Chapter 5: Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch

Chapter 5: Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch

There is no love for a woman out of her mind - except a man who's lost his as well.

The woman sat across from Homelander in the café, blowing gently on her drink as he cut a plain croissant into eighths, before sticking a portion onto his fork. The scent of coffee, earthy and mellow, wafted around them in thick plumes, mingling with his scent. She sniffled to disguise the deep inhale she took, breathing him in. He smelled... clean, like the scent of rain. A hint of ozone lurked beneath the fresh note, a bolt of lightening on a clear blue sky. Homelander set his knife and fork on the plate as he chewed, the metallic clink of the utensils delicate against her ear.

They'd more or less been silent for the past five minutes, subtly sizing each other up, asking benign questions and giving superficial answers; the Seven, the Expo, what it was like to fly. She'd tried her hand at humor, (a shy, "So, how is the weather up there?"), but he'd only given a tight, "Cold," in response, so she'd abandoned that attempt in favor of a pensive nod, considering his reply. 

Cold, she thought with distaste. Winter was her least favorite season.

"You always make it look so... effortless," she said, keeping her mind focused on not leaning in. It wouldn't do, to spoil this after everything was going so well. He'd invited her, for coffee. He'd wanted to see her. She thought back to what he'd said at the Expo, face growing warm at the memory.

'I actually care about my fans'

His fans. His.

She... was his.

She willed him to hear it somehow, but Homelander only gave a soft smile, though not as genuine as before. He looked... disappointed, she saw; he kept his eyes from her, cast just above her face, or on his croissant, her hands. But never her eyes. Her hand twitched; she wanted to bring it to his jaw, angle him to meet her gaze. She shifted in her seat.

Look at me... I can't stand this. Please.

"I don't know if I could manage flying - I hate the cold," she continued, pulse quickening when he finally glanced up at her, his eyes softening the smallest degree. The memory of her apartment, warm, home, echoed in his bones. He shifted, leaning in the tiniest amount.

I know, Homelander thought. I do, too.

The confession seemed to melt the layer of frost around him somewhat; he scooted closer, eyes suddenly glowing with a soft, boyish excitement.

"I don't feel the cold in the same way a regular person might... but the gloves do help. They're good for cutting through wind resistance," Homelander said, bringing his hand to the table. He gestured toward it with his head, a lopsided little smile on his lips.

The woman's heart pounded, eyebrows raised slightly. An invitation... to touch him? Slowly, she brought her hand to his, a light tremor running through her as she graced a tentative palm against the back of his hand, admiring the leather, the strong feel of his tendons underneath. Brushing her fingers against his palm, she felt the ribbed material, the minute flexing of his hand, and her mouth watered, the urge to take his fingers into her mouth sudden and demanding.

She raised his hand to her eye level, an undeniable longing radiating off her in waves - but she simply turned his hand, back and forth, before placing it on the table, and smiling at him.

"Yeah, I'm sure! Is that... full-grain?" Homelander gave a surprised "Hm!", nodding.

"Yes, actually. Do you... work with leather?" She shook her head, a woeful expression on her face.

"Oh, no... the last time I tried was a disaster. I looked at a YouTube video, so I'm basically an expert; I don't know what went wrong," they laughed together, the chill of their earlier conversation forgotten.

Homelander eyed her as she giggled, the subtle shifting in her seat making the gears turn in his mind. She clearly wanted to lean in, move closer to him - so why didn't she? He'd even taken the plunge first, scooting in, letting her know: It's safe. You can lean into me.

Please, lean in to me.

He'd been... a bit put out, by her banal attempts at conversation at the start of this little test. She'd showed promise at the Expo, a hint of that fervent longing she'd voiced during New Year's. But as soon as they'd arrived at the coffeeshop, it was over; Homelander watched the chance of them kissing whip through the wind, too fast for him to catch. He couldn't help the dismay that overtook him. Where was that girl, the one who'd wanted him? He'd misjudged her, he thought, morose, as she prattled on about the Seven, about the fucking weather... had he really been so foolish?

Even the thought of killing her brought no joy - he just wanted to go home, and lie under the covers. Spend the day at Everest. 

But then... once again, she'd surprised him, with that little bite of contempt: 'I hate the cold' - and he'd looked up, the memory of her apartment, warm and comforting, flashing to his mind.

She was being... honest. He thought back to her whispered confessions, her absence on her mother's account. Perhaps... she knew what the cold was like. Perhaps she'd even caught his disdain for it, as well. The thoughts tumbled in his mind, and a slow smile crept across his face as he raised his hand to her, scooted closer.

He hadn't expected her to bring his hand to her face - he'd sucked in the quietest breath as she did, studying the palm of his hand like she might commit it to memory, her eyes molten, pulse racing.

For a second, Homelander thought she might kiss him there; he willed her to know that he would let her, but so intense was her gaze, that she missed the near pained look in his eyes - one he quickly stuffed away. 

They met each other's gaze for a beat, a tentative understanding forming between them, like threads being woven to fabric. She leaned in - and Homelander let out the breath he'd been holding.

"Do you wanna... get out of here?" he asked, the flash of nervousness leaving him entirely as she'd nodded before he'd even finished his sentence. He smiled, genuinely.

Sage paced the perimeter of her room, Maeve watching her through the corner of her eye. The laptop they'd just been huddled over now sat forgotten on the desk. What they'd just seen could mean disaster for Vought, the idea sending their minds into chaotic spirals; Sage's, brain teemed with plans, while Maeve's settled into quiet apathy. 

The moment they'd arrived at the Tower, she'd dragged Maeve by the arm into her quarters, and started clicking away on her laptop, plugging her phone in and transferring the camera footage she'd hacked from the Expo's security system.

They'd watched silently; Homelander, expression dark and lost - before he left for... who knows what. Then, fast-forward five minutes later, his return; he'd looked angry, jaw snapped tight as he walked on stage. Sage fast-forwarded through his speech, the Q&A... and let the video roll, hearing Maeve's soft gasp.

A woman, her demeanor shy, was making her way to Homelander as he sat, head in his hands. The two women watched as he flew down to her, the way they both seemed to careen toward each other, like underwater plants. Sage paused; Homelander, almost imperceptibly, had raised his hand - just an inch, but the implication was clear. Maeve looked at Sage, eyes wide, disbelief etched onto her face.

"A girlfriend?" she breathed. "No," Sage murmured, her tone heavy with dark realization. "I don't think so."

Sage bounded for the door, Maeve scrambling to meet her, the two swiftly making their way down the hall. "Where are you going?" Maeve's tone was hushed.

"Stan Edgar. We have to alert him."

Stan Edgar sat in his office, fingers steepled as the two women flanked him behind a large mahogany desk. The glow of the laptop cast an eerie whiteness onto his face, Sage thought, averting her gaze. His tone, as always, had been polite, if a bit cold, as he'd let them in, listening patiently as Sage relayed their investigation to him. Finally, after a moment of silence that hung on too long, he'd asked to see the footage, a faint smile gracing his lips.

"So, you posit that this woman... may hold some significance.. to Homelander," he started, looking up at Sage from beneath the rims of his glasses. She nodded.

"Yes. The nature of their relationship remains unclear - it's possible she's a Supe with powers of interest to him. We believe that he might be planning some form of alliance." Maeve's eyes widened.

A team up... that was the last thing they needed: Homelander joining forces with someone who was not only willing to work with him, but seemed to enjoy his company, on top of that - she had to have been just as unstable as he was.

"I appreciate your insights," Stan said smoothly, "but rest assured: Vought has been keeping tabs on Homelander from the outset. This footage, while... informative... doesn't serve to change much, in regards to our plans for him. The situation is well under control. You needn't concern yourselves with this... investigation." Sage felt her blood boil at the dismissal, but Stan had already closed the laptop and was pressing it into her hands, that same smile hinting around the corners of his mouth.

"I'll let you know if we ever require your assistance," Stan told her, and, thoroughly dismissed now, she and Maeve left his office, Sage's brain sparking.

"He... already has a plan?" Sage was confounded. Maeve pat her on the back, her face calmer since the meeting; Stan's words, though condescending, had dissipated the worry that had been brewing within her. She could imagine being talked to in such a way would infuriate the world's smartest person - and the lack of consultation on this plan Stan had was bound to sting -  yet for Maeve, Stan's assurance meant she could finally relax. Stan would handle Homelander, as he'd done for years. 

"Of course he does. Stan is the only one Homelander has ever really respected. He's more or less the only thing keeping him in check."

Sage grimaced. "I just don't like the way he dismissed me," she muttered. Maeve put a hand on her shoulder, fighting a smile; she'd been right. - Sage was moody. She rubbed her shoulder as Sage pouted, her voice assuring. "Well, he's a business man. You know he'd never ask for help... and besides - he knows how smart you are. It's a matter of when he asks you - not if."

Sage gave an appreciative smile, eyes warm on Maeve's face. "Thank you," she said, a little ruefully, though Maeve's words did little to calm the barrage of questions that flashed through her brain. What did Stan know about this, that he was so calm? Was he calm, or was it just a front? And what did he intend to do?

But Maeve smiled down at her then, offering to treat her to lunch, and she tried to put her anxieties to rest. "I'm thinking... Polynesian. What about you?" Sage nodded.

"Mmm... that does sound good."

Homelander walked side by side with the woman, the heat of her body a whisper away - yet he kept his hand firmly by his side. They'd been out since 10; getting coffee, strolling around town, even stopping by a good truck. Homelander, never one for greasy foods, looked on disapprovingly as she dug into her street tacos, but couldn't say no when she'd offered to share. She'd wanted to share with him.

They passed by a thrift shop, and he looked down as they grinned in excitement. "Oh, I love this place! I get all my figurines from here!" they exclaimed, and unthinkingly, she grabbed his hand as she headed for the door, the cheery door chime like church bells in Homelander's ears.

Homelander took in the shop; it was a bit shabby, with warm but flickering bulbs, with  a trail of fairy lights adorning the celling. Strange décor littered the space, from a wall full of Garfield memorabilia, to a collection of Victoria Neuman bobbleheads. He'd never seen anything like it, he marveled. Vought only ever took him to high-end boutiques, and all of his furniture was shipped straight to his room. He tried to recall the last time he'd been into a store at all... and came up blank. The woman touched his arm, the softness rippling under his skin.

"I have an idea," they said. "You... find something, and I'll find something. Then, we can trade!" She smiled, pleased with her idea.

Homelander returned the gesture, though his heart felt as though it might burst through his chest with the way it was hammering. A gift? She wanted to find something... for him?

He nodded. "Alright," he said, easy tone belying the tremor of his hand, watching as she bounded off for the tchotchkes. 

Homelander swept across the humble establishment, trying to envision her here, on her off days, after work, looking wistfully through the windows after closing - and found that he could, quite easily. She was in her element here, looking through the knick-knacks with practiced ease; he looked on as she picked up two near identical figurines, deliberating. Homelander focused. One was porcelain, the other cheap glass; he raised a brow as she looked, gaze steely, before choosing the porcelain one, slipping it into her basket.

Returning to his search, he sifted through the fluttery scarves and baseball caps, lips pursed in concentration. Something... Homelander's mind came up blank, followed by a flash of irritation. How vague...

Something... what? Homelander paced now, shuffling through the jewelry that called to him with its glinting allure - though he refrained from looking closer. Even now, he knew that would be a bit much - and besides, he assured himself, she hadn't proved she was worthy of such a gift. He nodded. 

Soon, he found his way to the ornaments, and he soon understand why she'd chosen to start here. This section was chock full of intriguing little baubles; a miniature set of shepherd boys, crowded around a sleeping lamb, a glass mermaid filled with some sort of blue liquid that gurgled when Homelander tipped it upside down... slowly, a sense of subdued curiosity wound through him, and he searched earnestly, unaware that the woman had already made her choice, and was looking over at him, expression fond.

Homelander lost himself in the perusal, turning over ornate silver pans and antique-looking desk clocks, genuinely enjoying himself. He found a piggy bank that had been painted to look like a clown, a pair of bunnies sharing a carrot, a cat lapping at a bowl of cream... before he finally found it: a duck, maybe a swan. The figure was made of alabaster, soft white and creamy to the touch. It lay on its stomach, a dark downward flick painting its eye closed, while its neck swooped in a graceful bend. It was perfect. Homelander plucked it from the shelf, excitement racing in his veins.

They walked up to him then, a smile in their eyes. "The cashier compted us! She said you'd saved her son last week - the bus-jacking on 5th and Walker?" Homelander vaguely recalled, a shy grin lighting up his face. "Oh!" he said, waving a hand at the woman behind the register, who grinned - and a thought came to him. Looking around, he searched for the marker he always kept on him for times like this, and found an old portrait. 

Thanks so much! he wrote in looping cursive.

You're the real hero

Homelander

He looked around, before placing the portrait in the employee's office, taking the woman's hand and smoothly striding out, giving the cashier another wave. 

Maybe "New year, New Homelander" was right, he mused, looking into her smiling face with a brighter one than he'd given in ages.

The sun was going down as Homelander and the woman walked down the street. He looked over at her, to see that she'd been looking at him, and he gave a teasing grin when she flushed, caught staring. 

"I don't think I've ever enjoyed myself this much before," she said, taking his hand. Homelander squeezed, and nodded.

"I've never been to a place like that before. Thank you. I... I liked it."

They took their seats on a park bench, where she sat the thrift store bag, then looked to him with a cheeky grin. "Okay. Are you ready?" Homelander nodded. "Ready."

He looked, eyes expectant and a little nervous, as she rustled through the bag, breath catching in his throat when she gave a dramatic turn, his gift perched in her hands. She grinned.

"Ta-da! It's a little wax warmer!"

Homelander looked it over, taking it from her with a gentle hand and turning it this way and that. It was a sturdy little contraption, built to resemble a small fireplace, complete with a cheery assortment of stockings that hung from the mantle, the enamel coating smooth against his gloves. He looked up, curiosity piqued. "What do I do with it?" 

"You put scented wax in it! And it makes the room smell good."

"Oh," Homelander said simply, brow furrowed. "But... I don't have any wax." 

"That's okay! I have a bunch, at my apartment - if you'd like to come? You can look through what I have, and see if there's anything you like."

Homelander snapped his gaze to her, heartbeat thudding hard in his chest. Come to her apartment?

This wouldn't be like last time he'd been there, which he tried to wipe from his mind. He'd had to get rid of the weakness she'd imbued him with, he thought. But now, that was over - she was inviting him over this time. Letting him in, where once she'd closed the door. He imagined the warmth that would envelop him the minute they stepped through the door, sitting on the couch that seemed to pull him into its deep recesses like a hug. The soft glow of her lamps, the scent of dinner on the stove... He imagined coming home to the scene, night after night, the business of the Seven and Vought irrelevant. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed, the upturn of his mouth soft.

"Yes," he murmured. "I'd like that."

Hand in hand, they walked to her door - the knob had been replaced, Homelander noticed - and, just as he'd hoped, a cloud of heat wrapped around him in a thick, welcoming plume as they entered her apartment. Homelander looked around, though he'd already committed the layout and design to memory, and made his way to the couch, sinking down into it, eyes sliding shut. It was just like his Everest recliner - except the warmth wasn't confined to the seat. It billowed around him, carrying the woman's scent, the smell of her home, into his nose. Her apartment smelled like brown sugar, and books - the scent of a freshly blown out candle. He felt a contended rumble sound in his throat.

The woman joined him then, bringing her tub of wax warmers. "Okay, I have apricot, leather, wool, vanilla, birthday cake - which is different," she said sternly. "I'm sure," Homelander chuckled, his hand brushing hers as he inspected the variety of melts. He brought the two to his nose: vanilla and birthday cake. She was right; they were different. While the vanilla had an earthy note to its sweetness, the birthday cake melt possessed a depth the other didn't, and a slight nutty undertone. She held a melt up for him to smell, her eyes warm. He leaned in, the room silent, save for the whisper of his inhale. 

Leather. 

Once again... warmth. The scent was smoky, and earthen, deep -  with a faint metallic tang. He took another sniff, and then another, his thoughts whirling in his head, hand beginning to shake - and just as she was about to ask him what he thought, he was leaning in, and kissing her, gently placing the melt on the table next to them and holding her face in his hand. 

She leaned into him, head inclined, a lock of her hair brushing his cheek. Moving to kiss him deeper, she pressed him into the back of the couch, and - Homelander gasped into her mouth - settled onto his lap, her arms around his neck. She kissed him slowly, savoring the taste of him, tongue almost shy against his. He cradled the back of her head, pressing into her, before sliding his hands down, to wrap around her waist. She moved to kiss his neck, his jaw, the brush of her tongue against his pulse making him tremble, before returning her mouth to his, their movements languid as the couch enveloped them both in an embrace of its own. 

They pulled from each other slowly, the charge of the kiss still running through them, though it cooled to a calm domesticity as she slid to rest her head on his chest. "I'm guessing you liked the leather one, then," she joked, and he laughed, the sound rumbly against her ear. He brought a hand to her back, holding her close - and hoped she could hear more than his heartbeat.

In front of them, on the table, sat their gifts - Homelander's new wax warmer, and the swan he'd picked out for her, the small duck he'd returned resting within the loop of its neck.

sometimes masking is so humiliating - but i'd rather ppl think i'm this silly goof than know the truth. i see the way they look at me whenever i let the mask slip.

Justice for Ambrosius, she deserved better.

My Debut Onto The Tumblr Homelander Fanfic Scene

I see a lot of other Homelander writers post their fics on here, and I think I will start, too! Here is Chapter One of my fic: (also - you should listen to Guts' Theme from Berserk while you read!)

Sunshine, Happiness and Rainbows

Vought's New Year's Countdown was in full swing; VNN was filming live, and the camera panned outside, to show the cheering crowd huddled outside the Tower. Homelander watched from the window, the flash of cameras lighting up his face, wearing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He would be hosting this event, he thought with an internal sigh. The people outside might have been genuinely celebrating - but to him,  to the rest of the Seven, it was just another soulless bid for attention. They hadn't even officially been asked to host; The Tonight Show had fought them tooth and nail for the time slot - but Stan would not be cowed, and Vought had won, once again.

All this, just to celebrate another pointless year... 

"Over here, Homelander!" a cameraman urged, waving wildly. Homelander flashed him a dazzling smile; the shutters clicked faster.

Deep was entertaining a gaggle of fans outside, taking pictures, while Maeve was nursing an old fashioned inside, leaning on the meeting room table. Noir, hidden the back, was wearing a neon sign that flashed colors and messages across the screen: 20 minutes till next year!  Sage, the sourpuss, had managed to find a way out of the affair entirely, and was probably scraping her brains out and eating fast food... or whatever it was she did during those moments of idiocy she quite literally carved out for herself. Homelander felt his lip curl in disgust. The Seven was in shambles, and Stan had saw fit to drag them on TV and make them dance, anyway. 

Starlight and Firecracker seemed to be making the best of it, at least, talking to the camera about their resolutions. "Well... I hope to beat my record for saves this year! 350," Starlight said, puffing her chest out slightly. Firecracker gave her a teasing look. "Oh, what a coincidence! I also hope to beat Starlight's record of 350 saves this year," she joked, giving Starlight a playful push. 

As Stan gave his annual speech - his State of the Union, Homelander scoffed, suppressing an eye roll - everyone watched as the camera panned to Noir and his sign: 10 minutes till next year!  Homelander watched the sign flash, Stan's voice like static in his ears. He was already thinking of what he'd do tomorrow; he'd go down to the 30th floor, maybe terrorize Ashley a bit (holidays made him angry), do his itinerary... maybe fly across the globe, sit at Mount Everest... He'd built something of a settlement on the summit, where he could sip his milk and watch the sun rise at the highest elevation in the world. Of course, he could have flown higher, but he'd recently decorated the place with a very deep leather recliner, complete with a heated cushion. Every king needed his throne, after all. Stan fixed him in his steely gaze, snapping him from his reverie. He smiled.

"Now that I've said my piece, I'd like to turn the mic over to Vought's own... Homelander," Stan said smoothly, making way for him. Homelander stepped to the mic, that same static from before in his ears, choking out the festivities and leaving him in a silent film of a scene.

Just move your mouth, John. Tell them what they want to hear.

He felt the words come out, heard the crowd's answering laughter at his jokes, their cheers... but nothing registered in his own ears. He watched the crowd give their silent shouts, mouths set in open grins - and he answered with yet another one of his own, clenched fist throbbing under the podium. His face was starting to ache.

Standing there, at the podium, ushering in a new year he couldn't care less about, but being too influential to miss the show, Homelander straightened his spine, even as he felt his face twitch when he saw a couple outside, wrapping each other into a passionate embrace. He kept his eyes on them, raking over the way they moved - a tender brush of hair, a kiss on the forehead. His eyes felt hot - the urge to laser. He stuffed it down, willed himself to smile.

Finally, though, someone announced that the time had come; there were only 10 seconds until the ball dropped. The city held its breath as Homelander raised his hands, counting down, the words falling on deaf ears, sweeping his gaze around once again.

Five!

Maeve, looking depressed as she stood apart from the show.

Four!

Sage, in her dark little den, lobotomy wand in hand, as the masses celebrated outside.

Three!

Deep hugging a fan, bristling as their hands brushed his gills.

Two!

Noir, forever mute and unable to join in on the countdown.

One!

And Homelander, overseer of the entire sordid affair, fists tied in a white knuckled knot under the podium.

"Happy New Year!" everybody cheered, and the crowd outside went wild. The air, once so charged with anticipation, seemed to let out a breath, the smattering of glitter and confetti shimmering in the night sky as New York celebrated. The Seven looked on, their rehearsed smiles growing wan.

Oh, God... Homelander groused, looking around; everyone had begun to embrace, swaying gently as they kissed, hundreds of thousands of hands that held their partners close, the breaths of a million contended sighs reaching his ears and turning his stomach.

He'd seen enough; his duty fulfilled, he stepped stiffly from the podium, shouldering his way past the throngs of people, his step determined. Maybe he'd be able to make it to Everest in an hour if he left now. Less, if he sped. 

In his haste to leave, he heard snatches of conversations ("Is that Homelander?!") that he waved off, his façade waning alongside his patience. He couldn't take a picture. Not today.

He'd finally broken free of the crowd, and was preparing to fly off - when a new voice sounded, a few dozen feet behind him, the melody low and soft in his ears. He stopped himself, lowering his arms. 

"Did you see him, though? He looked so..." they let their words trail off. The friend snorted, and Homelander felt a surge of irritation flash through him.

"What - sexy?" Homelander rolled his eyes but pressed on now, looking for the duo, only to find a hoard of faces obscuring his view.

"No," the reader said, a hint of disgust at her friend's callousness in her voice. "Lonely."

Lonely. 

The word bounced around in his skull, and for a moment, Homelander was incandescent with rage. Who did this... girl... think she was, to act as if she knew him? To lay his inner turmoil out so plainly, as if it was something she could understand. But as the word sunk into his mind - lonely, lonely, lonely... he felt his anger fade, in the wake of its truth.

Lonely. 

He imagined the New Year's celebration he'd planned for himself, sipping steamed milk on Mount Everest, with the heated cushion serving as the only other source of warmth for miles. But the speaker's pity grated on him; he grit his teeth at the feeling.

Was it pity, though? No... that wasn't quite the word. They'd sounded... concerned when they said it. Concerned, for him.  He found himself leaning in, waiting to hear more.

"Yeah, but he's Homelander. He probably has an afterparty to get to," someone else responded. "I doubt he has nobody to kiss on New Years."

"I'd kiss him..." the first voice mumbled furtively. Homelander raised a brow, craning his neck to find the person behind the statement. Their friend scoffed.

"Yeah, I bet! 'Oh, Mr. Homelander, you're dreamier than the posters give you credit for!" 

"Shut up!" 

So, this person was a fan? He stepped closer, his dark mood lightening somewhat. And the way they'd spoken about him... it wasn't in the same dismissive tone their friend had. Gods got lonely, too - a sentiment this fan's insipid friend couldn't seem to grasp. But they did.

Lulled by their dulcet voice, Homelander's legs carried him to her, lingering occasionally so as to make their eventual meeting seem organic. He ghosted behind them, hidden by the trees, the glint of his eyes the only proof of his presence, watching as the girl - wearing a Homelander shirt, he noticed with a wry little smile - walked her friend to her car, then set off, to walk home themselves.

Walk?  Homelander quirked a brow, cocking his head. That wouldn't do at all. Silently cutting through the air, he brought himself a few yards out, where the girl would eventually cross his path, and put on a contemplative face. Barely hiding his smile at his ingenuity, he waited for them, hand tucked into a fist under his chin - the Thinker, waiting for her to bring him to life.

Eventually, she reached him, headphones in her ears, jumping nearly a foot in the air when she realized who she'd discovered. Eyes like saucers, they stuttered out their greetings, hands shaking when they raised them to remove the buds.

"Homelander?!" she started. He smiled, genuinely for the first time that night; beneath the sounds of the city, and the celebration at Vought, he could hear the hummingbird patter of her heart as she took him in. 

"The one and only," he greeted them, rising to his feet. He pointed to their shirt, a teasing smile tucked away at the corner of his mouth.

"Don't tell me you've been following me," he joked, smile widening when their jaw dropped, hastily making to turn the shirt backwards.

"This isn't - no! Well..." shirt turned backward, they brought their shy gaze to his, cheeks turning rosy from the cold - and a hint of embarrassment.

Homelander extended a hand to them, eyes kind despite himself. It wasn't his way, to offer favors to fans - mudpeople, his mind spat before he banished the thought... but in this case, maybe he could make an exception. New Year, new Homelander.

He'd looked so... lonely, her words echoed in his mind. He felt his smile falter, but quickly brought it back to life.

"Let me take you home. It's too cold to walk," he said, the thin veneer of bravado melting slightly when she took his hand.

Warmth. Pure, unadulterated warmth. The shock of it, radiating from their hand, had him stuffing down a gasp, the softness of their palm seeping through his glove. She wrapped an arm around his waist, the warmth bleeding into him there, too, and when she looked up at him, he saw the full moon, reflected in her wide eyes.

I'd kiss him. I'd kiss him...

Then kiss me.

The thought shocked him, but try as he might, he couldn't will it away. It floated to the forefront of his brain, soft and insistent all at once.

Do it. Kiss me. Please.

The fan - the woman - murmured her address into the crook of his neck, her breath leaving goosebumps in its wake, and he held her to his chest as he breezed through the night sky, the gentle breeze wafting her hair. Homelander caught a whiff of her conditioner - vanilla, bergamot - and inhaled as quietly as he could. They seemed content to let him carry them, head relaxed on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The thought that that wasn't all they could hear gnawed at him, but he shook it off and kept his eyes forward, focused on how right their weight felt against him.

Finally, he reached their apartment, setting them on their feet, and giving them a strained little smile. They stood at the doorway, lingering, and for a brief, wild moment, he imagined them, inviting him in, sharing hot cocoa, hands entwined as they watched television. Through the window he could see she used warm lightbulbs for her lamps, nothing like Vought's clinically bright ones. The image burned him with its sweetness, and he felt the strange urge, again, to lash out. How dare she make him envision a vignette that could never possibly happen? Even as he fought from leaning into her, his rage flared. He hated her. He hated the emptiness she'd left in his arms, when she'd stepped out of them.

"Well... I'm sure you're very busy," they said, opening their door.

I'm not, Homelander thought, burning to follow her in. She turned to face him, a glimmer in her eye; Homelander held his breath and hoped against all reason.

"Thank you, for taking me home. You were right - it was chilly tonight!" They shared a small laugh, the ache in his chest throbbing.

"Goodnight, Homelander. Happy New Year," she murmured, closing the door behind her. He made to leave, only to retake his position outside the door for a moment, his breath floating above him in frigid puffs as he stared. The reader's farewell, saccharine as it was, left him with a sense of uneasiness he couldn't shake. He nearly pressed a hand to the door, but held firm. It wasn't right. It wasn't right.

John,  his heart wept, something inside him quaking as though to come apart. Call me John.

Layer by layer

May 2021