Chapter Text
The moment the blast hits him, Homelander feels every cell in his body shift before he slips into the tender hold of oblivion.
His world has ended by the time he awakens.
The fact that he’s alive—living, breathing, human—makes him wish he wasn’t so to begin with.
The cell is small. Square, white-tiled, the kind of prison that closes in on him from all sides. A singular toilet sits next to an old, rickety cot. It’s smaller than the Bad Room, lights whirring loud enough to rattle his mind like a sack of marbles.
Ryan is the one who’s responsible.
He learns this from Stan Edgar himself—as far as the public is aware, Homelander is dead. Wiped from the slate of existence after the Easter Sunday broadcast, corpse shuttled away while his heart was still beating in the fragile nest of his ribcage.
He’s now nothing more than a blemish on the face of history. Legacy already relegated to the dumpsters and trash-heaps of the people who had given him his namesake. Tarnished, untouchable. A veritable Judas who could never be clean again, unworthy of the worship that’s been his birthright since the beginning.
Homelander thinks he would have rather been a martyr. Ryan tells him death isn’t punishment enough for a monster such as him.
Misery is his only companion, a constant reminder that his godhood, as he knows it, will never come to fruition—now nothing more than a distant, fading memory. A tremor of feeling that brushes across his nerves, phantom on the tendrils of every stunted sense. Impossible for Homelander to escape in the scope of his fractured mind.
He doesn’t measure the time that passes. Three square meals are prepared for him each day, arriving at the slotted hole that’s his only access to the outside world. Nobody visits him. Homelander’s body and mind are his to keep, cocooned in the clandestine hold of this prison, broadcasting his final moments of glory on a constant, never-ending loop.
His routine changes on a day like any other.
Homelander hears a set of footsteps approaching him, thinking this is the moment he’s finally gone past the point of no return. Mind devouring itself in the wake of his crucifixion.
It’s only when Homelander looks up, eyes affixed to the person standing at the center of his room, that he’s certain he must be hallucinating.
“Hughie,” he breathes, eyes widening when he sees him; real, concrete, and tangible to the touch.
After Homelander stumbles to his feet, Hughie take a step back, mouth turning in a pensive frown.
“I’m here for a reason,” Hughie murmurs, keeping his tone even. “Seeing as I’m the head of the FBSA, now.”
Homelander quirks his head to the side, smile stretching like a rubber-band about to snap.
“Of course you didn’t come to visit poor, pathetic Homelander out of the goodness of your own heart.”
Hughie chews on his bottom lip, rounded eyes skirting away from him for only a moment. He brushes a hand through the unruly curls that fall over the line of his temple, pensive as he contemplates his next reply.
“The government is willing to let you have some leeway if you’re open to helping them. Don’t ask me why—they’re very good at keeping their lips sealed when they want to. You won’t get any access to the world outside but you’ll be put in a place that’s nicer than this.”
Homelander stares at him. Hughie’s voice seems to vibrate in his ears, almost angelic in the span of silence he’s endured since the start of his imprisonment. A balm tempering the ache of interminable solitude.
He connects the dots a moment later. Hughie isn’t his savior, he’s responsible for the downfall that’s stripped Homelander of his rightful acension. Choosing to align himself with the mutts and traitors of the world instead of the one who would have offered him true salvation.
“Fuck off,” Homelander snaps, lips twisting as he snarls. “Not even William would’ve had the audacity to come here and ask me that.”
“Butcher’s dead.”
His fury dissipates in the seconds that follow. “What?”
Hughie glances away from him, scratching anxiously at the exposed skin of his wrist.
“He… Butcher tried to use the virus against everyone. Every supe, not just you. I stopped him before he managed to go through with it.”
A chuckle escapes from the confines of Homelander’s mouth. Shaking his head, he allows himself a moment of disbelief, suspended in the air that stagnates between them.
“Did you kill him, Hughie?”
The crease that forms between his eyes is answer enough for Homelander. Grin stretching wider, crinkling the skin across his cheeks, he can’t help but collapse against the sterile wall, gasping for air as laughter shakes him to his core.
“It’s almost poetic,” Homelander chokes, voice tacky with saliva that trails down his battered throat. “Butcher is responsible for my demise—and you’re responsible for his.”
Eyelids twitching as he watches him, Hughie swipes a hand across his jaw, smoothing the hair that stubbles across both cheeks. He takes in a deep breath, lithe shoulders lifting before he speaks.
“It was never going to be enough. Butcher wasn’t going to rest until he was certain you and every other supe had been slaughtered without a chance of coming back.”
Ryan’s face enters the periphery of his mind. Glancing up at Hughie, Homelander finds himself leaning back against the wall, licking the chapped skin of his lips as he stares back at him with equal intensity.
“What do they want with me?”
“They want to talk to you. Examine you. Psychologists, neurosurgeons, a team of scientists that the FBSA has hired. They also—”
Hughie cuts himself off, shaking his head before he continues.
“They need samples of your DNA for testing. Soldier Boy won’t give us his, so Vought thinks you’re the only option they have left. That maybe your cells can… can be used again for study. Prevent another tragedy from starting at the source.”
Fury cascades through every vein in Homelander’s body. Pushing himself off the wall, bare feet slapping against the tiled floor, he comes to a stop only a few inches away from Hughie’s frame, furious over having to tilt his head to look him directly in the eye.
“What about Ryan?” he questions with impunity. “Surely he’d be willing to help take me down.”
“He’s not a part of this anymore.”
Homelander scoffs, lips falling at the corners. Speechless over Hughie’s revelation, his body strains with the effort of containing his rage, fire igniting through his insides.
All Homelander can do is stand under the scrutiny of his gaze, head bowing as he waits to be entombed once more.
Strands of hair scatter across his forehead, darker now at the roots. The beard that’s been forming on his face prickles with discomfort as Homelander shuffles onto his haunches, unblinking gaze focused on the wall in front of him.
“They’ll give you as much time to think about it as you want,” Hughie murmurs, shattering the silence between them.
Homelander refuses to speak. He hears the door closing behind Hughie a moment later, echoing in the cramped space that surrounds him.
Hughie is more persistent than Homelander cares to admit.
For a moment, he thinks he’s hallucinating—dreams of Hughie’s last visit echoing in his mind as Homelander hears his questioning, familiar tone. It startles him back to reality, drifting past his ears like a melodic tune on the breeze.
Glancing behind his shoulder, Homelander sees Hughie standing there, plastic bag dangling in the curve of his fist.
“Why are you doing this?”
Hughie just gives him a defeated smile, one that hardly lifts the corners of his mouth.
“Aren’t you tired of being him? Of having to play a role you had no part in choosing for yourself?”
Homelander shrinks away from him, heart racing with disgusting, predictable fear. “Why can’t you just leave me the fuck alone?”
Hughie sets the contents of the bag beside him, organizing each object in a neat line between them.
A strangely-shaped razor, a pair of hair clippers. Shaving cream, a toothbrush, and toothpaste as well. Small luxuries that Homelander hasn’t been afforded in some time, presented to him as an offering at his feet.
“You don’t have to agree to anything. Just know that you’d be helping people,” is what Hughie tells him after he’s extracted every item. “You’d be doing good, for once.”
Coughing out a rasp, Homelander shakes his head. Tries ignoring how his heart sings at the smallest display of care; his soft, gummy center bleeding like a knife’s been imbedded in his chest.
“They don’t deserve my help. They’ll use me like Vought did. Don’t lie to me, Hughie. They only want me for another fucking experiment—to humiliate me even more than they have before.”
Tears start to blur his vision. Hughie’s face morphs, details smudged behind the cloudy veneer that blankets his gaze.
Homelander startles when he sees Hughie reaching for the can of shaving cream. Presses himself against the wall closest to him, fingers trembling as he sees him deposit a thick glob into the center of his palm.
“Can I help you shave?”
The question comes unexpectedly. Eyes shifting from the neutral look on Hughie’s face to the white mound melting in his hold, all Homelander can do is nod once, adrenaline biting at his nerves.
He thinks he’s going to be sick at the first brush of skin against his own, radiating warmth that Homelander has nearly forgotten in his insolation. It brands him, a tactile touch that smooths across his jawline, spreading a thin layer of shaving cream against the thick hairs that grow there.
Homelander isn’t sure he’s breathing. His lungs stutter in his chest, pushing air out his nose as he presses his lips together, tongue dry.
“You’ve been here for three months,” Hughie murmurs as he works, fingers gently smoothing over his chin. “Give or take a few days.”
Not willing to disturb the connection between them, Homelander shifts his attention back to Hughie’s face. Sees the half-lidded gaze that roves over his features, expression revealing nothing but a desire to please—mouth parting in the midst of his concentration.
“Ryan’s living with me now, too.”
A spark of indignation ignites in Homelander’s chest. Ignoring Hughie is the only safe option, unblinking stare affixed to the wall, bypassing the arched curve of his back as he works.
The razor slides over his cheek with a delicate, knowing touch. Heat builds wherever Hughie makes contact, patches of hair falling against the towel Homelander’s sees him holding in his opposite hand.
He slides his eyes shut, focusing on the scrape of metal against his flesh. Thinks about how easy it would be for the razor to slice his throat, spilling blood that Homelander has yet to see, purging the humanity from his body in one fell swoop.
Hughie takes his time. Wipes the razor after each pass he makes, his touch a whisper of movement that feels like a breeze passing over his skin. Sharp canines pierce into Homelander’s tongue, stretched flat against the roof of his mouth as he waits for Hughie to finish.
When Hughie does pull back, he hands Homelander the unblemished corner of the towel he’s brought. Waits patiently as Homelander looks at him with a pleading gleam in his gaze.
Shifting forward, Hughie dabs at the few patches of white that remain on his skin.
He can’t resist drinking in the muted scent of his cologne. It’s fresh, restrained. No longer innocent under the weakened scope of Homelander’s senses, taking home in the valley of his mind.
The cut Hughie gives him is messy but effective. Homelander pins his gaze to the blonde tufts of hair that surround him, trimmer buzzing across his skull as Hughie makes his way through each matted tangle he finds.
When he’s finished, Homelander swipes a hand through his locks. Feels the silky strands that scatter over his palm, unexpectedly soft beneath his fingertips. Dark roots layer his prickling scalp, a stark contrast to the golden visage of Homelander’s past.
The compact mirror Hughie hands him shakes in the clasp of his grip. Homelander is unable to sever his gaze from the stranger staring back at him, twin looks of devastation painted across both faces. It’s startling to see the gaunt divots of his skin, pallid under the glare of the fluorescent lights above him.
Homelander will never see a true reflection of himself again. Pulling both legs tight against his frame, he sets his chin over on the jut of his knees, eyeing Hughie as he sweeps up the clumps of hair he can reach, tossing them into the plastic bag without a word spoken otherwise.
When Hughie leaves him, Homelander can’t stop himself from sobbing. He fails to fall asleep, wishing he could sense the presence of another heartbeart beside him, calming the storm that rages inside his mind.
The next time Hughie visits him, Homelander can’t hide his elation. Tears line his vision as he approaches him on all fours, openly submissive in an attempt to garner any favor he can find.
Hughie just meets him at his level, long legs folded awkwardly underneath him as he settles himself. He brings fruit with him this time—an assortment of cuts that Homelander wants to devour the moment he sees Hughie open the container.
“When I said Ryan wasn’t going to be involved anymore… I was lying.”
His confession only makes Homelander glance at him quizzically. A slice or apple sits between his teeth, snapping under the weight of his jaws as he thoughtfully chews in consideration.
“They want to use Ryan too. I don’t… he’s been through enough, Homelander.”
Hearing his name said aloud does unspeakable things to his mind in the moment. Instantly hard, aching to touch him, Homelander can only stare at him with a wide, blissful gaze, hanging onto his every word.
“If you agree to let them look at you, you’ll spare Ryan for the time being. They think there’s the tiniest possibilty that your DNA still has some faint traces of V1 in it—so trace it’s most likely a longshot,” Hughie utters in a single breath, looking pained. “I don’t know why I’m telling you the truth, I know you don’t care.”
Swallowing around the hurt that rises up his throat, Homelander digs his fingernails into the sinew of his thighs, teeth grinding together as he contemplates his choices.
“Okay.”
“What?”
“I’ll do it.”
Hughie’s eyes widen, mouth falling open in obvious surprise. “I… alright.”
“I want to change the agreement,” Homelander rushes to finish, hoping to stop Hughie before he can slink away.
Head tilting as he looks him over, Hughie nods. “What are your terms?”
Homelander didn’t think he would get this far. His imagination swims with ideas, thoughts racing at the possibilities that are potentially open to him now.
“I want to go outside. Just once,” he whispers with burgeoning hope.
“Out of the question.”
“Nobody will recognize me.”
“No. It’s not worth the risk. If word got out that you were still alive, I’d end up being shot in the middle of the street. It’s out of the question.”
Petulance and anger are a volatile mix inside him. Homelander lets out a whine, head hanging as he practically imbeds his nails into his skin, rising to look at Hughie a moment later.
“I want more space. I want to shower.”
He sounds like a child on the verge of a tantrum. Hughie indulges him regardless.
“Is that everything?”
Homelander feels the next request sitting on the back of his tongue. Eyes darting away from Hughie’s face, his mouth moves to speak, terror rising from the pit of his stomach with each syllable.
“You have to keep visiting me,” he begs in a small voice, not daring see the disgust that likely paints his every feature.
Hughie is silent, not outright denying his pitiful request. When Homelander looks back at him, tears leaving wet tracks down both of his cheeks, he’s certain Hughie’s rejection will cut the final threads of sanity he’s barely clinging on to.
“If I do, you have my promise that I’m only doing this out of obligation for Ryan. Not you.”
His words cut like glass against his ears, sharp and unapologetic. Homelander is so thankful he’s willing to kiss his feet in spite of the somber expression Hughie sends his way, crease forming between his furrowed brows.
True to Hughie’s promise, his second cell is a step-up from the last one.
He’s knocked unconscious before Homelander realizes what’s happening—lungs gasping around the sedative filtering through his lungs, limbs fighting against the dousing effects that drag him under.
Waking up in a room he doesn’t recognize had almost broken Homelander, tendrils of a nightmare shifting into present reality. His panic had lifted by the time Hughie’s promise came back to him, a constant reminder near the buzz of noise that rattles at the back of his mind.
A shower would soon be in store for him. Homelander wishes Hughie would come to him even sooner than that, arousal stirring at the next demand that bubbles from the recesses of his mind.
He doesn’t touch himself when he does receive a shower. Homelander savors every moment of scalding water that cascades across his back, soothing the knots that have made home in both his shoulders.
Seeing Hughie in his cell afterwards is more than an unexpected shock. It stops Homelander in his tracks, bare feet slipping against the ground, dripping water where he stands, wondering if he’s hallucinating once more.
“Hughie,” Homelander breathes, shifting in the plain hospital gown he’s been relegated to wear.
“You have me for the next hour,” Hughie replies before he can say anything else.
The double-meaning Homelander gleans from him makes fire burn low in his belly. Stepping closer to Hughie is both thrilling and terrifying in equal measure, tongue dry as it slides against the roof of his mouth.
When Homelander is close enough to feel the heat radiating from Hughie’s body, he can’t help himself. His arm raises, fingers brushing against the delicate slope of his jawline—hair prickling over his palm as he presses slightly forward.
Hughie doesn’t stop him. When Homelander wraps both arms over his shoulders, practically standing on his tiptoes just to reach him, a gentle touch trembles over his spine. Sobs escape his throat, canines digging into his lip as Homelander tightens his hold, Hughie echoing his every move.
He rests his forehead against Hughie’s neck, inhaling his scent openly. Slides his lips over the skin he can reach, Hughie flinching in his grip, hugging him back with a tender, shaking embrace.
Hughie is a furnace, practically burning in Homelander’s grip. It’s intoxicating to his neglected senses, melting them together in a blend of euphoric bliss. Homelander groans in pleasure, dragging his nose against all the skin he can reach, breathing in his comforting scent like he might possibly forget it otherwise.
When Hughie gasps in response, Homelander feels alive for the first time since his death.
His tongue swipes over an indent of flesh. Hughie writhes in his grip, hips glancing against Homelander’s own, pressing his burgeoning desire over the length of his thigh. It’s everything for Homelander to feel in this moment, the worship he rightfully deserves now within his trembling grasp.
“Please,” he begs with a pitiful whine, trying to burrow himself in the center of Hughie’s chest.
Unable to speak, Hughie tightens his arms around Homelander’s frame. Does nothing to fight him when he’s pulled towards the edge of bed, practically curling himself over Hughie’s lap when they manage to fall again on top of the threadbare sheet.
Homelander wants him to stay—needs Hughie to stay with him. When he finally has to relinquish his hold, Hughie unfolding from the confines of his embrace, his sorrowful expression does nothing to stop him. Hughie disappears from his cell, taking with him the final vestiges of Homelander’s sanity.
The experiments begin what he assumes to be the very next day.
More people are brought into his cell. Homelander has no desire to be anywhere near them—pathetically crouched near the corner of his bed, adrenaline flooding his veins with a newfound desire to flee—all the fight having drained from his body, nothing a cowardly human at his core now.
They have to strap him down to administer the anesthetic. A mask settles over his mouth, digging lines against his cheek, breathing air into his lungs as he quickly slips under.
Homelander wakes up screaming. He can feel the furnace burning him alive, pain blinding him from the world that snaps into view.
Sterile white walls close in around him. Homelander feels a dull ache radiating down his arm, eyes drawn to the gauze wrapped tightly around it, taut around his skin.
When he peels it back, Homelander want to wail in disbelief. Sees the stapled flesh hidden beneath white fabric, crusted blood and yellow plasma staining his skin. Tears leak from the corners of his gaze, wetting his chin as Homelander shuffles onto his side, shoving his face into the pillow he’s clutching for dear life.
Hughie’s name echoes like a mantra on his lips.