctioned yet fundamentally powerless against the war looming like a storm cloud over the horizon.

The people, the sense of safety, the justice, the systems— all would matter less once Homelander decided it was time. One vengeful supe, legitimized by politics, was enough to topple everything.

The news anchors continued their commentary, oblivious to the dread wrapping around the room like a living thing. Annie’s fingers flexed into a fist, nails digging into her palm, her teeth grinding ever so slightly. 

Kimiko shifted, tilting her head toward the screen again, voice quiet but firm.

“Another war’s coming... we're fucked.” she said.

Annie didn’t answer immediately. She only watched, her eyes darkened with foreboding.

They both knew that the apocalypse had already started. It was now only a matter of time before the world came crumbling down. The TV’s glow hadn’t even dimmed when Annie’s burner phone buzzed against the wooden countertop.

She snatched it up instinctively, thumb hovering over the screen. Agent Monroe’s name blinked back at her — one of the few voices she still trusted.

“Annie. You watching the swearing-in?” His voice came sharp, urgent, almost jittery.

“Yeah,” Annie replied, keeping her tone neutral, though her gut was tightening with every word from the broadcast.

“Good. Listen, there’s already… friction in the ranks. Heated debates. People don’t like this. It's not looking very good.” He paused. “But that’s not why I’m calling.”

Annie’s brow furrowed. “I’m listening.”

From across the line, Monroe’s voice deepened, each word heavy, like he was weighing every syllable. “One of the three federal vaults — the ones holding every known vial of Compound V — has been breached. All of it. Gone. Guards had been neutralized. No alarms. No forced entry. Card access was used. Clean heist.”

Annie’s fingers tightened around the phone. Clean. That word alone made the blood in her veins feel thicker, heavier. “Supes?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

“Suspected. Yeah. They don’t leave traces like amateurs anymore. They’re getting smarter.”

She exhaled slowly, a shudder tracing her spine. The day had been relentless with bad news, but this — this was worse. Not just a bad day, not just bad timing; this was life threatening, impossible, unraveling by the second like a bad lifetime.

Monroe continued, his tone lower now, almost conspiratorial. “I just wanted you up to date. Stay put. Stay ready. They might start pulling you and Kimiko in for assignments soon. Could be sooner than later.”

Annie’s knuckles whitened as she pressed the phone away from her ear. “Copy that. Thanks… Remy.” She ended the call, letting the line go dead.

Kimiko, already standing by the counter now, her gaze sharp and probing, met Annie’s eyes. There was a flicker of worry there, mirroring Annie’s own, unspoken yet palpable.

Annie exhaled, letting her shoulders sag a fraction. “Maybe… it’s time we reach out to another friend,” she said, her voice low. “Someone who knows what’s coming. A-Train, perhaps.”

Kimiko’s brow arched. “A-Train?” she asked, tilting her head. “You think he’ll help?”

Annie let out a bitter chuckle, shrugging. “Worth trying compared to being dead.”

Kimiko smirked faintly. “Fair. But you’ll have to explain why he owes us anything.”

Annie’s lips pressed together, thinking. “Doesn’t matter if he owes us or not. The world’s about to explode.”

Kimiko nodded, understanding far more than her words let on. “Then we meet him ASAP.”

Annie grabbed the laptop from the counter, her mind already racing through secure lines and burner numbers. “Yeah,” she said, voice tight but resolute. “We don’t have the luxury of waiting.”

Chapter Text

The morning sun never crept through the thick, sleek wall of Homelander’s underground palace, because of course, why wouldn’t the world’s most egotistical superhuman insist on subterranean opulence? 

Butcher, lying in a hospital-grade recliner that was probably worth more than a modest flat in London, squinted at the faint light and groaned. His body felt like it had been auctioned off and every bidder had walked away disappointed, leaving him entirely to the whims of gravity and entropy.

This morning, of all mornings—the swearing-in of a new president, a man promising superhuman utopia under the guise of ‘integration’, while the nation’s heartbeat teetered on a knife-edge—Butcher felt particularly pitiful about himself. The disease gnawing at him had turned his limbs into lead, his knees into jelly, and his ego into a stubborn, semi-conscious lump of resentment. He could barely walk. He could barely curse properly. And yet, in the true style of William Butcher, he would attempt both relentlessly.

A neatly wrapped cane, absurdly minimalist and likely costing more than the life insurance of half the US’s cabinet, had been left beside him, presumably by Homelander, who had once again decided that offering help was an acceptable form of moral theater. Butcher scowled at it like it had personally insulted him. He attempted; oh, the sheer arrogance of the attempt, to stand without it. And predictably, gravity laughed louder than he did, and he collapsed back into the recliner with a soft thunk.

Fine. Cane it was.

Gripping the polished wood, Butcher rose, shakily negotiating the terrain of marble floors, pristine walls, and minimalist décor—all gray and off-white, soulless and lifeless. Each step was a performance: wobbling, cursing under his breath, muttering insults to the air, as if the furniture had personally wronged him. The cane tapped against the marble, producing a hollow clack that sounded like the slow, metronomic heartbeat of his impending doom.

And yet, as pitiful as he looked, there was a smugness to it. The irony was not lost on him. Here he was, fighting death itself, staggering through a palace owned by the very man who Butcher lived to kill once upon a time. He could feel Homelander’s intentional absence like a ghost lingering in the air.

Butcher huffed, attempting to straighten his shoulders.

“Bloody ridiculous,” he muttered to no one in particular—probably at the ego-bruising realization that anytime and every time he tried to walk out of this place to salvage some of his leftover dignity, his body had collapsed. 

Homelander, uncharacteristically so, never stopped him from leaving. Never once turned into some hovering specter of control. The cage, such as it was, existed more in Butcher’s head than in reality. If anything, the blonde bastard only occasionally dropped in like a god checking on an ant colony—ghosting through the sprawling, opulent corridors of his underground space, wandering into the section of the house Butcher was allowed to roam, sipping on a cup of whatever ridiculously rare coffee he fancied that day, and attempting, in that insufferable godlike charm of his, to convince Butcher to reverse the disease gnawing at his brain and bones.

But Butcher—reluctant, smug, entirely aware of the performance—never budged. Never. He’d learned the truth of this game a long time ago: Homelander didn’t just want to see him survive; he needed him alive to finish this twisted duel. The fight that had, and would continue to, bring nations to their knees, had only paused because of circumstance, not mercy. Homelander was starving for that final act, the one that would crown either of them victor or martyr—or, in Butcher’s own estimation, something in between.

And so Butcher, with every wheezing, trembling step he took, with every sarcastic quip spat at the air like a defensive shield, kept saying no. Not out of principle. Not even out of pride entirely. But because it was more cruelly poetic to deny Homelander the satisfaction of a fair, healthy fight. To let the blonde fucker stew, waiting for the inevitable, to hunger for a contest that would never arrive while he still could, in his pitiful, human, terminal form, make Homelander earn it.

It was strategic evil, really. A small, personal rebellion in a war that had already set the planet’s axis tipping toward downfall. Butcher kept the disease, kept the weakness, kept the limping, wobbling, cursing self alive, because he knew the payoff: a delicious achievement of Homelander’s eternally unfulfilled wish to finish that fight. And in his twisted moral calculus, that was the right thing to do.

He limped toward the kitchen, cane tapping rhythmically. Somewhere in the distance, the live swearing-in ceremony of the new president echoed faintly through a screen. He could hear the smooth, persuasive cadence promising a new era, while he promised himself a continued existence of spite, sarcasm, and grudging amusement at the cosmic joke being played.

The kitchen soon became a battlefield, though Butcher would’ve called it “a strategic search operation.” Cabinets swung open with haphazard brutality, drawers yanked out, utensils clattering to the floor in sharp little riots of tin and wood. He snorted as he rifled through a row of artisanal cereals and designer granola.

Playing out in the background on a television screen, the president’s silver tongue dribbled promises like icing on a cake that was already perishing: equality for superhuman and humans alike, fairness, unity. Butcher scoffed so hard he almost knocked over a stack of coffee mugs.

“Fuckin’ fairy tales,” he muttered bitterly, swiping a jar of ethically-sourced instant coffee and shaking his head. He dumped the contents into the French press with a violence capable of making any morning barista weep. Water boiled. Steam hissed like a serpent, and he kept on, pulling out the sugar, the mugs, the spoons, anything within reach, leaving a trail of mess in his wake.

Then his hand froze mid-reach. Rows of whiskey bottles, dustless and gleaming, winked at him like old friends. Expensive ones. Too expensive. And he didn’t care. He grabbed one, uncorked it with a wet pop that sounded like applause, and tipped it back, swallowing like a man who had long ago given up on moderation, on dignity, on survival.

The French press hissed and gurgled. The coffee was ready. Butcher glanced between the rich black liquid and the lingering whiskey in his gut, one eye narrowing. “Ah…fuck it,” he said, hoisting the kettle carelessly.

Suddenly—the room started to sway. The edges of the cabinets and counters rippled like heat waves above asphalt. His stomach revolted violently against the audacity of the morning, against the whiskey, and against his own hollow defiance. He lurched, but the sink was too far.

Blood, bile, whiskey—all of it—spilled across the marble and polished steel. The scent was acidic, metallic, undeniable. Butcher’s knees gave way. The air whooshed out of him as if the world itself had exhaled in disgust. His vision blurred, the edges of reality melting into indistinct smearings of color.

And then the final cruel courtesy: silence. Flat, cold, and complete. William Butcher’s lungs emptied, his body surrendered, and the world went blank.

—

Reggie violently choked on his coffee. “What the actual fuck?!” he spluttered, slamming the mug down hard.

“You can’t just casually drop ‘Homelander’s alive’ like we're talking about your breakfast.” His voice pitched somewhere between horror and hysterical laughter—like he'd just realized that Armageddon RSVP’d early.

Annie only exhaled, shoulders rising and falling with an unsettling calm. She didn’t even look rattled—if anything, faintly amused—as she exchanged a wordless glance with Kimiko. The kind that said, yeah, we’ve been marinating in this nightmare for a while now.

Reggie leaned forward, eyes wide and desperate, still trying to compute the math of bad news. “So what now? Why are you even here? And how in God’s leaking asshole did you find me?”

“Oh, that part was easy.” Annie’s tone was breezy, too casual for the weight of the conversation. She adjusted the baby carrier strapped to her chest where River sat, gurgling obliviously. “You’re not exactly subtle with your food bills. You know, for your energy.” 

Kimiko, standing by the porch railing, sighed and crossed her arms. “We don’t have time for this. The new president’s a walking red flag, and Homelander’s probably scanning every inch of the map as we speak. Once he catches a whiff of us, it’s game over.” Her gaze sharpened. “So are you going to help us or just sit there having a meltdown?”

Reggie’s mouth hung open, finger slowly rising to point at her. “Wait—wait a fucking second—she talks now?”

Annie smirked. “Yeah. Full sentences and everything. Terrifying, right?”

Kimiko gave him a flat, unimpressed look. “You sound disappointed.”

“I am! It was better when she couldn’t roast me verbally!” Reggie groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Fuck, this just keeps getting worse. Supes back in power, Homelander alive, and now you have a voice.”

River let out a happy coo. Annie patted her back with a faint smile. “So what’s it gonna be, A-Train? Will you help?”

Reggie flinched like she’d just slapped him with boiled pasta. “Yeah—don’t call me that,” he muttered. “And no. I’m not. I left that life for a reason. I’ve got a family, and I’m not about to lose them because you two have a death wish.” His tone wasn’t cruel—just tired. The kind of tired that seeps into your bones when you’ve seen too many people explode, literally and figuratively.

Annie rolled her eyes. “We’ve all got something to lose, Reggie. You think we’re doing this for fun?”

His gaze flicked to the baby strapped against Annie’s chest; River, blinking up at him with wide, curious eyes. He hesitated, jaw tight, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Starlight—Annie. I can’t. I’m staying out of it.”

“You won't be able to stay out of it for long.” Kimiko said quietly. Her voice carried like a slow crack in glass. “Homelander’s coming.”

Both Annie and Reggie froze, her words landing with the weight of prophecy. 

Reggie swallowed hard, throat working like he was trying to choke down the truth. “Then I guess I’ll just have to pray he skips my zip code.” He forced a hollow chuckle, but it didn’t make it past his teeth. “I’m sorry.”

Kimiko’s mouth opened to argue, but Annie tilted her face towards her instantly, interjecting. A single look passed between them—one of weary acceptance. 

Annie stood, chair legs scraping against the porch. “Thanks for the coffee,” she said flatly. “And good luck keeping your family safe. You’ll need it.”

She turned, adjusting the baby strap, already walking away.

Kimiko lingered a moment longer, her expression softening—then curdling. “Coward,” she said, voice low and venom-smooth.

Reggie looked away, jaw clenched. He didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He just watched as the two women disappeared beyond the fence line, sunlight cutting long shadows across his yard.

He stayed there long after they were gone, guilt sitting heavy in his gut. But under it—buried deep—was something worse. A creeping dread that Kimiko was wrong. Homelander wasn't coming, because he was already here. And when he did find those two, there’d be nowhere left to run.

—

The sky had been hanging in the limbo between rain and no rain all morning. A soft drizzle came and went, misting the air in that gray, indecisive way that suited the occasion.

The coffin creaked as it was lowered into the ground — dark wood against darker mud.

Three black umbrellas stood like sentinels around it: Homelander, Malik, and Kevin. All dressed the part, though Kevin’s tie had his tiny faces printed on it, his own merch;  and Malik—well, he was high on marijuana. 

The Funeral Director droned on beside them, reading from a damp booklet about peace and eternal rest, about God’s mercy and all that god-fearing people believed in. 

Homelander’s gaze stayed fixed on the hole in the ground, on the box that held the only man who’d ever managed to make him bruise; figuratively and literally. 

He hadn't even heard half the stuff the Funeral Director said in the background. 

When the man finished, there was that awkward silence that demanded someone say something human. 

Homelander hesitated for a moment. Then he cleared his throat, stepping forward, rain beading on his umbrella. “William Butcher,” he began, voice almost too calm. “He was… an asshole.” A pause. “But he was an honest asshole. Never pretended to be better than he was — which, honestly, puts him leagues ahead of most people I’ve met.”

Malik gave a slow blink, confused. And Kevin shuffled, clearly unsure if this was an insult or a eulogy.

Homelander went on. “We hated each other. That part’s no secret. But he kept me sharp. Kept me thrilled.” His tone softened, just enough to sound foreign. “And… my son liked him. So, maybe that's something. Maybe that makes him worth remembering.”

He tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “So, rest in peace, William. You stubborn, miserable dick.”

He stepped back, eyes still on the grave as the drizzle thickened into rain.

Malik leaned subtly toward Kevin. “That grave next to his… that’s his wife’s, right? Becca Butcher?”

Kevin squinted through the rain. “Yeah. Same last name. That’s her.” He frowned. “Still don’t get why we’re doing this though. Homelander and Butcher hated each other. Why bother?”

Malik shrugged slightly. “Maybe guilt. Maybe ego. Maybe both.”

Kevin turned to him with those starry bromance-invoking eyes. “Bro, that's deep…even though I'm The Deep.” 

Malik grinned, “Bro.” 

“Bro.” Kevin echoed. 

Homelander, with his unnerving hearing, caught every word — but didn’t react. What else would he do? Those two were idiots with two brain cells each. And they needed to keep those in reserve mode for useful times only. So he just stood there, jaw tight, watching the dirt start to turn to mud.

For a brief second, the rain masked the expression on his face, but there was something there. Something fragile. Not grief, exactly. Not regret either. Something uglier and lonelier that didn’t have a name.

And when the coffin finally disappeared beneath the earth, Homelander exhaled slowly, almost imperceptibly.

The man who'd hated him most prolifically was gone.

He turned away from the grave, the last spade of dirt still fresh, dark, and uneven. The chill wind tugged at the edges of his black suit jacket, though he didn’t seem to feel it. Not even the stray raindrops on his knuckles that gripped the umbrella.

Kevin and Malik stood a few feet back, heads bowed, sunglasses doing a poor job of hiding their lack of empathy.

“I’ll send you both the coordinates in a few hours,” Homelander said quietly, brushing a bit of rain stripes from his cuff. Even speaking low, his voice carried the weight of command. “You’ll go there and wait for me. Don’t bother driving—fly. It’ll be faster.”

They nodded almost in sync, like schoolboys caught in the act.  

“Sure, Homelander.”

“Yes, sir.”

He gave them a faint smile—too polite to be genuine, too thin to be kind—and turned to leave.

Malik cleared his throat, the question slipping out before his sense of self-preservation could stop it, thanks to weed.

“Uh… where are you headed, sir?”

Homelander paused mid-step, his reflection flickering on the puddle below. The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“Going to give Mr. President a little visit,” he said, almost lightly, as if he were talking about dropping by an old friend’s house instead of plotting something catastrophic.

He walked off toward the waiting car, the puddles parting around his shoes, the umbrella hanging loosely at his side. Just before getting in, he turned once more.

“Be there on time,” he reminded them, eyes glinting through the gray rain. “Don’t be fucking late.”

The car door shut, and silence reclaimed the cemetery, except for the drizzle tapping on plastic and marble.

Kevin exhaled, his breath fogging in the damp air. “Why do I feel like he’s about to start a war?”

Malik tilted his umbrella, staring at the fresh grave. “Because he probably is.”

Kevin laughed, goofy and thoughtless. “Man, I can't wait till we're back on! We’ll rule the world together, bro.” 

—

The drive home was strangled in silence. Not the peaceful kind; this one was charged with dread, that heavy, shared kind of quiet where every thought already knows how the story ends. The only breaks in it came from River’s little coos, babbles, and sudden cries that sliced through the still air like tiny reminders of why they hadn’t given up yet.

They stopped twice—once at a dusty roadside diner, another at a half-abandoned gas station to refill both the tank and their willpower. The world outside seemed oblivious to the ruin inching closer.

By the time they entered the one-mile radius of the ranch, it was past dusk. Kimiko sat with her elbow hooked on the window frame, eyes distant and storm-heavy. Every few minutes she’d glance at River in the back seat, check the seatbelt, the blanket, the breathing. Her mind was too full and too empty at once—Stan Edgar was gone, Butcher had chosen death over help, MM and Frenchie were names carved into headstones, and Singer and Sage had taken every last bit of institutional hope with them.

The last candle in a dark room—that’s what she and Annie were now.

Kimiko’s tongue clicked restlessly against her teeth, the habit worse by sunset. Annie caught her reflection in the windshield and offered a small, tired smile. “Hey… you okay?”

Kimiko turned, and for a moment the faint glow from the dashboard made her look heartbreakingly human—small, sad, still trying. She nodded, reaching over to place her hand on Annie’s, resting over the gearshift.

“We’re going to be okay, Annie.” Her voice was quiet, fragile enough that even she didn’t sound convinced.

Annie nodded, staring at the wet stretch of road ahead. “We have to be,” she murmured. “If nothing else, we’ll stall him. Play his game for a few before he tears the board apart. Sometimes that’s all you need—a few seconds of quick wit.”

Kimiko gave a soft laugh, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You and your optimism.”

“Call it survival,” Annie said, her smile fading into a whisper. “Or denial. Same thing these days.”

The rain started, faint and constant, tapping the windshield like a countdown.

The day had stretched too long for any of them, even time seemed tired of itself. River had slept in fits and starts, her tiny dreams interrupted by the rumbling engine and the occasional jolt of a pothole. But as they neared the edge of the property, she woke again, wailing with the kind of exhaustion only babies are capable of.

Kimiko twisted around in her seat, unbuckling. She climbed into the back and began whispering soft Japanese lullabies against River’s ear, the same ones she used to hum as a child before the world got loud. It didn’t help. The crying only grew more desperate—fists balled, cheeks red, a little storm refusing to quiet. Kimiko tried the bottle, but River smacked it away with surprising force, shrieking for the only comfort that ever worked.

Annie peeked at the rearview mirror, the corner of her lips lifting in weary fondness. “She’s not gonna stop,” she said, easing the car onto the shoulder of the secluded dirt road. “Take the wheel. I’ll feed her.”

Kimiko nodded silently, sliding back into the driver’s seat as Annie unbuckled and climbed into the back. The world outside was painted in dark blues and rain mist, the only sound the steady patter on the roof and River’s cries. Annie gathered her daughter close, cooing, her voice soft but certain; like she was trying to soothe both of them. Within minutes, River latched on, her crying replaced by gentle breaths.

Kimiko drove slow the rest of the way, stealing glances through the mirror. Annie looked out the window as she held River, her face lit only by the faint red glow of the taillights.

By the time they turned into the long gravel driveway, River was asleep again, her face slack with the innocence that no longer existed in the adults around her.

Kimiko parked, killed the engine. For a moment, there was only the rain and the faint ticking of the cooling car. Both women moved like ghosts; tired, wordless, mechanical. Annie opened the door, cradling River against her chest, her steps soft across the wet ground.

Kimiko followed a few paces behind, scanning the horizon out of instinct more than fear.

They were halfway to the porch when the weatherproof string lights that lined the ranch’s edges burst on, illuminating the yard in golds. The sudden brightness cut through the rain, casting sharp shadows across the wet grass and the old wooden porch.

They froze.

Their eyes met—a single shared thought flashing between them. The lights didn’t turn on automatically.

Someone had flipped the switch.

Kimiko’s hand shot out, gently gripping Annie’s arm, pulling her back a step. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ll check first. Stay out here… and be ready.”

Annie’s breath trembled, but she nodded. Kimiko fished out the keys, the faint jingle absurdly loud in the quiet. She approached the door with a stillness that came from muscle memory.

Annie retreated slowly, stepping into the open field just beyond the porch, clutching River close as the drizzles intensified; like the sky itself knew what was waiting inside.

She struggled against the drizzle and her own shaking hands, fumbling to pull her hoodie off one arm while clutching River close with the other. The baby squirmed and whimpered, the cold raindrops freckling her tiny face. Annie wrapped her tighter, pulling the hoodie over her, pressing a trembling kiss against her damp forehead.

Her eyes never left the porch. Kimiko had already slipped inside, the door creaking once before shutting softly behind her—but not locking. Annie caught that tiny detail and her stomach twisted.

Seconds ticked like thunderclaps.

River fussed, letting out a thin cry. Annie rocked her gently, whispering, “Shhh, baby, it’s okay… it’s okay,” though her voice betrayed every lie. The air felt heavy, charged, like a held breath before an explosion.

Then it happened.

A deafening crack tore through the silence; the sound of splintering wood—and Kimiko’s body came flying back through the wall. She hit the wet ground hard, sliding several feet across the grass, leaving a jagged hole where the wall used to be. Annie’s heart stopped.

Her eyes flared gold, pupils burning like miniature suns. Every floodlight on the ranch screamed to life at once—then flickered violently.

Meanwhile, Kimiko coughed, dragging herself up, smeared in mud and pain.

And then—two silhouettes stepped into the light.

The first was Kevin, aka The Deep, that same smug grin plastered on his face, hair slick, designer shirt clinging to him from the drizzle. The other—taller, darker, built like a monolith—was Malik, but neither women recognized him. Both men wore clothes that screamed money and smug.

“Sup, Starlight? Oriental bitch?” Kevin called out, grinning like an idiot. His voice carried through the rain, obnoxious and cruel.

Kimiko didn’t even blink. She launched forward with a snarl, mud spraying behind her boots. Her fist was inches from Kevin’s jaw when Noir intercepted her mid-air.

He slammed into her, both of them crashing into the side of the barn with a sickening crunch. The boards cracked like ribs.

“Kimiko!” Annie shouted, her voice breaking as she drew in more light.

Kimiko roared, grabbing Malik by the lapels and flipping him over her shoulder with brute strength. He hit the ground hard but recovered instantly, launching himself back into the air. They collided again, fists crashing with thunderclaps. Every blow shook the ranch with energy releases.

Kimiko caught one of his punches, twisting his arm until it cracked. Malik hissed, slamming his forehead into hers hard enough to make her stagger. She stumbled back, wiping blood from her mouth, only for him to tackle her again—this time driving her straight into the soil.

Annie turned her gaze to Kevin. With a sharp inhale, she unleashed a blinding surge of golden light, a concussive blast that tore across the field. It hit Kevin square in the chest, sending him flying twenty feet back, screaming as he crashed through a water trough and tumbled into the mud.

“Stay down, asshole!” she hissed, her hands shaking with the aftershock of the blast.

She turned to the fight again—Kimiko had Malik in a chokehold, snarling, her teeth bared like an animal cornered.

“Kimiko, run! The car!” Annie yelled.

Kimiko gritted her teeth, slammed Malik’s face into the dirt, and scrambled to her feet, sprinting toward Annie.

Annie spun toward the car, cradling River tight. The rain was heavier now, cold and relentless. Some flood lights exploded behind them, another warning shot at the men crawling from the mud. “Come on, Kimiko!” 

She was just about ten feet away. Ten feet from the car. From maybe surviving another day.

And then the sky split open.

A rush of wind. A distant whoosh.

And he landed—abrupt, graceful, and inevitable—right in front of the car. The ground cracked beneath his shoes, rain hissing against his skin.

Homelander straightened, the black funeral suit from earlier this morning was now drenched but his smirk remained pristine. His eyes glowed crimson faintly in the dark, catching the light from Annie’s trembling hands.

“Hello, Annie,” he said calmly, as if greeting an old friend at the door.

He tilted his head toward the bundle in her arms, his voice piercing through the rain like a flame.

“I’m here to take my daughter.”

Chapter Text

River kept wriggling in her arms, tiny limbs determined to escape the hold, but Annie held her firm; every fidget subdued with a soft, motherly adjustment. The room smelled faintly of rain-damp wood and stale air. She turned toward Deep, her assigned babysitter-slash-human-disappointment, who was currently sprawled across a ruined armchair, casually demolishing a bag of chips he'd scavenged from the wreckage.

He looked up, chin tilted in lazy acknowledgment, crumbs decorating his smug grin.

“Look away,” Annie ordered, voice clipped. “I don’t trust you. You’re a sick perverted fuck.”

Deep clutched his chest like a wounded theatre kid. “Dang, still a bitch, huh?” He looked away with exaggerated offense, crunching noisily. “You let Homelander hit it, but not me. And somehow I’m the bad guy.” He gave a sanctimonious shrug, as though society had done him dirty.

Annie rolled her eyes. She stripped the diaper, cleaned River with trembling hands, her every motion neat but strained. Her mind spun in vicious circles—what could she possibly do to keep Homelander from taking River? The thought alone made her chest ache like something ultra sharp had lodged there.

Once River was dry, Annie slipped her into warm clothes, wrapped her snug in a blanket, and held her close. The baby squirmed and fussed, desperate to crawl and explore the world she didn’t yet realize was on fire. Annie rocked her gently, murmuring nonsense just to drown out the gnawing panic in her own head.

She turned and started toward the door, every step heavy, hesitant. Deep pushed himself off the armchair, stretching like a cat, and followed her out—humming some irrelevant pop tune, the kind people sang when they’d never had half a meaningful thought in life.

When she slowed down, he clicked his tongue and barked, “Move it, you cunning bitch.”

Annie’s jaw tightened, her eyes flashing. It took every ounce of maternal restraint not to blast him through the nearest wall. If River hadn’t been in her arms, Deep would be nothing more than a wet stain and a funny story.

They descended the staircase carefully, each step sounding too loud in the thick silence that owned the room. Annie’s gaze flicked to Kimiko, currently caught in a chokehold by Malik. He wasn’t crushing her windpipe, just keeping her pinned, restrained, and seething like a trapped animal. Annie frowned, eyes narrowing slightly. She didn’t recognize the man. A new recruit? A stand-in? Whoever he was, he had the “background extra” energy next to the monsters in the room. But he was attractive enough; African-American, tall, built, and face like a movie star. 

And then there was him.

Homelander sat in the single surviving armchair like it was a throne salvaged from a war torn world. One leg crossed over the other, elbow resting lazily on the armrest, chin propped on a fisted hand. The picture of composure—terrifyingly still and impossibly calm. That calm that always preceded something catastrophic.

Annie took it all in: Kimiko’s hold, the splintered wall where her friend had been thrown through, the tension curling like a live wire in the air. She met the floor for half a breath, then forced her gaze up and walked toward him, quiet but unflinching.

He wore a black tailored suit; immaculate, tailored, and damp with streaks of drying rain. Unbeknownst to Annie, it was from Butcher’s funeral earlier that day. The irony of mourning a man he’d personally destroyed would have been almost funny if the moment wasn’t so lethal.

When she reached the last step, Homelander straightened, the motion too fluid, too deliberate. Their eyes locked. For a single heartbeat, the world compressed to just that look; two people with enough history between them to level cities. Memories flickered behind both pairs of eyes: the spark, the kills, the betrayals, the occasional tenderness that had no right to exist. The air between them condensed almost immediately, neither love nor hate, just something that refused to die.

Then Homelander blinked, breaking the spell. He rose to his full height, posture rigid, hands locking neatly behind his back. The warmth in his face vanished like a light switched off. His gaze dropped to the baby in Annie’s arms, and his expression shifted—softer, slower. For the first time in his agonizingly lonely life, Homelander was looking at his daughter. And for a fraction of a second, the predator looked almost… human.

Pale blonde hair, soft and unruly. A chubby little face with mismatched eyes; one blue like his, one brown, like hers. River wriggled restlessly in Annie’s arms, squirming like she’d had quite enough of this absurdly long day. She wanted down, wanted to crawl, wanted freedom. But Annie held her close, firm and protective, the way a drowning person clings to air.

Even from where he stood, Homelander could see the tiny bracelet circling her wrist. Gold, delicate. The inscription caught his eye like a blade to the chest: To River, Love Mom.

His jaw flexed, barely perceptible; but the crack in his composure was there, however fleeting.

When his gaze finally lifted back to Annie, she was staring at him—no, through him. Her hair was plastered to her face, the pale strands clinging like silk threads. The rainwater had stopped dripping off her, but the damp had left her shivering faintly. Her clothes clung to her body, soaked and cold, while River was the only one dressed in something dry. Mascara had streaked down her cheeks—whether from the rain or from crying, who could tell?

“Hi.” His voice came quiet, almost gentle.

Annie grimaced, exhaling a humorless breath. “Who’s that?” she asked, nodding toward Malik.

Homelander followed her glance lazily. “Oh, that’s just Noir.”

Annie raised her brows, genuine surprise cracking through the tension. “Wow… didn’t realize he was hot under the mask.” She smirked at Malik, who blinked, unsure if he’d been complimented or insulted.

A small, crooked smile tugged at Homelander’s lips—slow, entertained. “Yeah, technically Noir 2.0. The last one’s dead.”

Annie’s head snapped toward him again. “What happened to the last one?”

Homelander made a dismissive flick of his hand. “Eh. He kept secrets from me.”

Her smirk deepened, sharp. “So you killed him. No wonder this one talks.”

He tilted his head, half amused, half done with the banter. “Look, let’s not drift off-topic.” His tone cooled, that detached corporate tone he used when he was pretending not to care. “Thank you for taking care of her while I was away—really, Annie, good job. But now I’m back. And, like you promised me my offspring last season,” his smirk twitched, “I’m here to collect. She’s coming with me. She’ll live with me. And you…”

He paused, the flicker of a heartbeat almost betraying him before his voice flattened again. “You don’t get to see her. Ever.”

The words were casual, too casual. Like he was reading off a grocery list. But beneath the mock-nonchalance, there was an ache gnawing behind his eyes: anger, pain, maybe even pity. Whatever it was, he buried it under that familiar, immaculate mask of control.

Annie didn’t answer right away. Her lips parted, but nothing came. The silence stretched, thick and aching. Finally, she let out a tired breath. “Can you at least promise me you’ll keep her happy no matter what? Give her a good life?” The tremor in her voice betrayed her, but she caught it quick, forcing it back down her throat like poison she refused to swallow.

Homelander’s expression faltered. The ice cracked, just a little. For a fleeting moment, there was a ghost of warmth in his eyes—soft, conflicted, and dangerous. Then it vanished. He buried it fast, like he’d caught himself committing treason against his own ego.

Instead, he let out a scoff, loud, performative. “What are you talking about? She’s my kid. My first daughter. I’ll spoil her rotten.” The arrogance returned like nature, polished and practiced.

And sure, it sounded sweet until you remembered his definition of “spoiled rotten” probably included turning her into a miniature demigod with sociopathic tendencies and a superiority complex. Parenting, Homelander style.

Annie just stared. No reply, no visible emotion, just that quiet disbelief that had long since calcified into her bones. All along, River squirmed, her fussiness growing, her cries starting to echo through the house like a cruel metronome to their conversation.

Homelander sighed, irritation and something like concern blending in his tone. “Can you just—put her down while we talk? She’s fine. I’m watching her.”

It sounded like reassurance, but Annie knew better. 

Still, after a moment of resistance written all over her face, she slowly crouched and set River on the rug.

The baby didn’t waste a heartbeat. She crawled straight toward a forgotten plushie near the couch, giggling through her lingering tears, the sound a small shard of innocence in the tension.

Homelander’s gaze followed her, and his face softened again. The agitation melted, replaced by terrifying tenderness. His eyes shone faintly as he watched her tuck the plushie into a blanket, as if mimicking the care she herself had been shown.

A small chuckle escaped him, quiet; almost fond.

Then he turned back to Annie, composure sliding neatly back into place like a loaded gun clicking into safety.

“Anything else?” he asked, voice cold again, as if that tender moment had never existed.

Annie folded her arms across her stomach, the motion as defensive as it was deliberate. Her white drop-shoulder tee clung to her rain-soaked skin, translucent in places, betraying hints of the black bra beneath. Her jeans were heavy with water, plastered to her hips, revealing just a sliver of bare skin on her tummy when she shifted.

Homelander noticed. Of course, he did. He always noticed everything he wasn’t supposed to. His gaze lingered a beat too long, equal parts longing and spite, before she cut through the air between them with her voice.

“How do I even know she’s not going to be a monster like you?” she asked, her tone flat and venomous.

His laugh came instantaneously, sharp and booming, echoing through the space like a sermon from hell’s open gates. That sound—god, she’d forgotten how it made her stomach twist.

“You’re a monster too, Annie.” His grin split wide, that familiar, infuriating blend of charm and cruelty. “How do I know she wouldn’t have turned into one with you? What makes you think you’re some kind of saint? You’d do anything for her, right?” He tilted his head. “So would I. You promised her to me, remember? So do us both a favor—fuck off.” He waved her away like she was some irrelevant extra in his own show, already turning his focus back toward the baby.

But Annie wasn’t finished. “Then why aren’t you killing me?” she snapped. Her voice was cold, trembling just from fury, not fear. “If you don’t want me near her, then finish it. Because let’s be honest—we both know I’ll never stop looking for her. You’ll never get rid of me unless I’m dead.”

Homelander smiled, a slow, awful curve of his mouth. He clicked his tongue once and began to move toward her, step by measured step, hands still clasped behind him in that mock-presidential posture.

When he reached her, he leaned close, invading her space like it was his existential prerogative. His chin brushed her damp hair, his voice low enough to crawl under her skin.

“Because, Annie,” he murmured, “I want you to suffer.”

He inhaled, slow and indulgent, as though her scent itself belonged to him. His breath was hot against her temple when he added, softly, “I know you’ll keep looking for her. But every time you find her, you’ll see she doesn’t want you. That she’s happier without you. That she chooses me.”

Annie turned her head just enough for their faces to nearly touch; his breath brushing her lips, and her defiance steady as a scale.

“I guess we’ll see what she thinks,” she said, her tone ice-cold, before stepping away from him.

Homelander smirked, halfway through a snarky remark when River crawled up to him. She blinked up at his towering form, fascinated rather than afraid, and reached for his leg.

He paused mid-sentence, glancing down. Then, just like that, his face broke into a grin. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, bending to scoop her up—only for River to swat at his hand with the full force of toddler indignation.

The smack barely registered, but the gesture did. Homelander froze, then laughed—a genuine, surprised sound. “Whoa. Feisty.”

River wobbled on her tiny legs, trying to stand.

Annie’s breath hitched instantly.

“Oh my god, she’s standing!” Kimiko yelled from Noir’s chokehold, her voice muffled but thrilled.

Homelander blinked, looking between them, confused at first. Then it hit him. His daughter’s first stand, her first real show of willpower. His brows drew together, and a slow, unfamiliar warmth spread across his face.

Before she could topple over, he caught her; gentle, quick, careful. River squealed with joy, babbling nonsense like it was the funniest thing in the world.

He stared at her, utterly transfixed. The most powerful man alive—stopped cold by someone that weighed barely twenty pounds. Then, as if afraid he’d break the spell, he lifted her and cradled her close, mindful of every ounce of pressure his hands could exert.

River wriggled again within seconds, determined to get back down. He let her shortly after, watching as she toddled toward her toy. His grin softened into a wordless expression for a beat.

Annie watched too, arms crossed, wary. She caught every subtle shift—the way his smirk had dissolved, the awe in his eyes, the flicker of self-awareness creeping in. That look. The one that said he might—might—be questioning his own reflections.

She prayed it meant he’d let River stay. But beneath that tenderness, she saw the other emotions, too—bitterness, envy, the old crack under the veneer.

Meanwhile, Homelander was at an internal war with himself, an endless tug between cruelty and a sentiment dangerously close to affection. He wanted Annie to suffer, to rot in her own grief until it hollowed her out completely. But somewhere in that warped, masochistic maze of his brain, there was a piece of him that still cared. Worse—loved her.

He hated that part.

River had been born into a war, but she hadn’t been born from malice. He’d fallen for Annie long before the world fell apart, long before everything turned into collateral. Loving her had become another one of his twisted compulsions—clinging to the rare few things that made him feel human, then destroying them out of fear of losing control. A self-inflicted paradox he’d been perfecting his whole life. Except in this case, it couldn’t come to that. Annie had almost put an end to him before he could destroy it, the love. And in all its glorious irony, it was the only time he didn’t want to destroy it either.

And now, he stood there, torn between feelings he didn’t want to feel. His original plan had been simple—keep Annie alive just long enough to watch her daughter grow up resenting her, to witness Homelander’s trail of destruction that she’d “caused.” But as the thought circled back again, something shifted in him.

He straightened slowly, lips parting as if to speak… then closing again. He smacked them once, indecisive.

Annie arched a brow, observant. 

Then, as if a lightbulb had been switched on, a thought crossed Homelander’s twisted brain—there was another way. One that would sting Annie deeper, crueler, and slower.

He finally exhaled, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Turning to the Deep, he muttered, “Watch River. Don’t touch her.”

Then he grabbed Annie by the arm—not rough, just enough to make her move—and led her out through the back door. The air outside was heavy with silence, still drizzling. The ranch stretched before them, fenced lights throwing long, pale shadows over the puddles. Even the horses slept, heads bowed like statues in the dark.

Annie didn’t fight it. She just followed, tense but quiet. Whatever this was, she knew—it wasn’t rage anymore. He had a bargain to offer. 

Puddles rippled around their shoes as Homelander finally released her wrist. His hands went to his hips, chest rising, exhaling through gritted teeth.

He stood there for a moment, head bowed, raindrops streaking down his hair and jaw. Then—pinching the bridge of his nose—he muttered something under his breath, visibly fighting himself.

Annie didn’t interrupt. She just watched, arms crossed, eyes scanning every flicker of indecision on his face.

When he finally looked up, the restraint was gone. His gaze was sharp again, unshakable, lethal calm settling over him like a mask.

“Okay,” he said slowly, pointing a finger at her. “I'll only offer this once. And I won’t repeat it. So think before you answer, really think, alright?”

Annie didn’t reply, just kept her brow raised—challenging, unimpressed.

Homelander took a single step closer, the distance between them swallowed by the rain’s roar. His voice dropped low, intimate enough to feel like a secret and a threat all at once.

“Marry me.”

For a heartbeat, there was only silence, except for the rain. Then Annie’s face twisted in disbelief, a sharp laugh slipping out poisonously. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” she snapped, her eyes lighting gold, voice crackling with barely restrained fury.

Homelander remained unbothered. He just rolled his eyes with an arrogant composure that made her want to tear his smug face apart.

“Yep, you heard me,” he said, dead serious. “That way, you get to be with River—watch her grow up and be her mother. It’s the only way I’ll allow it.” He jabbed a finger right against her collarbone, his tone flat, authoritative, and insufferably casual. “You’ll also be my dutiful wife. And since you took Ryan from me…” his eyes darkened, “…you’ll give me more children.”

Annie barked a laugh straight in his face—arrogant, disbelieving, edged with bitterness. “You’re insane.” The audacity of the offer was almost hilarious. Her fists were tightening until her nails bit into her palms.

Homelander’s grin spread wider, a mockery of charm. He gestured vaguely at the rain-soaked field around them. “I mean, look around you,” he said with that lilting, showman’s rhythm. “Everyone who could’ve possibly helped you is dead. William Butcher’s dead. Your little army has dropped like flies. And me?” He pointed to himself with both thumbs, voice dipping into that low, confident hum. 

“I’ll never stop dropping from the sky. I’m taking River with me tonight, and you can’t do shit to stop it. Unless…” He tilted his head, smiling as if this were a kind and reasonable negotiation. “…you marry me. Be my perfect little caged bird. Smile for the world. Serve me. That’s the only version of this story where you still get to see your daughter.”

Annie’s breath trembled, fury coiling through every muscle. “Fuck. You.” The words came out low, deliberate, scorched with venom.

Homelander’s chuckle came out soft, condescending and indulgent. “You have absolutely no fucking leverage, Annie,” he murmured, leaning close enough for her to feel his breath on her cheek. Then he paused, as if remembering something delicious. His smirk deepened. “Well… except for your little breastfeeding situation. Now that’s leverage.” He tapped his temple mockingly. “But if you marry me—” he gave a wicked shrug, “—I get that anyway. So, no leverage after all.”

That was it. Annie’s restraint snapped. Her eyes flared gold, and before he could smirk again, her fist cut through the rain and crashed into his jaw—hard enough to make the ground seem to echo with it.

Homelander saw it coming, a full nanosecond of warning, an eternity for him. And yet… he didn’t stop it. He let the punch land, let it burn across his jaw like a brand he somehow deserved. Maybe even wanted. The hit threw his head sideways, rain snapping off his face. When he straightened again, the smirk was back; crooked, proud, and maddeningly entertained.

Annie didn’t stop to think. Something inside her—the grief, the rage, the helplessness—just detonated. She lunged at him with the fury of a dying star. The next blow struck his chest, another his cheek. He didn’t lift a hand to block her; he just took it. Each hit landed with the wet thud of flesh and bones, her knuckles splitting, rain mixing with the blood. She screamed through her teeth, wordless and raw.

Homelander stumbled a few steps back under the assault, not from the power but from the sheer chaos of it; her small, shaking body crashing against his like she wanted to claw her way into him and tear out every rotten part. He could’ve thrown her across the yard with a flick of his wrist. He didn’t.

The rain poured harder, thunder rolling somewhere distant. Annie’s punches slowed—less out of exhaustion, more because the ache inside her chest was turning liquid. The tears broke through without permission, spilling down her cheeks, mingling with the downpour.

That was when Homelander moved. A hand caught her wrist mid-swing—gentle, almost reverent—and that momentary hesitation cost him his balance. She twisted, knocked his shoulder, and they went down hard into the mud, the impact echoing through the backyard.

Annie climbed on top of him, straddling his chest, her hair dripping onto his face. Her breathing came out ragged, near sobs, but her glare stayed carved in rage. She grabbed him by the collar, dragging him closer until their foreheads nearly touched.

“In no fucking scenario you fantasize about,” she hissed, her voice breaking but still cutting deep, “do I ever manage to love you. I will never love you. Do whatever the fuck you want.”

Homelander didn’t move at first. He just lay there beneath her, eyes locked on hers—too calm, too knowing. There was judgment in his stare, sure, but also that smug, wordless kind of certainty that made her blood boil. The kind that said you’re lying and we both know it.

Because she was. And so was he. Whatever had burned between them once hadn’t died—it had only festered.

A quiet chuckle slipped out of him, low and amused. The rain had softened to a drizzle now, fine and whispering. Droplets gathered on his lashes, beading down his cheekbones like tears he’d never earn the right to shed. The air between them steamed faintly, their breath warm against the cold night.

He lifted his hands to hers—still gripping his collar—and pried them loose. Instead of pushing her away, he slid her hands down to his abdomen, holding them there, firm but not cruel. “You know,” he drawled, with his signature smugness, “you might wanna get off me. You’re giving me a boner right now.”

Annie froze for a heartbeat, blinked, and then her expression crumpled into absolute disgust. “Un-fucking-believable,” she muttered, rolling off him and getting to her feet, face twisted like she’d stepped in something foul.

Homelander exhaled a laugh that came out halfway between exasperation and satisfaction. He sat up, flicking his wet hair back, sending droplets flying. When he stood, it was with a slow, patronizing grace like he didn't know how to lose. He looked every inch the god he thought he was—mud-streaked, dripping, smug as hell—and still somehow infuriatingly magnetic.

He let out one more long, theatrical sigh and closed the distance between them in two slow, deliberate steps.

Before Annie could react, his hand shot out, grabbing her arm and pulling her flush against his side. It wasn’t rough enough to bruise, but it was commanding—possessive in that distinct, spine-prickling way that made her skin crawl.

His lips hovered at her ear, close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath cutting through the chill. “We’re in a war, Annie,” he murmured, voice low, dark, and almost intimate. “You and me. The war over our child.” His tone shifted, lower and chilling. “And that war sits within another one—the Supes versus the humans. In both of them, you’re losing.”

He dragged the words out like a sermon from a banished acolyte who hated his own god. “Your powerful allies are all either dead or compromised. You’re standing on the wrong side of history—the humans’ side—and they’ll turn on you the second they realize you're alive. They still see you as an enemy of the nation.” His mouth brushed her ear, barely. “You’re not just a liability, Annie. You’re a ticking time bomb in a world that already hates what you are. Who you are. And that means River would be a target before she even learns to walk, let alone get her powers.”

He paused then, letting the drizzle fill the silence for a beat, his breath steady against her cheek. “So the only way you get out of this alive—the only way she gets to live properly—is if you marry me.” His tone hardened, every word carved with conviction. “You’ll keep doing what you always do—play the hero, fight your little rebellion, fight me, whatever—but you’ll do it as my wife. You’ll wake up every morning serving me, loving me, pretending to want me. Because that’s the only way you’ll ever get to see your daughter again.”

Annie’s face had drained of all color, her eyes hollow as she absorbed his words. He’d engineered this—every detail—to corner her until resistance became meaningless. Of course, it was punishment. His promise still echoed in her mind from that night—he’d make her wish for death, let her live just to watch her suffer. And that’s exactly what he was doing. 

A quiet breath escaped her lips, part surrender, part exhaustion. “You’re punishing me…” she murmured, a faint, bitter laugh trailing after the words.

Homelander studied her face, then gave a slow, knowing smirk.

He shifted closer, his hands now settling on her upper arms with a mock tenderness. “Hey, let's not call it that,” he said, feigning thought as if searching for words. “Let’s give it a better name, huh?” His expression lit up in cruel amusement. “How about… a ‘Ceasefire’?”

Annie's breath caught in her throat in an instant. The word hit her like a punch to the ribs; because that was what she’d called it two years ago, right before she buried him and walked away. The same word, the same lie, now mirrored back at her from the man she’d once tricked.

The poetic symmetry of it all tugged at the corner of her lips—an almost admiring smile, dry and hollow. She’d always known karma would find her, but somehow, she hadn’t expected it to be this elegantly fucked. She brushed his hands off, crossing her arms tightly over her stomach as the rain kept falling, cold enough to sting, though not half as cold as the look in her eyes.

She sniffed once, a spark of that familiar rogueness snapping back into her tone. “Alright, listen— I don’t care if you’re the Homelander, but if you’re gonna strong-arm me into this twisted fucking marriage thing, at least do it properly. Be a fucking gentleman. Get a ring.” Her hand shot up before he could open his mouth. “And before you pull that ‘you have no leverage’ crap again—save it.”

Her chin lifted, eyes glinting with stubborn resolve. “Kimiko, River, and I are staying here. You move in. Not because it’s some wholesome countryside fairy tale for River—because I love my horses. And so does River. We’re not leaving them.” Her expression didn’t waver. “Oh, and you’re footing the bill for my impulsive shopping sprees, my weed, my booze, and my stress eating—because trust me, those are the only coping mechanisms that’ll make tolerating you remotely possible.”

Her voice carried a dry finality, halfway between sarcasm and stone-cold sincerity.

Homelander blinked, brow furrowing, genuinely thrown off. “Wait— you’re serious?” he asked, laughing under his breath. Mostly at her audacity. A sharp exhale, then a dismissive shake of the head as he turned toward the porch. On the steps, he paused and glanced back at her, rain still clinging to his black suit.

“Get your ass inside. It’s freezing.”

He vanished back into the house, but Annie stood there for a long moment, rain still trickling down her face, eyes distant in disbelief. She’d just been proposed to—by Homelander. Her first proposal ever. And sure, in another, far less deranged universe, it might’ve even been romantic… if she hadn’t, you know, buried him alive last season.

She let out a groan that was half disappointment, half existential crisis. “Fucking great,” she muttered to herself, brushing her soaked hair back and finally trudging inside.

The warmth hit her instantly, but so did the sight that froze her mid-step—Homelander, standing there with River swaddled in her blanket and nestled against his chest like a father straight out of a propaganda poster. He was cooing softly, eyes red-rimmed but tender. The sight twisted sharp in Annie’s gut.

Her expression hardened. “What are you doing? We just talked about this,” she said, voice low but firm, her confusion mixing with caution.

Homelander looked up from the baby, chuckling—all  casual and smug. “You didn’t actually think I was gonna leave River here while you 'processed your emotions', did you?” he said, his tone sliding somewhere between mockery and menace. “She’s staying with me until it's done. It’s insurance.”

He pointed lazily at a slip of paper under the lamp. “My number. You’ll get the details soon.”

Then, turning toward Noir, his smirk spreading, he added, “Let her go. She’s the bridesmaid.”

Noir blinked once and released Kimiko, who immediately rewarded him with a lightning-fast punch to the face. It barely phased him; he just grimaced and stepped back, clearly unhappy but unwilling to escalate.

Homelander laughed under his breath as he started toward the door, Malik falling into step beside him like a silent shadow. Kevin lingered for a second, flashing the girls a wide grin and a playful wave before following the others out, leaving the house eerily quiet.

Annie stood there, frozen—watching the door swing shut behind them, the echo of their boots still thudding in her ears. Her heart hammered against her ribs, every instinct screaming to run after them.

Kimiko was already moving, fury and urgency blazing in her eyes. “What the fuck was he talking about? We need to stop them, Annie. Let’s go!”

But Annie’s hand shot out, gripping Kimiko’s arm tight. “No—wait.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, cracked and trembling, but the look in her eyes was a haunted restraint. 

Kimiko turned to her, stunned, searching her face for some kind of plan, some spark of defiance. But Annie just stood there, staring at the gaping jagged hole on the wall; seeing her daughter, small and trusting, leave in his arms.

The silence stretched, heavy as lead. Finally, Annie exhaled—long, tired, and gutted. “We made a deal…” Her jaws clenching. “We play along—until I figure out how to burn him from the inside out.”

Chapter Text

“Wait—what?” Kimiko spat, nearly choking on disbelief. “Marry him? What the hell does that even mean?”

Annie, slouched across the dining table, barely moved. Her chin rested on her folded hands, elbows propped up like she’d given up the right to posture. “It means I didn’t have a choice,” she said flatly. “And he made damn sure of that.”

Kimiko blinked, trying to compute the words. She pushed back her chair with a scrape and started pacing before plopping down in the seat beside Annie. Her gaze flicked to the massive, jagged hole torn through the wooden wall—a souvenir from earlier tonight. She exhaled and turned back. “What if he’s bluffing?”

Annie gave a short, humorless laugh. “Homelander doesn’t bluff. He announces his crimes because he takes pride in them.”

Kimiko frowned, crossing her arms. “Right. So… what’s the angle then? No one just decides to play house with their mortal enemy. Annie—” Her tone softened as she reached over and gripped Annie’s hand—not hard, just grounding. “You and him… were you… in love when you worked together?”

Annie’s brows shot up. She yanked her hand back like Kimiko had accused her of eating babies. “No! Absolutely not.” It came out too fast, too defensive; the kind of denial that begged for disbelief.

Kimiko’s face said exactly that. Her brow arched, unimpressed. “So what, he forced himself on you? That’s how River happened?”

Annie’s eyes widened. “No—God, no. It was… consensual.” The word felt heavy in her mouth. “We just… got drunk one night and—” Her voice cracked, the rest swallowed by mortified silence.

Kimiko tilted her head, a wry smile creeping in. “Annie… you don’t sleep with someone you find repulsive. And Homelander—” She gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “He’s not exactly known for his warm mercy streak. If you’re still breathing, it’s either because he’s got a nasty trick up his sleeve… or he’s playing a long, sadistic mind game. Though,” her eyes flicked to Annie’s, sharp and knowing, “judging by the way he looked at you tonight, I’d bet on the feelings angle, mind game.”

Annie’s throat constricted. His words from the invasion in Bangkok played in her head—

—“Did you know I was in love with you?”
—“Do you know why I came back? Not because I can’t die, but because you wouldn’t fucking let me.”

She bit back the swelling emotion and slumped back in her chair, rubbing a tired hand over her face. “If that’s true, then maybe it’s something we can use. His feelings. Turn it into leverage. Maybe this time, it’s how we finally end him.”

Kimiko didn’t answer right away. Her expression softened as she leaned forward and wrapped Annie in a quiet, grounding hug. “Then we’ll do everything we can,” she murmured. “Whatever it takes.”

Annie let out a shaky breath, her lips pulling into a faint, grateful smile as she hugged her back.

That night, sleep felt like a concept from another universe. Annie sat on the porch, knees pulled close, watching the sky brood and rumble with thunder that never quite broke. Rain came and went in restless waves, but she stayed, eyes fixed on the horizon as if she could will River to appear from it. Her daughter was out there—alive, breathing, his. If Homelander meant what he said, Annie would see her soon. But for now, all she had was the waiting.

Long minutes slipped by before Kimiko appeared, quiet as a ghost, holding two steaming mugs. She wordlessly handed one over and sank beside her. Neither spoke. The silence did all the talking.

Morning cracked the clouds open like a wound. Annie and Kimiko , still draped against each other on the porch, eyelids heavy with a sleep that never landed — jerked upright at a furious whoosh. Instantly their heads snapped to the sky.

A figure hurtled down, Malik—Noir 2.0—hauling a black pickup. He hovered, then set the truck down in the yard with a casual arrogance and grace.

Annie and Kimiko exchanged a loaded look and stood, feet slapping the porch boards. Noir walked to the back of the truck and peeled back a waterproof tarp from the truck bed. He began hauling out long, heavy wooden slabs as if they were featherweights, stacking them with efficient, silent competence.

Behind the wheel, Deep was already grinning, smug and punch-worthy. He hopped out, gave them a theatrical little wave. “Morning, ladies,” he chirped, wiping his hands on his jeans.

Annie folded her arms across her stomach. “What the hell is this?”

Deep leaned against the truck and flashed that idiot grin again. “We’re fixing your wall. Homelander’s orders.” He pushed off and drifted toward Noir like a moth to a particularly dumb light.

Annie and Kimiko watched, baffled, as the two men set to repairing the gaping hole they’d helped create. The whole scene felt like a live-action apology card; awkward, uninvited, and guaranteed to leave a stain in your brain.

“Should we kill them?” Kimiko muttered, eyes knives as she tracked Malik’s movements.

Annie snorted, a laugh lodged in her throat, and patted Kimiko’s shoulder as they turned back inside. “Temporarily postpone the homicide,” she said, voice dry. “Let’s not waste strength on home improvement contractors.” They left the idiots to their lumber and nails — for now.

By late morning, the yard smelled like sawdust, wet earth, and begrudging cooperation. The gaping wound in the wall was nearly healed, wooden planks standing like neat stitches—and Annie had traded bloodshed and dread for something more manageable: horse manure.

While she brushed down the last of the mares, Kimiko, back inside the house, kept her sniper eyes trained on the two assholes; occasionally peeking to ensure the clowns outside weren’t secretly plotting a mass murder or musical number.  When the monotony began to itch, she retreated to the kitchen, therapy by frying pan. Within minutes, the scent of sizzling butter and browned sausage filled the air, almost drowning out the distant sound of hammering and Kevin’s tone-deaf humming.

By the time Annie returned, hair damp from a quick shower, the porch was free of chaos and smelling of breakfast. Kimiko passed her on the stairs, towel slung around her neck, muttering something around the lines “your turn to babysit the idiots.”

Once both were back, clean and marginally human again, they sat at the dining table. Annie nursed her coffee, while Kimiko eyed the steaming dishes before sighing in pure moral defeat, stacking toast, butter, omelettes, sausages, and sautéed vegetables onto a tray.

“Can’t believe this,” she muttered, heading for the door. “From killing to room service. Life comes at you fast.”

Outside, Noir and Kevin were picking up the residues and cleaning. Kimiko’s footsteps crunched across the gravel. Noir turned at the sound, his brows lifting slightly in surprise when he saw her approach with the tray.

“Uh—thanks,” he said, taking it from her. His tone was awkwardly sincere and mildly surprised. “That’s really… sweat.”

Kimiko blinked. “Sweet,” she corrected sharply, her glare contemptuous.

“Yeah. That too.” Noir nervously scratched the back of his head, very pointedly ignoring the fact he’d had her in a chokehold for over an hour last night. Overtly intimate for quite some time. 

She just scowled and walked away, grumbling under her breath.

Annie was grinning when she sat back down. “Did you see his face?” she teased, smirking. “I swear his eyes got a little twinkly.”

Kimiko snorted, finally laughing. “Yeah. Probably a concussion.”

Before Annie could reply, her burner phone buzzed against the table. She frowned, glanced at the caller ID, and her tone shifted immediately.

“Sir,” she answered, already standing, and headed upstairs to speak privately.

“Annie. Glad you picked up. How’re you holding up out there? You safe?” Asked Chief Henry Johnson, Field Ops Division, who’d assigned her on most tasks under the CIA. 

Annie sighed, settling down on her bed. “I’m fine, sir. Situation’s… contained. For now.”

“Good to hear. Listen, you’ve been off-grid long enough. HQ needs you back in the field—immediately. We’ve got a situation brewing, and we need your eyes on it.”

“That urgent?” Annie asked, brows furrowing.

Agent Johnson shrugged, exhaling. “Let’s just say the kind of urgent where we skip pleasantries. Pack light and fly—commercial’s too slow. We’ll debrief when you land. Langley.”

Annie nodded. “Understood.”

“Good. See you soon, Agent January.”

The line clicked dead. Annie stared at the phone for a long moment, then slipped it into her pocket. 

—

Annie’s boots hit the marble in a low thud, raindrops still glistening off her jacket. The massive emblem of the CIA glared down from the glass façade behind her, sunlight slicing across its edges like authoritative warning.

She moved quickly through the lobby, offering nods to familiar faces. Most of them knew better than to ask questions; the ones who didn’t got a polite smile and nothing else.

Security clearance beeped her through. By the time the elevator reached the sixth floor, her expression had already shifted into its usual calm mask. The “I’m fine, I’m functional, I’m not falling apart because my child was taken by the most dangerous man on the planet” mask.

“Annie?”

She turned. Agent Jeremy Monroe, same half-smile, same coffee-stained tie, same unshakable decency that hadn’t yet been crushed out of him by the agency.

“Remy.” She exhaled, and they shared a quick hug.

“Jesus, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” he said, stepping back.

“Yeah, karma catches up with you eventually.” She shrugged, sighing. 

He barked a sarcastic laugh, but it softened gradually. “How’s River? How old is she now? Seven, eight months?”

Annie’s jaw flexed. “She’s good. Eight months. Growing so fast.”

The casualness delivered flawlessly.

“Good,” he said, smiling, unaware that her stomach had twisted at the mention of River's name. 

They started down the corridor together, fluorescent lights humming overhead.

“You here for the Johnson call too?” she asked.

He nodded grimly. “Yeah. Said it was ‘urgent and classified.’ Which, you know, usually means ‘awful.’”

“Or something he wants to blame on us later.”

Monroe snorted. “Classic Johnson.”

They reached the glass office. Inside, Agent Johnson was pacing mid-phone call, voice sharp and clipped. Through the transparent walls, he gestured for them to enter without missing a beat.

“Yeah, well, tell the President’s liaison she can keep her PR nightmare to herself. We’re talking national containment breach, not optics—” he paused, spotted them, and cut the line.

“Good. You’re both here.”

The tone said enough.

Annie and Monroe stepped in. The air smelled like stale coffee and probably cigarettes that weren't allowed in here.

Johnson grabbed a folder off his desk and slapped it down hard enough to make both of them flinch. Blue-labeled documents spilled out—top-secret classification stamped in red.

“Another vault’s been hit,” he said flatly. “High-security facility in North Carolina. Contained hundred and seventy-three vials of sealed Compound V. All gone.”

Monroe frowned. “Again? That’s the second one this week.”

“Exactly.” Johnson’s voice carried a sharp edge of disbelief. “No alarms, no witnesses, no traceable entry. Security footage wiped clean. Whoever’s doing this is smarter than we gave them credit for.”

Annie leaned forward. “Any idea who?”

Johnson scoffed. “If I knew that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Could be rogue Supes. Could be private militias. Could be someone inside the Agency. What matters is: those vials don’t leave the country.”

He pointed at them both with the pen like a loaded weapon. “You two are heading the field investigation. I want answers within forty-eight hours. Monroe, you’ll handle logistics and all security audits. Annie—you’ll be my eyes in the field. And if you catch whoever’s behind this, I don’t care if they glow in the dark or bleed blue—you bring them in.”

Monroe exchanged a look with Annie. “That’s a national-level breach, sir. We’re going to need surveillance access, border clearance, and probably the cooperation of—”

Johnson cut him off. “Already arranged. The President’s breathing down my neck about this. If a single vial leaks out to the black market or crosses a border, it’s not just an Agency problem anymore—it’s global.”

He leaned back, studying them both. “We clear?”

“Crystal,” Annie said, voice steady.

Monroe nodded. “We’ll get on it immediately.”

Johnson’s gaze lingered on Annie for a moment too long, his tone lowering. “And January, try not to make it personal this time. This is an operation, not a vendetta.”

Her jaw tightened, but she smiled thinly. “Understood.”

As they left the office, Monroe muttered under his breath, “He says ‘don’t make it personal’ like we aren’t all one bad decision away from that.”

Annie smirked faintly. “Welcome to the CIA. Everything’s personal.”

The cafeteria buzzed with low conversation, the air heavy with burnt coffee and greasy snacks. Annie sat across from Monroe, both of them hunched over their trays of inedible government lasagna and the files Johnson’s assistant had dropped off like a stack of ticking bombs.

Monroe jabbed his fork into the lasagna, frowned at it, and pushed it aside. “Russian black ops?” he asked, flipping a page.

Annie scanned the photographs—blurred surveillance stills, partial footprints, a schematic of the vault’s layout. “No. Humans would’ve tripped something. Whoever did this knew the system better than the people who built it.”

“Supes, then.”

“Or someone with inside access,” she murmured, tapping the photo of the guard’s ID badge. “This guy was on shift during the first breach. Survived the sedatives. The second guy from NC succumbed.”

Monroe nodded, mouth tightening. “But how the hell do you disappear with an entire vault?”

“Subterranean extraction, maybe. Or—” Annie’s voice dropped as she leaned closer. “—teleportation.”

Monroe froze mid-page flip. “Bingo. Supes it is.”

Annie nodded. 

Everyone in the Agency knew the whispers of rogue Supes resisting in their own creative ways that no one could trace back to.

Monroe sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Alright. I’ll pull sat feed from all registered air traffic around the Carolina site. You see what you can get from your... other channels.”

Annie nodded, even though she barely had any channels open anymore, other than the ones sanctioned by the government. 

The afternoon light had gone dull and grey by the time they stepped out of the building. Annie adjusted her jacket, mentally cataloging every next step: cross-check satellite grids, verify shipment routes, maybe call Grace Mallory if she still picked up.

But then her focus snagged on a pair of figures standing across the lot. 

Kimiko. And Noir 2.0, in his fancy influencer clothes. 

The contrast was almost comical: Kimiko, tense and scowling, arms crossed like she was seconds from breaking his arm; and Noir,—or Malik, rather—standing calm beside her like a suit-less chauffeur from some twisted fairy tale. Behind them gleamed the same black truck that had airlifted lumber into her backyard that morning.

Annie squinted, wary. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she muttered under her breath.

Monroe followed her line of sight. “Hey, isn't that Kimiko?”

Annie sighed, “Can you keep that a secret for now? Her security is currently compromised. And she's kind of not in the right headspace.” she said.

He gave her a puzzled look, but she was already walking away.

“Hey, is that her boyfriend?” He asked, curious as Annie walked. 

“Sure.” Annie hollered back. 

She crossed the lot briskly, eyes darting to nearby security cameras—old habits. Kimiko pushed off the truck as she approached, looking mildly guilty and deeply irritated all at once.

“What are you guys doing here?” Annie asked, incredulity thick in her tone. “Kimiko, you wanna, maybe give an attendance to Johnson while we’re already here?”

Kimiko’s answer was immediate. “I’m not ready. Don’t know if I even want to go back.”

“Didn’t think so.” Annie sighed.

Then Malik spoke, his voice smooth and annoyingly casual. “Uh—ladies, can we skip the pleasantries for later? Maybe get away from the CIA headquarters first?”

That tone, like he was the only sane one in a room full of pyromaniacs.

Annie glanced at Kimiko. And Kimiko just gave a tiny nod, the ‘he’s right but I hate that he’s right’ kind.

Without another word, Annie slid into the passenger seat. Malik took the driver’s spot, Kimiko climbed into the back, and the truck purred to life.

The building shrank in the rearview mirror as they pulled out.

Rain had started here too—light, rhythmic, and barely audible against the reinforced glass. Annie leaned against the window, watching the blurred skyline roll past.

“So,” she said finally, turning toward Malik, “you wanna tell me what this field trip is about?”

Malik exhaled through his nose, the sound equal parts amusement, wholesome energy, and disbelief. “Homelander asked me to chauffeur you ladies for the wedding dress shopping. I was planning to rewatch all of the movies from The Hunger Games franchise by tonight.” He sighed again. 

Annie blinked. “You’re joking.”

“Unfortunately, no.” He jerked a thumb toward the backseat. “Your bridesmaid isn’t very cooperative, by the way. Very aggressive. I think she tried to break my wrist earlier.”

Kimiko glared at him.

Annie smirked, amused despite herself. “Sounds about right.”

Malik shrugged. “I mean, I get it. Women handle trauma in weird ways. But if she keeps looking at me like that, I might start thinking she’s flirting.”

Kimiko smacked the back of his seat with her boot.

“Okay, maybe not flirting,” he muttered.

Annie couldn’t help a dry laugh, shaking her head. “I’m surrounded by teenagers.”

“Correction,” Malik said with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, “you’re surrounded by people who work for your soon-to-be husband.”

Annie’s smile died. “Yeah,” she said quietly, turning back to the window. “Lucky me.”

They stopped at Georgetown. The boutique looked like someone had murdered a rainbow and sold the evidence as haute couture. Annie tried to look impressed for the sake of her sanity. Kimiko, arms crossed, looked like she’d rather be shot.

“Pick something quick,” Malik said, leaning on the glass door, shades on. “And Homelander said no exploding this place unless necessary.”

“Noir,” Annie said, exasperated. “You can wait outside.”

“Gladly,” he muttered, stepping back out like he’d been pardoned from tedious responsibilities.

They hadn’t even started looking through the dresses when a sleek black SUV pulled up. The window rolled down, and the driver in a dark suit stepped out, opened the backdoor; and lifted a baby carrier.

Annie’s chest tightened.

Malik was already walking toward them, his demeanor shifting to something gentle. He took River with impossible care. The baby was in a frilly white dress, each tiny fist holding a lollipop like a declaration of victory over everyone’s emotional stability.

“Hey, troublemaker,” Malik whispered, making exaggerated faces until River erupted in giggles that almost broke Annie’s composure. He walked in and handed the child over. “Your royal highness has arrived.”

Annie hurried to take her daughter, holding her close. She pressed her forehead to River’s, whispering affectionate promises before setting her down in a cushioned seat nearby.

Kimiko sighed, flipping through a rack. “You know, this is insane. Man kidnaps your baby, now he sends her for fittings.”

“Yeah,” Annie said dryly, holding up a satin gown against herself. “He’s really redefining fatherhood.”

“Gonna kill him?”

“Maybe after the honeymoon.”

Kimiko snorted, but her expression stayed grim. “So, this Compound V thing… any leads?”

Annie exhaled, distractedly flipping through hangers. “Two vaults breached. Semi partial footprints at one site, no footage, clean heist. Whoever’s doing this has inside access, or worse.”

Kimiko glanced up. “You think Homelander’s involved?”

Annie shook her head, staring at her reflection in the mirror. “By all logic, he should. But if he were, he’d at least brag about it to instill fear.”

“Then who?”

“That’s what Johnson wants me to find out. But… I’ve got a feeling this is about more than stolen vials.”

She caught her own gaze in the mirror—haunted, tired, but sharp. Like she was about to make a deal with hell because heaven wouldn’t take her call anymore.

River giggled again, waving her lollipops. Annie smiled faintly.

“Guess I better look good for my captor,” she muttered.

Kimiko smirked. “Yeah. Make that motherfucker regret being into you.”

Annie chuckled under her breath, fingers trailing through rows of silks and satins until one stopped her; something structurally profound. She tugged it free, and for a moment, she froze.

The gown didn’t just hang. It was heavy. Regal. 

A rush of ivory, not the mundane, blinding kind; but aged and burnished. French lace, thick and raised in floral reliefs, wove a landscape of intricate details. The skirt was full-bodied, an A-line sweep that flowed gracefully, and a train the length of an aisle.

Then the neckline; plunging with a scandalous sweetheart cut with delicate, off-the-shoulder sleeves that flowed into tight, lace cuffs over the wrists. The true audacity, however, was hidden until the light hit it: a high, daring split cut right up the thigh. A bold scar of modernity cutting through the gown’s centuries-old soul.

That was the one Annie picked and went straight to the trial room. 

When the final clasp clicked, she felt instantly tethered to the floor by the weight of the lace, yet impossibly tall. The cut transformed her; the off-shoulder line made her neck seem miles long, drawing the eye instantly to her collarbones.

She let herself smile, faint but real, as the boutique assistants flitted around her, adjusting hems, murmuring praise.

When she stepped out, Kimiko looked up from where she’d been entertaining River with a rattle. The smile faded from her lips before it reshaped itself into something wistful.

Her eyes softened. “You look beautiful, Annie,” she said quietly, rising from the sofa. “I just wish the reality matched that. Beauty shouldn’t have to carry dread.”

Annie blinked at her reflection again, lips curving in a sad, small arc. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I like it… I guess.”

She smoothed her palm over the gown’s bodice. 

The next stop was Kimiko’s turn. They drove further near the Wharf, looking through the upscale boutiques. Annie had picked the color herself: powder blue, soft and almost melancholic, like the sky right before dusk gives up and turns black. It suited Kimiko’s quiet ferocity in a way she’d never admit.

They sifted through rows of chiffon, satin, and tulle until Kimiko’s hand caught on a dress that seemed to understand her—lightweight yet structured, a sleeveless corset top lined with subtle silver threading that caught light without begging for it, paired with a flowy skirt that ghosted around her knees. The back dipped in a gentle curve, enough to tease freedom, not vanity. When she stepped out of the fitting room, Annie grinned. 

Kimiko looked both soft and dangerous, like a lullaby at the tongue of a wolf.

Little River’s dress matched in hue, a miniature reflection of Kimiko’s; powder blue tulle layered like spun sugar, a ribbon sash tied in a perfect bow at the back, and tiny embroidered clouds scattered across the skirt. Her golden curls were pinned with little white flowers that the boutique stylist insisted on, making her look like she’d stepped out of a painting meant to hurt your heart.

Annie fussed over both of them, pretending she didn’t feel the ache beneath her ribs. “Perfect,” she murmured, adjusting River’s sash. “You two are going to steal the ceremony.”

By the time fittings were done, the sky outside had turned to a deep blue. They exited the boutique with garment bags slung over Annie’s arm, murmurs soft and weary.

But the air shifted the moment they stepped onto the pavement.

Noir was waiting where he said he’d be, leaning against the truck. But he wasn’t alone.

Homelander stood beside him.

He wore a charcoal-gray overcoat, unbuttoned over a dark navy sweater and tailored black trousers. Polished leather boots completed the look, subtle wealth, the type that whispers instead of shouts. Yet, somehow, it was still him—smug, eerily poised, like the air itself had to bend to accommodate his ego. His bleached blonde hair was slicked back neatly, accentuating his sharp jawline. 

Annie froze for half a heartbeat. Kimiko did too, instinctively pulling River a little closer.

They exchanged a look—half wariness, half resignation—and crossed the lot.

Homelander and Noir were speaking in low murmurs. It looked harmless until you realized neither of them had blinked in over a minute.

When Homelander noticed the trio approaching, he turned with a distracted little smile, his voice casual, almost human.

“Hey,” he said simply, as if this was all the most natural thing in the world—like he hadn’t kidnapped her baby or proposed marriage under duress.

Annie gave him a single nod, silent and wary.

“Can we have dinner? Just you and me.” Homelander asked, tone uncharacteristically polite, but arrogant entitlement still bled through every syllable like an involuntary reflex.

Annie’s brow furrowed. Her eyes flicked toward River, now perched comfortably on Kimiko’s hip, chewing absently on one of her lollipop sticks. “What about her?”

Homelander tilted his head, gave an almost theatrical shrug, and pointed lazily toward Kimiko and Malik. “I think your friend and my friend here are perfectly capable of looking after her.” 

Then, to the two of them, his voice dipped into that easy, smug drawl. “I guess that means you’re grabbing dinner together. Don’t lose my kid.”

Kimiko blinked twice, already looking like she’d rather chew gravel than hang out with Noir 2.0. And Malik just sighed—one of those resigned, veteran sighs that said I didn’t sign up for this, but fine.

“I’ll take those,” Malik muttered, reaching out to take the remaining shopping bags from Annie’s arm.

Annie leaned down, pressed a kiss to River’s soft curls. Then she straightened, jaw tightening, and crossed over to Homelander.

The two fell into step beside each other—his stride confident and loose, hers measured and cautious. A strange calm settled between them; thin, fragile, and already daring to break.

They walked in silence for a moment, the city doing its best to pretend everything was ordinary and lively. Lights twinkled along the pier—strings of bulbs draped from posts, lanterns bobbing on low-slung boats tied to the dock, their reflections sketching shaky gold across the black water. Couples drifted past, laughter and clinking glasses bleeding from waterfront bars. It looked festive and modern, as if the world hadn’t been slowly coming apart at the seams.

Homelander slowed, stopping with a smooth, casual motion and leaning against the cold metal railing. Annie reached the spot a beat later and set herself down beside him, keeping a careful distance like two tectonic plates pretending not to notice the short gap between them.

He turned, elbow on the rail, watching the harbor with that unnervingly calm attention before his eyes found her. “How are you?” he asked—smug, yes, but there was the faintest edge of sincerity under the surface.

Annie shrugged, voice flat and hard. “Would be a lie to say ‘fine.’ I’m definitely brainstorming new ways to kill you on a nightly basis.”

Homelander’s mouth tilted into a grin. “Do tell,” he said. “If you come up with anything clever, I’d love to know.”

She blew out a breath, theatrical and tired, making sure he felt the weariness she refused to admit aloud.

He cocked his head, eyes flicking toward her torso with that pinprick of invasive curiosity about her post-miscarriage recovery. “Apart from being unhinged,” he continued, voice casual as a weather report, “how’re you doing physically?”

Annie’s glare was immediate and cold. “Oh, I'm the one who's unhinged? I’ll never forgive you for that.” The words were small and sharp, jaw sealing shut like a trap.

He sighed; an exaggerated, amused sound. “Good. That’s exactly the kind of motivation I need. Keep it up.” He winked, the movement both mischievous and monstrous. “Whose was it, by the way? The child.” 

Annie gave him a disgusted look, then turned away to watch the harbor—not even bothering to answer. And why would she? The pregnancy happened from a random one night stand with a friend from the NIA back in Bangkok. The guy wasn't even aware of the pregnancy. And there was no way in hell Annie was about to reveal that to Homelander, and jeopardize the poor fella’s life. 

So she kept her attention on the harbor, simply ignoring Homelander. The lights reflected in the water like a scattered spine of stars. The soft bark of a dog, the distant shouts from a passing boat, the steady slap of waves on the dock. It was all deceptively tranquil; a whole lot better than listening to Homelander's condescending bullshit.

A long, restless silence sprawled between them—one that wasn’t uncomfortable, just heavy with things neither dared to speak aloud. 

Meanwhile, Homelander’s gaze lingered on her profile like a bad habit. There was something almost wistful in his stare, the look that betrayed him before he caught himself. Then he blinked, jaw tightening, reminding himself why he hated her; and why hurting her was the closest he’d ever get to loving her.

He exhaled sharply, straightening his back as if to shake off the thought. “Hey, uh—”

Annie turned, one brow raised, waiting for the next absurdity to roll out of his tongue.

From the pocket of his dark overcoat, he drew out a small, red velvet box. The thing looked violently out of place in his hand, too delicate, too normal.

Annie’s throat constricted. Her eyes flicked from the box to him, and she said nothing.

He held it out, not opening it, his smirk hovering somewhere between mockery and earnestness. “So… do you want me to just slip it into your pocket, or are we doing the full ‘down on one knee’ act?” His voice was sarcastic, but the sincerity bled through in ways he probably didn’t intend.

Annie’s lips curved into a grin—bright, cold, and sharp. “Homelander,” she said sweetly, disdain hiding under every syllable, “get the fuck down on your knees and propose to me like a proper gentleman.”

Homelander let out a snort of disbelief, his amusement unfiltered. “Christ, Annie—you’re giving  toxic masculinity vibes, entitled and all that.” he quipped, before pivoting toward her, smirk intact. Then, with a slow exhale and a predator’s ease, he sank down on one knee.

He never broke eye contact, his smirk widening as her reflection glimmered in his eyes, his pride bending just enough to let the irony sting them both.

Annie’s grin softened into a more dangerous expression. Watching him kneel before her wasn’t satisfying in the way she expected—it was worse. It was intoxicating.

He flicked the box open, revealing a ring that could’ve doubled as a small solar flare; white-gold band, edges razor-clean, crowned with a diamond so obnoxiously large it could blind a pilot. Subtlety wasn’t exactly his brand.

He plucked the ring out with theatrical care, put the box back in his pocket, and extended his free hand toward her.

Annie crossed her arms tighter across her stomach, glancing at his hand, then up at him. “What? You’re not going to actually ask me to marry you?” Her lips quirked.

Homelander frowned, the line between his brows deepening. “You’re patronizing me, aren’t you?”

“Am I?” Annie’s tone dripped with mischief.

He rolled his eyes dramatically. When he spoke again, his voice dropped to an intimate low, heavy with false sincerity. “Annie January, will you marry me? You have no choice, but will you?”

Her smirk widened. She gave a small, mocking nod and held out her hand. 

He shot her one last glare before sliding the ring onto her finger.

Applause broke out around them—passersby who’d caught the proposal. Homelander straightened, instantly flipping on his media smile, waving to the strangers like the world’s most benevolent tyrant. Then he shifted subtly, positioning himself between Annie and the crowd, his frame blocking her from view. Starlight couldn’t exactly afford to be recognized as alive just yet.

Their eyes locked. His expression cooled into an unreadable gaze; while hers stayed steady. The wind caught her hair, tossing golden strands across her face like an uninvited curtain.

Finally, he exhaled, tone snapping back to casual command. “Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving. Oh—and we’re getting married this weekend.”

He was already walking off before she could answer.

Annie scoffed under her breath. “Funny.”

Still, she followed.

Chapter Text

Annie sat at the edge of the bed, still wearing her all-black mission gear: faded jeans, tank top, and a jacket zipped halfway. Chains gleamed faintly against her collarbone, catching the dying amber light that seeped through the half-drawn curtains. Her posture was heavy, masculine; legs braced wide, elbows digging into her knees, eyes flat with exhaustion.

She’d just returned from the interception op linked to the Compound V smuggling case. The intel had been solid—three trucks moving product toward the borders. Her unit had waited in silence for hours on that deserted stretch of road. And when the trucks arrived, they turned out to be a decoy. A distraction. The real consignments had already slipped through safer, invisible routes the CIA hadn’t even mapped.

The fight that followed was inevitable. No Supes this time, just desperate men with rifles and orders they didn’t understand. Some were injured, the rest arrested. Then came Johnson’s voice over the phone; spitting fury instead of direction, every word a political grenade. His tirade wasn’t professional anger; it stank of fear, of losing control over something too volatile to contain. The kind that made Annie wish she could swim into oblivion for an hour.

Now, back at the countryside ranch, the adrenaline had long burned out. Dust had dulled her jeans to ash-grey, her jacket bore the scrapes of asphalt, and a thin abrasion lined her cheek—half healed but still pink against her skin. One boot tapped against the wooden floor in a restless rhythm, a pulse of frustration she couldn’t shake.

She was replaying the mission in her head—angles, faces, tricks—when a soft knock broke the loop. Annie blinked, glancing up.

The door creaked open just enough for Kimiko to slip in, her smile small and tentative, her expression felt like an apology for existing in the same room as someone’s fatigue.

“You okay?” Kimiko asked, voice low, kind.

Annie let out a slow, ragged breath and shrugged, small.

Kimiko closed the distance and folded her into a hug before Annie could decide to resist. Annie didn’t. For a minute she simply let herself be held, like a worn coat hung to dry. Lately it all felt circular—running, fixing, running again.

Kimiko’s fingers threaded through Annie’s hair, gentle as a ritual. “You’ll get there,” she murmured, warm and stubborn. “I know you.” She glanced down, an amused little spark brightening her expression. “Sorry if this is weird timing, but your mom’s actually here. Deep chauffeured her.” She sounded half-apologetic, half-entertained.

Annie’s head snapped up. “Wait—my mom? What the fuck? He involved my mum?” she hissed, incredulous.

Kimiko shrugged, sheepish. “Well… it is your wedding tomorrow.” She offered a crooked, guilty smile.

Annie groaned, the sound more theatrical than angry, and let out a long exhale.

Kimiko snorted. “So are Deep and Noir officially Homelander’s errand-boys now, then?”

Annie laughed, the noise catching on the last syllable. “The new Noir’s got a thing for you, by the way. Saw the way he looks at you.” She nudged Kimiko playfully.

Kimiko’s face immediately puckered into mock disgust. “Ugh. No. I’ll smash his face before I let him flirt with me.”

“He’ll probably like that,” Annie teased, rising to her feet and straightening her jacket. “Come on—let’s go meet mom.”

The wooden steps creaked under their boots as Annie and Kimiko descended, one behind the other. The faint smell of brewed tea and a floral flavor, Donna’s perfume, faint but familiar; hung in the air.

Downstairs, Donna stood near the couch, hands clasped tight over her purse like she was bracing for an earthquake. Her smile trembled at the edges when she saw Annie. Kevin sat across from her, munching on chips, grinning sheepishly, and visibly awkward.

And Malik lounged by the window like a bodyguard on casual mode, with a phone in hand, reading some online dorky sci-fi manga. 

“Annie!” Donna’s voice cracked halfway through her daughter’s name as she rushed forward, pulling her into a hug that knocked a breath out of both of them. She held on for longer than usual, her hand lingering on the back of Annie’s head. “You’re here,” she whispered, half to herself. “You’re really here. I didn’t even know you’d left Bangkok.”

Annie smiled faintly against her shoulder. “Long story, mom.”

Donna drew back just enough to study her face. She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Annie… what’s going on? And is that—” her eyes flicked toward Kevin, who immediately straightened up like a schoolboy caught cheating—“who I think he is?”

Annie’s smirk curled slow and knowing. She gave a small nod.

Donna blinked. “Oh, my God.”

Before Donna could spiral further, Annie turned to the room, arms folding casually. “Well, since we’re all here, might as well save some time. Homelander’s alive. He’s blackmailing me into marrying him so I can stay with my daughter.”

The words landed like a thrown grenade.

Kevin’s jaw slackened; Malik didn’t even budge—just adjusted his stance, eyes unreadable. 

Donna, though, froze mid-blink, her lips parting soundlessly. She inhaled once, sharp. “Oh.” It was all she managed.

“Yeah,” Annie said flatly, like she was commenting on the groceries. “That’s where we’re at.”

She turned to Malik. “When’s River getting here?”

“In the morning,” Malik said, calm and distracted with the manga. 

Donna’s gaze flicked between them, realization dawning fast—Homelander had her granddaughter. Her face paled slightly, but she said nothing. 

But Annie noticed anyway.

“C’mon,” She muttered, touching her mother’s arm and giving it a gentle tug. “Let’s go upstairs. We’ve got… a few months of hell to unpack.”

Donna followed, still dazed, still clutching her purse like it might keep her from falling apart. 

Behind them, Kevin continued his bottomless munching. And Malik stayed by the window, glancing up and watching the two women disappear upstairs like he already knew how heavy that conversation was going to be. 

And Kimiko just shook her head at the absurdity of it all, glaring at the two men. She flipped the bird at both with both middle fingers before walking back up the stairs. 

—

Morning crawled in through the ranch’s gauzy curtains, a shy sort of light, as if it already knew today wasn’t one of celebration but ceremony. The room smelled faintly of peonies and hair spray, the air thick with perfume and unspoken dread.

Annie sat before the mirror in silence as the makeup artist dabbed and blended, painting elegance over exhaustion. Her eyes — usually bright, defiant — looked softer now, haunted around the edges. The artist chattered idly about foundation tones and weather in Montana, unaware she was technically applying war paint to a woman headed to her own emotional execution.

Kimiko sat cross-legged on the bed behind her, scrolling aimlessly through her phone while half-watching, half-guarding. 

Donna, meanwhile, stood near the window, hands clasped, eyes darting from her daughter to the decorators visible through the glass. Outside, people she didn’t recognize moved like shadows across the open fields — raising arches, arranging white chairs, tying ribbons that fluttered in the cold morning wind. The whole thing looked too beautiful to be real, like a mirage built to keep truth at bay.

“Still feels like a dream,” Donna whispered. “Or a nightmare. I can't tell which yet.”

Annie gave a low laugh, eyes meeting her mother’s through the mirror. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

Hours slipped by under the steady hum of hairdryers and the faint metallic clink of makeup tools. When the final touches were done; soft gold shimmer, a hint of blush, lashes heavy enough to cast shadows — there was a quiet knock at the door.

Kimiko hopped up to open it. Malik stood there, his usual unbothered posture softened by the small bundle in his arms.

River.

The little girl wore a frock of sky-blue tulle, her curls bouncing like spun gold as she blinked at the light. Her hands clutched two lollipops again, one already sticking faintly to her cheek.

Annie froze. Her reflection blurred in front of her as she stood, the chair rolling slightly back. When she reached Malik, her voice cracked without her permission. “Hey, baby…”

River recognized her instantly, that squeal, that little kick of excitement as she reached out. Annie gathered her in tight, burying her face against River’s shoulder, inhaling that warm, sugary smell children always carry; something between innocence and comfort. 

Donna covered her mouth, eyes wet. And Kimiko just turned away, pretending to fix the drapes.

Malik cleared his throat, the emotional tension visibly foreign to him. “She’s been looking for you all morning,” he muttered, handing over River’s tiny backpack before tactfully retreating.

When the door closed, the room seemed to breathe again.

Later, when River had been set down with Donna, busy showing off her lollipops, Annie stepped behind the dressing screen. The heavy lace rustled softly like the whisper of ghosts as Kimiko helped her into the gown. It took effort, the garment that demanded reverence.

When Annie emerged, she was silent.

The mirror reflected a contradiction of a woman — heavy french lace wrapping a heart that wanted to run. 

The sweetheart neckline carved her collarbones into sculpture, the off-shoulder lace blooming over her arms. The aged ivory glowed faintly in the soft light, and when the veil settled over her half-loose hair, she looked untouchable.

Donna’s eyes widened, one hand to her chest. “You look… ” She trailed off, unable to finish.

Kimiko, still holding the edge of the train, smirked faintly. “Like he won’t survive looking at her.”

Annie stared at her reflection, jaw tightening, voice low. “That,” she said. “is exactly what I’m afraid of.”

—

Later that day, the afternoon sun had flattened into a muted gold, spilling across the open field behind the ranch. The decorators had outdone themselves—rows of white chairs aligned perfectly on either side of a minimalist aisle draped in soft ivory fabric, the air heavy with the faint perfume of lilies. A simple wooden arch stood ahead, dressed with white roses and tangled vines. It was all elegant but secretive.

Kimiko sat near the front, River in her lap, bouncing the little girl absently while her eyes darted between the unfamiliar faces scattered through the seats. 

None of them smiled; all were sharply dressed, stiff-backed, and mostly college age; clearly not family. Surprisingly a mix of ethnicities. Some would even whisper among themselves. They looked like security pretending to be guests. Every few minutes, one of them would press a hand to an earpiece or scan the horizon; not for danger, but for witnesses.

Deep sat on the opposite side of the aisle, posture awkwardly formal, like someone trying too hard to look relevant. Malik stood behind him, arms crossed, gaze sweeping the area with professional boredom.

When Kimiko’s eyes met Malik’s, he offered her the faintest, cocky smirk. She rewarded him with a sharp scowl. 

He just rolled his eyes and looked away, muttering something under his breath that probably rhymed with whatever.

Homelander stood at the end of the aisle, beside the officiant. The suit was black, a deep, deliberate black, tailored sharply to fit his form. The jacket framed his broad shoulders; a black shirt beneath open just enough to hint at lethal instead of modesty. The gleam of his dress shoes mirrored the light, and his posture was as perfect as his reputation once had been — head high, hands clasped behind his back, every inch the picture of power.

His face, though, was just a static calm that was almost eerie. His blue eyes were distant, bored even, but they flickered down occasionally toward River in Kimiko’s arms. The small tilt of his chin at his baby, the faint ghost of a smile that followed—it was barely there, but it was real.

Kimiko caught it. She frowned. Something tightened in her chest as she watched him quickly pull back into that polished, indifferent composure then.

And then, the faint rustle of fabric.

Donna emerged first, arm in arm with Annie. The breeze caught the veil first, lifting it slightly before it fell back into place over her hair.

Annie stepped into the sunlight, and the field seemed to hush.

The ivory gown breathed with every step. Her expression was steady, almost defiant and seething, though her fingers clenched faintly around her mother’s hand. She was more nervous than her ego would ever allow her to recognize. 

Homelander’s head turned the instant she appeared.

For a heartbeat, he froze. The act, the mask, the entire curated calm — gone. His eyes swept her from the veil to the hem, the way light kissed the lace, the faint flush across her chest where nerves betrayed her. 

His lips parted slightly, as if his body forgot how to maintain the illusion. It was just a flicker, one second of raw awe that cracked through the marble.

Then it was gone.

His jaw locked, his gaze hardened, and his hands folded tighter behind him as if to discipline himself.

But Kimiko saw it. So did Donna.

And Annie, though she didn’t dare meet his eyes yet, felt it; that tension in the air that wasn’t reverence.

Homelander’s stare followed her down the aisle, eerily unblinking. Each step she took seemed to draw that smug, cold calm tighter around him, like he was trying not to let the awe show ever again. By the time she reached him, he’d buried it all under that same detached arrogance.

Donna gave Annie’s hand one last squeeze before stepping back, her smile brittle but proud. 

Kimiko got up with baby River still in one arm. She adjusted the veil with her free hand, her gaze flicking toward Homelander like a silent warning before she, too, withdrew; settling beside Donna with River nestled against her shoulder. 

The officiant, whose posture suggested he was either terrified or blessedly oblivious, cleared his throat and offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Friends, family, and... those who could not say no,” he began, drawing an awkward chuckle from the front rows. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two remarkable souls—Annie and John.”

Homelander’s eyes didn’t move. Didn't even blink. He was coldly staring at Annie like sizing up his prey. Reading her micro-expressions with terrifying precision. 

Annie stood motionless, her bouquet trembling just slightly against her chest, the lace glove tightening around the stems.

The officiant continued, voice syruped with ceremony. “Love is not merely a feeling—it is an act of courage, of patience, and of choice. It’s the promise to see one another as they truly are, and still—”

Homelander’s faint, humorless smile curled as if he was silently mouthing the words still choose them.

“Now,” the officiant said, turning to Annie. “Annie, do you take John to be your lawfully wedded husband? To love, honor, and cherish him in good times and in bad, for as long as you both shall live?”

The silence stretched. Homelander could hear the faint hum of the lights, the soft, nervous shifting of lace. And Annie’s heart was a war drum, her throat dry.

Her lips parted. “...I do.”

Barely above a whisper. Almost convincing.

Homelander’s head tilted, savoring it.

“And John,” the officiant turned, “do you take Annie to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love, honor, and cherish her in good times and in bad, for as long as you both shall live?”

Homelander didn’t blink. “I do,” he said smoothly, but his tone made it sound like a verdict.

The officiant nodded, moving on, oblivious to the tension pulling the air thin. “You may now share your vows.”

Annie’s voice trembled only for the first line.

“I promise,” she said, “to stand beside you when the world falls apart… and when it doesn’t.” A ghost of sarcasm slipped beneath her calm tone. “To share in your victories, and... endure your storms.”

Her gaze finally flicked up to his, and for a split second, her expression betrayed everything—the revulsion, the pity, the bitterness. “To be... what you need me to be.”

The officiant smiled, touched. He didn’t understand a damn thing, though.

Homelander’s turn. His eyes softened, mockingly tender. “I promise,” he murmured, stepping closer, “to protect you from everything that dares to harm you.” He paused, then added, almost sweetly, “Even yourself.”

A few people laughed quietly, thinking it was a joke. But Annie didn’t.

“I promise to lift you higher,” he went on, voice lowering and creepy, “and never let you fall… unless you ask me to.”

Donna’s breath caught in her throat. 

And Kimiko just rolled her eyes. She rose then, baby still in one arm, carrying the small tray with both rings. 

Annie slid his on, her hand steady now. 

Homelander’s fingers brushed her wrist as he returned the favor, lingering too long. His touch burned through her glove.

The officiant cleared his throat, voice chipper again. “And now, by the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife.”

He turned to Homelander with a polite grin. “You may kiss the bride.”

The officiant’s words hung in the air like a sentence.

Homelander turned toward her, the applause dimming to a distant hum.

For a moment, he simply looked at her—no, studied her—the flick of her lashes, the shallow rise of her chest, the twitch at the corner of her mouth that betrayed a thousand things she’d rather die than say aloud.

Annie didn’t move; didn’t breathe. If she did, she might scream or laugh or do something wildly unholy for a church setting.

He stepped closer and leaned in, intentionally slow, searching for even a flicker of refusal. But she gave him none. 

Their lips met, just barely, a ghost of contact, filled with restraint than romance. The cameras flashed. The crowd sighed.

Then his hand found her waist, and the restraint snapped.

He pulled her closer, firmly but not roughly, deepening the kiss just enough to send a quiet shock through her spine. The world vanished for five long seconds; his breath, his scent, the warmth that shouldn't have felt this familiar.

Annie didn’t fight him. Couldn’t. Her hands hung at her sides, knuckles pale around the bouquet, every muscle in her body wired to flee but refusing to give the satisfaction.

When they finally parted, it wasn’t abrupt. It was calculated, both of them still close enough to feel the other’s breath. A smile flickered between them—polite, practiced, camera-ready, and utterly false.

Homelander’s thumb brushed the corner of his mouth like he was claiming victory. 

Annie grimaced. Keep dreaming. She thought. 

The crowd erupted into applause. Somewhere in the noise, Kimiko sighed through her nose. Donna dabbed her eyes. And River cooed, unbothered.

—

The reception was subdued, elegant, minimal, too quiet for celebration. Soft indie music poured through hidden speakers, the melody light and sweet enough to almost disguise the tension soaking the air.

Guests lingered around tables draped in muted ivory linen, glasses half-filled with champagne. Kimiko sat near the corner table, River perched on the tabletop, a pink lollipop clutched in one hand while she smacked her other hand rhythmically against Kimiko’s wrist. 

Donna watched, smiling absently before her eyes drifted elsewhere.

Across the lawn, the photographer was working through poses—the newlyweds framed by the late-afternoon gold, both striking in their own dissonant way. Annie stood stiffly, the wind teasing the edges of her veil, while Homelander posed with his hand resting at her back, the picture of marital devotion. The flashes went off like controlled detonations.

“They look…” Donna started, her gaze softening. “They look good together. I mean—Homelander or not. They really do.” She glanced at River, who had begun chewing on her second lollipop’s stick without finishing the first. “Imagine how powerful she’ll be when she grows up.”

Kimiko gave a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Mm.” She adjusted River’s dress absently, watching the couple with a strange sympathy. “He loves her, alright. In his own way. Except it's not enough to act right…”

Donna’s brow furrowed slightly, uncertain if she should agree or pray.

The photographer called for the family shot. Annie took River from Kimiko, holding her close as Homelander stepped in beside them. The flash went off again; click, flash, pause. River giggled, tugging at Annie’s veil, and even Homelander’s mouth curved in a fond smile. It was the first genuine thing all day.

Then it was done. He murmured something to the photographer, slipped out of the frame, and vanished toward the house.

Annie’s eyes followed him until the black of his suit was swallowed by the doorway. The guests’ laughter murmured faintly behind her like TV static, but her mind was still trailing him — that polished ghost of a man she’d just married.

“Annie, hii!”

The sugary voice jolted her out of her trance. Annie blinked and turned, her polite smile snapping into place. The woman standing there looked fresh out of a university catalog; long, flat-blonde hair, teeth so white they probably had their own Instagram handle.

“Hi,” Annie replied, still half-processing. Her eyes flicked from the girl’s manicured nails to her nervous posture. Probably one of his guests.

“Oh my god, you’re even prettier up close!” the girl gushed, clasping Annie’s hand like they were lifelong best friends in a detergent commercial. Before Annie could recalibrate, she was pulled into a hug that smelled faintly of coconut and invasion.

Annie hesitated, one arm hovering mid-air. Right. Smile. Normal people do hugs. It’s your wedding. You’re normal now.

“Congratulations!” the girl chirped into her hair before stepping back, all bright eyes and harmless energy. “Um, sorry, where’s the bathroom? I really need to go.”

Annie chuckled, one she’d perfected for TV cameras. “Inside, upstairs, down the hall. Can’t miss it.”

“Thank you!” the girl sing-songed, waving cheerily before skipping into the house.

Annie watched her disappear, her smile fading by degrees. Strange. Who were these walking Pinterest boards? She wondered. 

But before she could puzzle out who that blonde had been, Donna hooked an arm through hers and hauled her back toward the cameras. Annie forced another smile as flashes went off; one photo after another, each grin feeling a little more taxidermied than the last.

Meanwhile, inside the house, Homelander’s footsteps echoed through the wooden floors like a distinctly rhythmic metronome. He stopped in the center of the living room and shrugged off his formal jacket with almost surgical precision. Beneath it, the black shirt hugged his frame; he rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, revealing his forearms.

He hung the jacket neatly over his hand, posture straight, chin slightly tilted; the image of composure. Waiting.

The faint creak of the porch boards came next, followed by hesitant footsteps crossing the threshold. He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. The way the air shifted told him everything — Cate had entered. Her shoes faltered halfway through the room; he could hear her heartbeat stutter when she realized he was already there.

She swallowed hard, forcing composure, then quickened her pace as if that could undo the pause.

“Sir,” she greeted, voice pitched too high, a smile flickering on her face like faulty lighting.

Homelander let out a measured exhale, finally turning his head toward her; utterly calm and terrifyingly unreadable.

“Did you do it?” he asked, tone flat as a razor’s edge.

Cate’s throat bobbed before she spoke, her voice careful, professional, like someone tiptoeing through a minefield. 

“His name is Adrian Chavarat. Senior Case Officer at the NIA, Bangkok Division. He had dual-jurisdiction clearance to assist Annie on field assignments — strictly on an as-needed basis.”

Homelander let out a short, derisive breath; half-laugh, half-snarl. Of course he couldn’t let that phrasing slide. 

“On an as-needed basis,” he repeated, tilting his head with mock curiosity. “So… she fucked him on an as-needed basis too?”

Cate’s mouth opened, then shut. Her smile twitched, brittle and terrified. “No, sir. That was… a one-time incident. They were on assignment, tensions ran high, adrenaline and all… things got—”

She stopped herself. She didn’t need to spell it out. He had an imagination cruel enough to do the rest.

Homelander’s smirk curved slow and venomous. He pressed his knuckles to his mouth, not to hide the bitterness, but to savor it. “A one-night stand,” he murmured, eyes narrowing as though the words themselves tasted foul. “Touching.”

He straightened just slightly, the room seeming to shrink around his height. “Are they still in contact?”

Cate shook her head too quickly, eager to live. “No. She never told him about the pregnancy. She’s kept her distance, to protect him.”

That last line hung between them, heavier than it should’ve been. Because Cate knew the truth, the only person who needed protection from Homelander’s jealousy… was everyone.

His gaze hardened, carving into her composure. “Cate Dunlap,” he said slowly, voice dipping into that quiet, dangerous register. “You’re not trying to protect Annie, are you? Because that little speech you just gave me? Sounds rehearsed. Almost like you’re running interference for her.”

Cate’s eyes went wide, her breath stalling. “No, sir. Never.” The words left her too fast, too practiced. “You can trust me.”

She meant it, at least she wanted to. But she also took a careful step back. Not because she thought he’d lunge at her—though he might—but because being too close meant she could probably hear his thoughts. And if Homelander ever caught her slipping into his head, there’d be nothing left of her but a stain on the wall.

He studied her in silence, his expression unreadable, sculpted into calm authority. Then, in a slow pivot, he turned to face her completely. No sudden movements. Just the quiet weight of power, hands clasped neatly behind his back, posture perfect, as though he was about to deliver a verdict.

“Okay,” he said at last, the word drawn out, tasting her fear. “Still in contact or not, you’re going to do something for me. Right now. Consider it a test of loyalty.”

Cate nodded instantly, a clipped motion. “Of course,” she murmured, her voice steady but her pulse anything but.

Homelander smiled faintly; because obedience, even when trembling, was still obedience.

His finger jabbed toward her. “You’ll find him,” he said, voice flat as a slab. “You’ll tell him to stab himself in his fucking dick until he bleeds to death. Noir will fly you there and back. Understood?”

For a heartbeat Cate was a statue, then she nodded so hard her scalp hurt. “Yes, sir.” Her voice came out thin and brittle.

“Good.” He started toward the door, each step intentionally slow. He paused mid-stride and looked back over his shoulder as if the question was almost trivial. “And she won’t remember any of this, right?”

Cate shook her head. “No, sir. She’ll just think I paid her a compliment—said congratulations.” Her words were quick, practiced for survival.

He gave a single, measured nod, the expression on his face unreadable for a second; then he turned and walked out, the door closing behind him.

When he reappeared outside, the jacket was still over his arm, and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows—his forearms dusted with gold hair, veins subtly visible beneath the fabric. The image was disarmingly human, but his eyes still carried that sharp, inhuman gleam.

He strolled back toward the glow of string lights and subtle laughter, that smug little half-smile curving his lips like he’d just done something saintly instead of psychotic. 

The chilly wind toyed with the ribbons and chiffon, making the whole setup look almost too serene for the awkward marital arrangement brewing underneath it. His eyes skimmed over Annabeth and Marie, offering a curt tilt of his head—a silent gesture of acknowledgement of their presence—before his attention locked on Noir and Deep. He spoke briefly with the two in a corner. 

Then finally, he made his way back to Annie. 

She was standing beside her mother now, River balanced on her hip, the child’s tiny fingers fisting the lace of Annie’s dress.

Homelander’s steps slowed as he neared, his expression softening to mild politeness. He gave Donna a nod that was both charming and faintly intimidating.

“Donna.” He said, his tone cordial and smile measured.

Then his attention shifted—back to Annie, entirely. His voice dropped; smooth, careless, almost teasing.
“Would you like to dance with me?”

Annie didn’t even bother to hide her grimace. “No.”

Homelander blinked once, mildly offended, though that faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed the amusement. “I wasn’t really asking,” he said quietly, leaning in just enough for Donna to catch the tone if not the words. “I’m only pretending to, because your mom's here, and I’m polite like that.”

Donna, bless her heart, smiled as if this were romantic. She leaned toward Annie and whispered, “Go, sweetheart. It’s just a dance.” Then, sensing she’d intruded on something far more volatile than she could comprehend, she took River in her arms and stepped away tactfully, disappearing toward Kimiko. 

Annie rolled her eyes, muttering something profane under her breath, and stalked after him.

Homelander was already at the center of the open floor, the soft indie music dipping into a melodic cadence. He extended his hand like performing a role he didn’t particularly enjoy but knew he owned anyway.

Reluctantly, Annie placed her hand in his.

His palm was warm, and his fingers closed around hers, firm but not forceful. As he drew her in, her other hand found its way to his shoulder, and his arm slid around her waist, anchoring her against him.

They began to move, the motion slow and deceptively gentle. From a distance, they could’ve been mistaken for a newlywed couple caught in their own private rhythm. Up close, however, the tension was suffocating. Every shift, every drag of fabric against fabric, hummed with restrained violence and desire.

“Relax,” he murmured, his breath brushing her temple. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m disgusted,” she countered, voice low and generally disdainful.

“Same thing, really.”

The reply earned him a glare. He smiled at that, smug, feeding off her fury like oxygen. His thumb grazed her spine, almost absently, tracing small patterns of her lace that felt far too intimate for what they were supposed to be.

For a moment, neither spoke. The song swelled, the guests whispered. Donna pretended to chat with Kimiko, but her eyes never truly left her daughter.

Annie broke the silence first. “So what now?” Her voice was cool, sarcastic even, but her nerves were on edge. “You going to enslave me? Keep me around until I forget I ever had a life?”

Homelander’s grin widened slowly, dangerously. His hand pressed a fraction tighter at her waist, pulling her a step closer until their bodies were flush, her heartbeat trapped against his chest.

“Oh, Annie…” He lowered his head, lips brushing her ear. “Just you wait. I’m not remotely done avenging my broken heart—” his tone dropped, poisonously smooth, “—and my dead son.”

Her breath caught but she held herself steady.

He drew back just enough to look at her, eyes burning dimly with crimson heat, mouth curved in that terrifying grin with canines out. For an agonizing second, neither moved. The air between them felt electric, poisonous, and magnetic all at once.

Then, as the song faded, Homelander let her go with a subtle, almost courteous bow. The mask of civility slipped back into place as easily as a blade into its sheath.

Annie stood still for a beat too long, feeling every nerve in her body buzzing. Then she turned on her heel, leaving him alone under the weight of his own smirk.