Chapter Text
Shoulda been there by now, he thought, taking the stairs two at a time. But he’d been busy. Starin’ at his phone, trying to will it to ring. The caped cunt had disappeared on him, right after that…that fucking phone call that he was never thinking about ever again . Bastard had been gone a week now, no phone calls neither. Shoulda been something to celebrate, but, things didn't change up like that for no reason. Something had happened, he had no idea what, and it was getting fucking distracting.
From the landing, where he stopped to let his head stop swimming, he could hear their voices. Drifting through the closed door and bouncing down the staircase. He could hear Hughie talking most clearly, and then a female voice he couldn’t identify answering. They had somebody up there with them. Some Supe friend of Starlight’s– Oi ANNIE how many times do she got to bawl you out about it? -- or another one of Frenchie’s old pals.
Whatever, he had to show ‘em his face sometime or another. Billy went up the last leg of the stairs and pushed open the office door.
The source of the unknown voice was perched on the sill of one of the windows, back too rigid to be touching the glass, fingers curled tight over the edge. Her head snapped towards Billy, dark green hair swishing, and he sighed a bit internally. Heavy, dark eyeshadow on an otherwise bare face, studs glinting in one nostril, one eyebrow, one lip. When he’d seen the ‘oh look at me’ head-to-toe black, splashed with shiny buckles and the occasional bit of lace, he’d guessed it was a kid. But no: at least thirty, probably thirty-five, judging by the weathering of her skin. Bit old for the dreary teenager look, if you asked him, but that might’ve been because of how piss-poor of a mood he was in.
And now this bird was staring at him all wide-eyed and silent, which was not improving his disposition. “Who the hell is this?” He asked flatly, finally looking at the others. They were all sitting at or standing around Frenchie’s desk, except Hughie, who was closer to the door, clearly leading the conversation with Sabrina the Teenaged Satanist.
In regards to limping out of the doghouse and back into their good-ish graces, he wasn’t much better off than he had been a week ago. One of his contacts had come through with something that might get them closer to Neuman, so that had helped. But not much, and he was starting to think that maybe this latest gigantic straw had broken the camels’ backs for good.
Regardless of all that, the woman was answering. Her tone was a tad nasal and stilted, and there was a buzz that suggested she smoked. “Hey, are you Butcher?”
“Who the fuck wants to know?” He looked at Hughie and gestured at her as he repeated himself. “Who, the bloody hell, is this?”
“Okay, calm down, her name is Wendy, and she–uh–” Hughie hesitated and ‘Wendy’ shrugged at him, chewing her lip and kicking her sneakered feet. Her eyes kept shifting from spot to spot why’s she so bloody nervous and why is it making ME so bloody nervous and Hughie tried again. “She says that about a week ago, Homelander, uhg, showed up at her house.” He grimaced and folded his arms; Billy was trying his damndest to not perk up like a dog hearing a key in the door. “She was…she was trying to explain the rest when…”
“Actually, she wasn’t explaining,” MM cut in. “She was refusing to explain.” He turned away from Wendy (and Billy) and started pulling the darts out of the board. One was stuck particularly deep in Homelander’s crotch, and Billy snorted a mirthless laugh.
“Refusin’?” He said, to cover it up, and closed the office door behind him. “What did he want with you?” He eyed her again, much more carefully, trying to clock if she was a Supe or not.
"Yeah, she won't explain that either–”
"Cuz I was waiting for him!" The outburst made her cringe at herself, and Billy abruptly realized she meant him . Because she was staring at him. Again. “Uh.” She looked back at Hughie and pried her hands off the sill, crossing them over her stomach. “Look. He. Uh. He as in Homelander, cornered me, in my home in…” She grimaced. “I was all the way in Colorado.” She jerked her head in the general direction of ‘West’ and continued, nearly mumbling until Billy snapped at her to speak up . “OK! This is WEIRD, alright? So he fucking shows up at my house and says he needs a favor–”
“What favor?” Annie was sitting on Frenchie’s desk and leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees. She squinted at the woman's face, and said slowly: “...And, I’m sorry if this is rude …are you Witchfire?”
The woman CHOKED. Audibly choked on her own breath and coughed. “No!” She blurted, fidgeting uncomfortably, face red from gasping.
It took Billy about three, long seconds of thought, and then he swore loudly as he remembered the context of that name. So did MM, who whirled back around, fist full of darts and eyes openly hostile. Billy hardly blamed him: nasty power set on that one. Telepathy, mind control, memory manipulation, allegedly a few other parlor tricks that Vought had put to good use.
I’ll make you want it. That’s what Homelander had promised on his second visit to Billy’s flat. He shuddered, revolted at the implication, and snarled: “Bollocks!”
“I…I WAS, but not–not for like five years now, okay?! Jesus, I-I-I did the Supe thing to-to pay for Grad School–” She rubbed one black nailed hand over her pale face.
“Nah, that’s a bleedin’ lie,'' Billy said nonchalantly, and the woman cringed harder, looking ashamed now. “Know what I heard? I heard that you was doin’ some real dirty work for the Vegas mob–” Becca. He’d heard that from Becca. She’d said it with a smile, somehow believing the little witch had been rescued . His heart hurt when he remembered that smile, but he poured another layer of cement over the wound and it dulled down enough for him to stay on task. “And then Vought bought you outta your debt.” And what Becca DIDN’T know was that, then, you kept right on doin’ dirty work. Hell, what Vought had you doin’ was probably miles worse, right? Nod if it was, mind reader.
She still hadn’t said what the fuck Homelander had wanted with her. But that had nothing to do with how irritated he was getting, he insisted silently, in case she was listening.
“Wait for real?” That was Hughie, but everyone ignored him.
Wendy was groaning, face in her hands. “That shit is so embarrassing, and it's all, lies, and rumors, I–I was an unregistered Supe, I worked an off the books job for. You know. Benefactors, I was never–”
Billy hated mobsters, just a little bit. Mostly because of this shite; what was the bloody point of lyin’ now? But they all did, every time, even decades afterward. Like fuckin’ brainwashing. “What’s Homelander want with you?” I have a few guesses, actually. Nod if it’s fucking evil.
No nod from Wendy, who just fixed him with another stare and said: “Okay you know what? Can I, like. Talk to YOU. Not them?”
A ringing silence followed that completely mental question, and Billy intended to break it by saying something extremely rude. But MM answered for him. “Nu-uh, that’s not happening.”
Billy jerked his thumb over his shoulder at him. “What he said, pet. Why the hell would you ask that?” Besides getting the chance to crawl inside my head and turn me into Homelander’s puppet. That’s it, right? I know you can bloody hear me.
Christ, how much did she bloody know already? From Homelander and his own skull.
Never killed a mind reader before. He thought it loudly: not even a flinch. Well. That’s interesting.
Another frantic flick of her eyes from person to person. She took her phone out of her pocket and checked the time. Looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. Apparently tired of waiting, Annie said accusingly: “You know, I thought we had SOME basic courtesy. Like, you know, don’t make fun of the kids’ costumes, don’t muscle in on each other’s turf, announce when you can read minds .”
Wendy laughed, bitterly and briefly, and got to her feet. She paced in front of the window in short circles and said: “Well, guess what! I can’t do that anymore.” She sounded frustrated and miserable as she continued: “And Homelander was not thrilled about that.”
Oh thank all the bleedin’ saints in Heaven that fuckin’ phone call goes to me grave.
“You…you lost your powers?” Annie asked, and Billy started searching his mind, trying to remember if he’d seen this cunt in particular at Herogasm.
“No. My powers were STOLEN.” She hit her palm with her fist, lightly, over and over again, as she continued pacing. “By…” She laughed again. “Holy shit. Okay. So. So somebody from my Old Life–” She tossed one hand in Billy’s general direction. “Got her hands on some weird, black market, sci-fi, bullshit. It…it had a needle that sucked my powers out of my body–” She mimed with her hands, fingers grasping nothing. “Turned it into ORANGE GOO of all things, and then she–”
“She?” Billy cut in, because this was all clearly whacky nonsense, but that didn’t mean he could ignore chances for details.
“Hannah Fry." Wendy spat the name. "I knew her from…Uh, the Frys assumed control of the Meloni family business operations, after my old benefactors were–"
"Arrested for being crime bosses?" That had been all over the news for weeks.
"Sent to the slammer over trumped up charges and some simple misunderstandings, yes. And Hannah like. Injected herself with the…with the goo…” Again, she gestured vaguely with her hand, making an odd jabbing motion. “And. Stole my. Powers.”
There was a long silence, which Wendy herself broke. “YEAH you guys REALLY don’t believe me, huh?”
“Goo?” Frenchie said, his tone revolted, leaning back in his chair. “It was orange?”
“I’m serious!” Still pacing, she ranted, describing a device similar to an insulin pump, and after about 5 minutes, something told Billy she wasn’t lying. “And then I’m sitting in my fucking house for a MONTH after that–crying and chain-smoking and trying to PROCESS that I lost all my bullshit–and then FUCKING HOMELANDER just SHOWS UP IN MY LIVING ROOM–”
Now she was tugging at her hair, and Billy was positive now that this was real. Yep. That there? That’s the face you make when a bulletproof serial killer breaks into your house. “And says, I shit you NOT, he says ‘My son is having nightmares, come to New York and fix it now’ and I have to be like ‘Hey man, first off, who told you where I live? Secondly, I’ll gladly be your kid’s therapist but no more psychic powers’, and so I told him all this crazy shit . And he’s all ‘yeah whatever you stupid bitch, I’ll go get ‘em back’ and THEN HE FUCKING DITCHES ME AT VOUGHT TOWER with the KID and YOU–”
She stopped dead. Turned on her heel, stomped across the room, and stuck her finger in Billy’s face, which he really didn’t care for. “YOU, are the ONLY emergency contact he left me!”
“Me?” Billy repeated. Then his brain processed the rest. “Ryan–he brought you here for–” My son is having nightmares, he said. He went to a Supe with mind control…to help Ryan with nightmares. Wasn't sure if he bought that. Your kid’s therapist–
Bloody hell. Oh, bloody fucking hell. The cunt had been listening to him. “Wait? Therapist?”
“I didn’t lie , I went to grad school.”
“How long has he been gone?” Hughie asked, soundly a tad alarmed, as Billy tried not to remember the look in Homelander’s eyes when he’d described taking Ryan to the movies.
“Six days. Not picking up his phone.” Wendy backed up a bit, probably pushed off by Billy’s absent glare. “Look, I spent a few hours with the two of them, he LOVES that kid. Wouldn’t ditch him.”
“Can you control his mind?” Annie was asking urgently. “Like, Homelander’s mind, can this Hannah person–” Billy found himself wondering how jarring it would be to wake up and suddenly see auras, read minds like the ingredients on a jar of peanut butter, and then abruptly realized why.
Some days he handles the city noise just fine. Other days, he just…he gets so FRUSTRATED and then I get frustrated and–
Did you fucking yell at him?
No, never! Billy, look at me, never, I–
I believe you. Stop yelling at ME.
I don’t know how to help him. Because I just grit my teeth and deal with it. But I can’t tell him that, obviously.
Huh. Yeah, no. Impressed you figured that out. Honestly, impressed you figured anything out with him.
Eh. I just remember when I was his age and think, ‘gee, what did Vogelbaum say and do that made me want to laser his head off of his shoulders and then drown myself?’ And then, I say something else!
Holy fucking shit. Was that supposed to be a bloody joke?
Yes. Yes! Of course it was–why are you looking at me like that?
What Billy hadn’t said was I just realized that you somehow taught yourself basic empathy and you, somehow, did the thing you fuckin’ father said he wanted to do and instantly fuckin’ failed at. You fucking taught yourself empathy for the kid and you couldn’t do that for nobody else, not for Becca or Maeve or Starlight The Beacon Of Justice and you did it for the fuckin’ kid so I can’t– and all he’d said out loud was: If I took another shot of TempV how many hours of beatin’ the living daylights outta you do you think I’d get before– And the prick had pinned him to the couch and tried to shut him up without kissing him.
Back in the present that he forced himself to return to, Annie had repeated her question twice.
“Wendy, can Hannah control him? Because that dramatically changes the conversation.”
No tense laugh this time from Miss Wendy. Just a weak smile, and a shrug, and she said: “Never tried. I HATE using that power, it’s…it’s what my old benefactors used to ask me to–I avoid using it now.” She sounded genuine. Even shuddered a bit before going on. “Hannah though… Hannah took my powers for the mind control. And she would try.”
“Where is this cunt now?” Billy asked, fairly sure he knew the answer.
“Um. Las Vegas. Nevada.” Again, she gestured in the general direction of ‘West’. “So. So are you guys gonna…do something about…” Another weak wave of her arm. “Cuz. I literally can’t– and Vought–”
“No!” MM said abruptly, and Billy snapped his head towards him. “Nu-uh. He’s gone, he’s off the board. No fuckin’ reason to undo that.” Billy’s brain tried to turn to slurry as the rot in his skull swished, but he fought it. He needed to focus, this was important–
“If she’s taken over his mind, she’s not gonna shove him in a closet,” Wendy cocked her fingers like a gun and aimed it at her own temple. “She’ll use him. Hold the whole city hostage. Or the whole state. Country. She’s NUTS, okay?”
While that was a valid point, there was a desperation in her voice that suggested another motive. “And I’m assuming that, as a wee finder’s fee, you’ll be wanting your bloody powers back,” Billy sneered, and the Supe scoffed at him.
“Yeah, I’d appreciate my powers back. That such a bad thing?”
“Well. They seem a mite dangerous, don’t they, lads and lasses?” Useful though. Dead useful. Wonder if that shite can be transferred more than once. He hated himself for the thought. Told himself he hadn’t meant it. Knew that was a lie.
“If we’re cleaning up this mess, might as well keep you harmless,” MM pointed out, actually stepped forward to stand even with Billy. Alright. That’s not a terrible feeling. “Hell, we could take him away from Hannah, and end up handing him over to you. Or worse, your bullshit over to his team.”
That thought had obviously crossed Billy’s mind already, and while it might make good wank material later, he was busy tuning back into the formerly psychic cunt’s counter argument. “No, no, I told you I hate using that power, I–I just want to have the rest of ME back–” You’ll miss being yourself Homelander had promised him, but it hadn’t happened yet. And it never bloody will. He wasn’t like this stray dog in front of him. He knew who he was without that shite.
Kimiko was tapping furiously on her phone, and Frenchie read over her shoulder: “Why is it up to us whether or not she gets her powers back?”
They dissolved into arguing, and Billy’s mouth was running on auto-pilot again. Wasn’t sure what side he was arguing for. Wasn’t paying close enough attention. In truth, he didn’t much care (at that exact moment) whether or not she got her creepy little powers back. Too much of his melting brain was fixated on Ryan’s nightmares they’ve got to be about Becca. Or, Stormfront, maybe. Or both. Or me. Leavin’ him like that and whether or not Homelander wanted something with her besides that. He said ‘I’ll make you want it…I’ll make you want it…I’ll make you …’ Can she do that? Change what I want and…would I notice if she did?
Wendy reached her breaking point. “I’ll help you kill him!” She said it like a hail mary, an exasperated one at that, literally throwing up her hands. “Jesus, is THAT what you wanna hear?! I’ll…I’ll make him fly into a volcano, I’ll send him into orbit so he suffocates, I’ll make him laser his own limbs off! Just get me my fucking powers back!” She looked sick and her voice broke on the last few words.
The suggestion made him feel…odd. Excited and disturbed and a bit hesitant about the whole ‘Homelander being dead’ thing. But he told himself he was just worried about Ryan losing another parent, and said: “You really willin’ to do that? What if he gets free, takes a pound or fifty of flesh to get back at ya?”
“And you just called it evil.” MM added. “You certainly don’t look like a killer. Just talking about it has you quaking.”
Wendy swallowed. Picked at her own skin a bit. “I’m not like, over the moon about doing it. But Homelander is also evil. I’ve SEEN how evil he is. And I will…” She looked dead at Billy now, and said with much more conviction. “I will KILL HIM for you, IF you get me my powers back.”
None of them budged; Kimiko and Frenchie seemed to be the only ones siding with her, so Wendy screamed in frustration and tried again. Significantly more pleadingly, she said: “L-look, whatever is going on here, like, he didn’t tell me MUCH, but–”
She waved an arm around the office and said: “I get it, okay?! I read minds , people.” Again, the cocked finger gun to her temple. “I’ve been seeing behind the curtain for a LONG time. I…I really wanted to stay out of THIS. Just. Let him decompensate until Vought dealt with it or the military nuked him or something. But I can’t live like this, I WON’T live like this–I feel fucking HELPLESS.”
A wave of nausea hit him as two different, equally vivid images collided in his mind, like the lesions had melted the walls in between his memories. Gunpowder’s head lasered in half and Shatter’s glass shards dancing before his eyes as Blast Off squeezed him harder and harder. Pretending he hadn’t just swallowed own sour bile, he called her pathetic in the meanest tone he could muster, and was a teenie bit thrilled when only Frenchie and Kimiko bothered to disagree.
“...You. You have NO IDEA what you are passing up.” She looked around the office, fists balled at her sides. “I am…I am not the person I was in my twenties, okay? But I can be. For the right price. If you get me my powers back, I will be in your debt .” Shaking a bit still, she gestured to all of them. Locked eyes with Billy. “You know who I worked for, right? You know so fucking much about me, huh? I pay my goddamn debts. I don’t flip on my benefactors.”
“Can you help Ryan?” He hadn’t meant to ask it, but the pathetic waif perked up.
“Yes, yes! With or without my powers, I can, but I can really help him with them. I–that’s good, right, so we don’t have two of the same asshole holding the whole world hostage?”
Most of them could admit that was a good point, as was the one about not leaving a mind-controlled Super Cunt in the hands of a seperate, smaller cunt. Billy almost told Wendy the Whiner that she had a deal when he was cut off.
“...We ready to vote?” Hughie asked, and Billy grimaced at that. I’ll never get used to this shite.
It took some more pressuring and a lot more yelling and some further grandiose promises from Wendy, but they got to their unanimous conclusion: they were going to Las Vegas, to rescue goddamn Homelander from a mafia-backed superpower thief. Wendy was staying with Ryan: she’d be a liability, depowered and a self-admitted coward. And besides, she was insistent that Ryan couldn’t handle being ditched yet again. She had an irritating habit of making decent points.
When she left, Billy followed her down the stairs, caught her by the door. Asked quietly how the crumb-snatcher was anyway. “Right NOW? He’s freaking, but not like. Violently. And he knows his dad is nearly invincible so–”
They both stopped. Wouldn’t look at each other. Wendy lit up and Billy could see yellow nicotine stains on her fingers as she slouched against the wall. “Losing his dad will be…hard. Really hard, actually. But he needs a better environment. Homelander’ll bring out the worst in him. I can. I can help him after–”
After you kill his fuckin’ father what the fuck am I doing?
Wendy coughed. Not from the smoke she was sucking down. A bit grimly, she continued: “In general though. He’s coping. Got a really good prognosis if I–shit.” She looked at her feet and dropped the half-smoked fag to the sidewalk, stomped it out with a tad too much force.
“You alright?” You better be. I’m bloody well not.
“I want my fucking powers back and that asshole in the cape has got to go. I’ll pay my debt to you guys and then I’ll pay it to the kid. Who, by the way, is resilient, and sweet, and his mom did a really good job.” That was like getting stabbed in the heart seven or eight times to hear, but he kept his face neutral.
Right. That’s what the fuck we’re doin’. Saving Ryan and avenging Becca and everybody else whose lives he’s burned to ashes. “Emergency contact?” He repeated, and Wendy laughed. Not happily.
“He said you were the only person he trusted to put Ryan first.”
Billy groaned, and found himself looking up at the sky. He obviously couldn’t see the roof from this angle, but that didn’t keep him from wondering how many times the cunt had stood up there and spied on him.
I’ve watched you a few times. I’ve listened more.
“Oi!” Wendy had been half a block away already, but still turned. Groaned. Walked back to him and folded her arms.
“I told Ryan I'd only be gone TWO HOURS, I need to–”
“Shut up and listen. You don’t have to do it right off the bat.”
“...Huh?”
“Homelander. If you don’t want to–if you can’t–listen. If you killing Homelander means you can’t help Ryan, we’re choosing the kid, okay? We need a double agent back in the Tower anyway, and you might actually survive the job.”
Wendy blinked. Gaped at him. Took a step back from the doorway he was still darkening and craned her head, trying to see the window to the office upstairs. “Hey. You wanna like, run this by your fucking team or–”
Oh fuck them. “No. I bloody don’t, actually. Cuz, personally, I doubt your crisis of conscience is gunna last. I don’t know you, Witch–”
“Wendy,” she hissed, but he just scoffed and kept going.
“No need to muck up a perfectly good deal, if you can fuckin’ deliver. But if you can’t do the deed AND help Ryan, we’re gunna make a new one.” He threw a weighted look over his shoulder. “And that lot? Maybe they just don’t need to know about it.” There’s a non-zero chance he wanted to crack open my skull and see what makes me tick deep down in my special bits. Serve him right if I did the same to him. And them upstairs can’t know a thing about what’s in either of our heads. He’d always been good at making decisions and then figuring out why he made them afterwards.
She stared at him. Really studied his face and for half a second, he saw something green flash across her pupils. With a pang of unease, he remembered the flares of heat behind his eyes. Remembered smashing that first vial of V into the sink and somehow not cutting his supposedly human skin.“...You’d rather spare Homelander, than find Ryan a new therapist.” Not a question. Not a question at all, and she didn’t let him answer, just turned on her heel and walked off again. “Get me my fucking stuff back! New deals after!”
Don’t know what you’re bloody implying! Realizing that shouting that after her would 1, be more suspicious than anything else, and 2, that his head would throb worse if he did, Billy pushed himself off the doorframe and started dragging himself up the stairs. Hadn’t even realized that he’d sagged against it.
***
After hastily packing in his flat, Billy found himself in the bathroom, staring at the note that he couldn’t see but knew was lingering there. In the reflection, he could see the crack in the shower wall behind him. Letting out a shaky breath, he rubbed the fresh, dark pink scars that were forming over the knuckles of his left hand. He’d hit the wall harder than he’d thought; had left a crack in the tile and permanent marks in his skin. Randomly, he was assaulted with the memory of Homelander catching him when he’d nearly collapsed in the street, and then violently kicked it away.
He forced himself to forget about that, and the kiss, and the little chats about Ryan. And instead focused on Homelander threatening to kill Frenchie and Hughie and MM, on what he did to Becca, on what Billy had almost turned into just to stop him. Focused until his eyes were burning and all the despair was drowned out with fury and sadism.
Soon I’ll be rid of the cunt forever. Won’t even have to be on the V, temp or perma. And if he felt a pang of disappointment at the thought of Homelander drowning or freezing or beating himself to death, instead of being ripped apart by his hands, well, that was his business.
The solution had been found. All they had to do was regain control of it.
***
Really gotta train him out of this particular habit. The Supe was getting way too comfortable grabbing him by the neck and pinning him, and what’s more, Billy was tired of his dick thinking it was something to be excited about. Which, right then, it really, really wasn’t.
Homelander was leaning over him, face inches from Billy’s. His eyes were fogged over: literally, fogged over. Misty green light that flashed and sparkled like fire had hidden his irises, making him look possessed. Which he was, kinda. Hannah Fry, Vegas mob princess and current holder of Witchfire’s powers, was trotting out of the room, leading her other new toys with a single, crooked finger.
Starlight– Annie! Her voice corrected inside his head–and Kimiko, eyes lost in the same green light, were shuffling after her, jaws slightly slack and arms limp at their sides. “Homelander!” Fry shouted over her shoulder, a slight twang to her voice. “Kill these meddling tourists! And don’t make a mess.”
Homelander snarled, but not at Billy. No, Billy he was making a concentrated effort not to kill. He could feel it: his fingers were shaking as he fought to keep them open enough to not crush his windpipe. His other hand was lying on the countertop next to Billy’s head, arm also shaking. He’s trying not to slam me right through it and then through the floor. “N-no,” Homelander said, voice robotic and strained. “NO–”
“Butcher, what the hell do we do?” Hughie was hovering in the bathroom doorway, the wall beside him blown to shit with laser blasts. He sounded tense, to put it lightly, and even though he couldn’t see him, Billy knew his eyes were darting from Homelander’s back to the open door of the suite. “BUTCHER, what do we–”
Homelander’s fingers curled against the counter, digging gouges in it, much like the wall of Billy’s flat. Frenchie was whimpering: “Kimiko, mon coeur, mon coeur…” And Billy had to make a decision.
Gotta be calm. Don't yell. “Go after the power thief,” Billy said, as evenly as he could manage, and slowly, like fuckin molasses here, do NOT fuckin startle him raised one arm to find Homelander’s shoulder. He didn’t push back no bloody point just rested his palm against the pocket and kept staring into his obscured eyes. “He’s really trying to fight this and he needs to focus.” No leather under his palm this time; that cunt Hannah had been keeping a low-ish profile before now and had played dress up with the twat. He was in street clothes, just a thin black shirt and jeans that looked like they cost more than Billy’s rent.
It looked wrong .
Nobody had moved yet, much to his dismay, but he could sense Frenchie about to bolt. He was torn between the very immediate threat to Billy’s life and the hell Kimiko was being put through, and Hughie was in a similar spot. “FUCKING go!” Billy gestured sharply with his other hand, and Homelander twitched; Billy braced himself for a hit that didn’t come.
“And leave you here?” MM demanded, from somewhere by the pulverized TV. “Butcher, he’ll kill you–” Bullets rattled in a chamber and Homelander’s head snapped towards the sound. Billy’s heart shot into his throat and it got VERY HARD not to yell.
“If he wanted to bloody kill me he’d have bloody done it already, wouldn’t he have?” Billy said, more or less calmly if you asked him, and Homelander laughed. It sounded awful. High pitched, hysterical, wrong. It sounded like it was supposed to be a sob and went through a terrible experience somewhere in the cunt’s throat, so it emerged all twisted up.
Billy cringed under him and gave his shoulder a tentative pat, which finally got the Supe to look at him again. Speaking more evenly, Billy said: “And besides that, as soon as he’s done with me, it’ll be you lot. Stop the fucking power thief before she takes over the bloody world or whatever the hell she was ramblin’ about!”
“He has a point!” Frenchie shouted, and then he was out the door, sprinting towards the stairs and calling for Kimiko.
“Damn it, Frenchie–Butcher, just, keep talking to him? Whatever–Hughie!” MM was gone, thundering after Frenchie, gun cocking loudly as he left. Homelander laughed again, and Billy forced a smile. Yeah, that's right, keep those creepy eyes on me, I'm the only thing in the room.
“Butcher,” Hughie started, sounding apologetic.
“Just go.”
Footsteps pounding over worn carpet meant they were alone in the gaudy hotel suite now. Just him and a mind controlled weapon of mass destruction, who was only fighting back, apparently, because he’d heard Billy’s voice.
Homelander’s breath was audible, as was the domestic dispute happening in the room below them. Billy twisted his tongue around his dry mouth, trying to think. He considered, for just a moment, tugging the bastard closer by his shirt and kissing him, just to see if that broke through. Wendy had said that people could be shocked out, or coaxed out, if you knew them well enough to work with them.
But he honestly couldn’t live with himself if that’s what jarred Homelander awake, so he went with his second thought.
“Let go of me, you stupid cunt,” Billy said firmly, and Homelander very obviously tried. No use; he shook his head, and for half a second his face was a mask of despair. Billy swallowed hard, felt it pass under those iron fingers. He tightened his grip on Homelander’s shoulder. Tried to remember what else Wendy had explained about her cocked-up powers.
The more people I’m controlling–so, now, the more people Hannah’s controlling, the bigger strain it is. And the harder they fight, also the bigger the strain.
"That bitch is controlling 3 of you now. Your head feelin' a mite clearer?" Another stiff headshake, and Billy was fairly certain he saw red flashing behind the green fog. "Oi, relax! Give me a bloody second–”
REALLY strong emotions can pull them out, if they get triggered by the right person or people. Rage, terror, love.
Then his thoughts were ground to a halt by Homelander standing up, in one sharp motion, and dragging Billy off the counter. Snarling, he wrapped his other arm around Billy’s waist and pulled him close. His jaw worked and he hissed through clenched teeth: “Don’t thrash.”
“Oh, mate, don’t–” Billy pleaded, but then the room was gone, and his stomach was lurching as badly as it had the last time; the cunt had flown them straight through the balcony door and into the starless sky above the Vegas strip.
He’d gone out backwards, shielding Billy from the glass that rained down on their shoulders and into their hair, but that hardly made him feel better. It took a lot to not scream as he grabbed on tighter and refused to look down. Hot, dry air whooshed past them, carrying the scent of plastic and booze and bad decisions being made. Golden light bubbled up beneath their feet, the day-bright glow of the casino signs rising up from the jam-packed street below. If anybody saw them and shouted or screamed, it was lost in the din of traffic that faded as Billy was dragged even higher.
And then with another snarl and a head shake, Homelander tossed him into the air.
He was weightless for about half a second, and his mind froze. Just checked right on out of the building, no thank you guv, we will NOT be absorbin’ this new development. And then he started to drop, started to plunge , towards the pavement and cars below him. The lights of the Strip flashed off the bits of glass raining down ahead of him, and part of him thought that maybe, just maybe, he was meant to die face-down on the pavement, body shredded by shattered glass.
He did it he bloody fucking killed me oh fucking hell Becca Becca Becca–
Before he could even flail in response, Homelander was there again, catching him by the jacket and then hauling him back to eye level. Billy’s whole body jerked, more than a little painfully, and his head rang in response. Some of the new lesions must have pressed on something important; for a few seconds, the long, crooked city street swirled away into a blurry impressionist painting, taking Homelander’s face with it.
“Wha-what–” He looked around but not down do not bloody look down you stupid git frantically, seeing taller hotels and blinding signs and the dark dome of the sky and the endless desert beyond all of that bloody hell are we up that high or is this death trap of a state that bloody flat? “WHAT–”
“Was going to break your neck,” Homelander hissed, and pulled Billy in closer. Whatever was happening in Billy’s skull abated: he could see again, could count every pale eyelash and every tiny pore on his face, could see every swirl and spark of the magic covering his eyes. “Had to hold you differently, or I’d break your neck.” Their noses brushed and Billy was sweating bullets, heart trying to drill out of his chest–
The full sequence of events finally loaded in his bollocks-up brain, and he realized he wasn’t falling to his death anymore. “You caught me.”
Car horns blared and somebody was hurling slurs on the street corner. Over Homelander’s shoulder, he could see the fountains in front of the Bellagio start-up, throwing glittering water into the air before a crowd of tourists, nothing more than dots at this distance. Homelander’s mouth twitched. Whether it was trying to be a smile or a sneer, he wasn't sure.
“...Not like this,” Homelander said, voice still inhuman and not completely his own. “Not. Because. She said so.” His hands shook so hard that Billy’s legs swayed and a few more tiny chunks of glass sprinkled off his clothes. It was getting harder and harder to not look down.
"You caught me," Billy repeated, still not quite believing it. He hadn’t even had time to scream; the Supe had been right there.
Somewhere, below him and to his right, gunshots were being fired. Either MM and Frenchie got a bead on the power thief, or the cunt’s got them too. Hopefully, she’ll blow a gasket, like Wendy said–need to keep talking to him–
“No? No, not like this, love?” He raised his hands–they were shaking too–and laid them gingerly on the Supe’s forearms. “Not ready to say good-bye to me, eh?” And if his tone was just a bit flirty, that was out of a desperate desire to live, right?
“No.” He blinked. Several times. Like he was trying to get something out of his eyes. He shifted Billy in the air slightly, adjusted how he was hanging–
Billy was standing on his feet. He still couldn’t look down but didn’t need to; he could feel Homelander holding his own feet flat and parallel to the ground to let Billy brace on something a little solid. “Heh. See? She don’t control you. She don’t control you at all.” He sounded desperate to his own ears, but Homelander let out a sharp exhale. “Not like this? Yeah, couldn’t agree more. That uppity cunt told you not to make a mess . The nerve of her!” He met those greened-out eyes, and tried to smile. “Scorched earth, right? That sounds messy to me.”
“Could–could let you splat. On the street.” Even as he said it, he was shaking his head and tightening his grip on Billy’s jacket. The stitches creaked in protest and Billy vividly pictured it ripping to pieces from the strain. “Leave you a bloody smear, a lump of gore. Kill you my way.”
“On her word!” Billy reminded him frantically. He tightened his grip too. The muscles under his fingers didn’t give at all, and if they were doing this two feet off the floor in his living room, that fact would have made him moan. Now though, it just reminded him why he couldn’t let Hannah leave with Homelander under her control. “That bitch is using you! Turning you into some fucking tool!”
“How dare she–”
“Yes, yes, EXACTLY. How bloody dare she, right, love?” Homelander blinked rapidly again at the pet name, and let out another strangled breath. “She’s not even a Supe!” Billy added, because hell, maybe narcissism and prejudice were strong enough emotions to wake the cunt up. “She STOLE these powers! She’s some fuckin’ pathetic human cunt, thinks she can enslave YOU?”
Homelander snarled, but he was nodding, and then they were moving again.
Fast and hard, to one side, but Billy didn’t scream. You did not beg a predator to spare your life and then act like prey right in front of it. More or less helpless in Homelander’s grip, he finally gave into the mad urge and looked down.
“...Oh. Heh. Knew that’d get ya.” Instead of the street, they were over the roof of a different hotel. The drop was about half what it had been; there was a tiny chance he’d survive now. He looked back at Homelander, and responded to his impatient nodding for more. “Nobody tells you what to do. Nobody tells you who to kill, or when to kill ‘em, or how to kill ‘em…Nobody, especially not some–some–” He drummed his fingers, trying not to say what he knew what get through the sharpest.
“Mud person!” Homelander spat, and Billy swore he saw that green fog get less dense. “Thief!” His jaw was working again as he let them drop a couple of feet, towards the roof. “Prometheus, stealing fire!”
“Heh. Clever, mate. Sorry, love, I meant love!” He rubbed his thumbs in small circles on Homelander’s forearms, and the Supe shuddered. “Not like this,” Billy repeated, and Homelander nodded. “Not on my V, yet , right?” He swallowed hard, pitched his voice softer. “What’s the fun in that? Don’t you want to have fun with me some more?” Again, if he was flirting, it was only so he wouldn’t Literally Die. No other reason, no other bloody reason at all.
“Mmm. No fun in that. Waste of you.” He started to sink, carrying them slowly down towards the roof, and that green in his eyes was definitely less dense now. “Mud people don’t order me around. You’re mine to kill–”
Billy was actually starting to let himself relax, when Homelander screamed.
Loud and startled and anguished, and the clear blue irises that had been peeking out at him were gone again. “No,” Billy said, alarmed, and threw his arms around the Supe’s neck. Homelander was turning his face away, violently shaking his head as Hannah tried to sink her fingers in deeper. “Oi, Oi, John, do you hear me? She doesn’t tell you what to do–”
“YES SHE DOES.” Homelander shot back into the air, and Billy desperately hoped this meant that Kimiko or St– Annie –had gotten free. “I can’t be trusted with decisions Billy, I think we both know that!” Oh Christ, she’d forced him into using that horrible TV interview voice of his, as plastic as this fucking town. “Wendy was wasting her powers; Hannah will actually do something with them, and you could have been around to see it–”
He let go of one side of Billy’s jacket and laughed hysterically when Billy sagged wildly to one side. Still laughing, he thrust Billy away from him, letting him hang in space over the rowdy street. “But YOU just had to GET IN THE WAY and come here AFTER ME and now I have to THROW YOU INTO traffic because I will not kill you bloodlessly I won’t I WON’T I don’t CARE what you say he doesn’t deserve to die clean you GODDAMN–”
He was blinking again, arm shaking violently, and Billy fully hugged his forearm, tears streaming down his face. Mostly from terror. Partly from the sand that the hot wind somehow managed to carry up this high. Homelander was cocking his other fist back, breathing shakily, and Billy was now actually praying to something, to anything , that Hannah was going to be dead very, very soon.
Rage isn’t working. Rage isn’t working– “You’re right!” Billy said desperately, still hanging like a sloth from his arm. “I don’t deserve quick and clean, no bloody way, LOVE, but I don’t deserve to die in this tourist trap neither! Not on her word, not when I belong to you–I’m your equal, ain’t I?” He was trying to remember everything Homelander had ever whispered into his ear. Not difficult: he replayed the highlight reel semi-regularly.
“Mine!” Homelander insisted. He was nodding again, and Billy was thrilled to oblige, anything to keep his body off the pavement.
“All yours, love , who else’s would I be?” People were screaming below them, he slowly realized; more gunshots, smashing windows, fleeing pedestrians. Homelander didn’t notice, just kept staring into Billy’s eyes. His lips were parted, and Billy tried to sound coaxing as he continued: “We haven’t even fucked yet, love. Haven’t touched each other all over, haven’t sucked each other dry, haven’t made each other cum–”
His skin was crawling. He felt cheap and ashamed of himself and knew he was just feeding the Supe’s obsession. But that obsession was his only lifeline at the moment; if he failed, there was every likelihood that an unhinged crime boss was going to conquer all of Nevada.
And luckily, it seemed to be working.
Homelander yanked him close again, and said: “Keep talking.” The fist he’d been pulling back now went to Billy’s hair. “KEEP TALKING!”
Oh bloody christ that feels good– Gasping as Homelander roughly pulled his hair, Billy kept talking.
“Never gotten on my knees for you! Never choked on your cock! Never came screaming your name and begging you to stop!” Changed my mind. Real glad we’re doing this up here, if somebody heard this I’d have to kill them and bury them in this bleedin' desert. “Come on, you tease, you promised me somethin’ earth-shakin’. Are you really gonna let some casino rat rob you of the chance to undress me with your teeth and literally fuck me into a coma?” God, it should not be this easy to talk dirty in these conditions. Gingerly, he slung his arms around Homelander’s neck again; the Supe let him, thank his lucky fucking stars.
Homelander was panting with effort, and the green wasn’t getting less thick so much as it was flickering in and out as he tried to shake off Hannah’s iron grip. “Billy–” He moaned, tiny and broken and yet unmistakably more himself: Billy’s breath caught in his throat, remembering the earlier wheeze that had announced the first chink in Hannah’s hold.
That one, he’d managed to get out when Billy had started shouting at Hannah back in the hotel suite, calling her a nutter, a monster, the anti-christ, a complete fucking bitch in general if you bloody ask me . The power thief had been lounging on an obnoxiously large sofa, smirking and preening under the animosity, as Homelander had been tucked away in the corner, slack-jawed and mindless. He’d looked like a bog mummy, arms wrapped around his knees, curled up on the floor. It had made Billy sick, made him angry in way he couldn’t put into words other than what is the point of THIS? , and Hannah’s smug voice hadn’t helped at all.
Biggest guns win the day, 9 times out of 10. Now, nobody has a bigger gun than me! Swirling her drink, she’d lounged back, posture daring them to do anything.
Help me– A single desperate whine from the lifeless husk in the corner, and it was like something had snapped in their entire team. They all knew ‘sick and wrong’ when they saw it, and Hannah Fry was both in spades.
‘Course, she’d then instantly captured two of his friends and had thrown Homelander at the rest, but Billy really did believe it was the THOUGHT that counted.
Out of time to think in the present, however, he kept throwing words onto this fire, trying to smother it with sex and promises and Homelander’s own madness bounced back at him. “Love, put me down and–and we can have a playdate, yeah? I’ll…I’ll let you do whatever you want.” Oh I bloody mean that, you twisted science experiment, if you put me back on solid ground I will let you dress me up like a fucking girl scout.
“Anything?” Homelander demanded, and Billy could see his irises now, so he nodded frantically.
“Anything! Just. Just put me down, and help me out with Hannah–”
Homelander screamed again, and Billy cringed hard, watching in horror as the Supe threw his head back. He shouted to the sky: “I don’t WANT to stop listening to him ! You don’t control me !” But that wasn’t true. He was caving, Billy could see it. He’d been under for nearly a week, might be forgetting how to fight back at all. “But once I kill him, then he’s dead , forever!” Homelander said angrily, clearly talking to Hannah, and Billy had no idea if that was good or bad.
“Love,” Billy begged, but when Homelander looked at him, his eyes were gone. Buried in the sparkling green of the Witchfire. Billy’s heart sank so low, it fell out of his shoes and tumbled towards the busy street, likely getting run over by a dozen taxis and party buses when it landed. “What about Ryan,” he tried desperately, but Homelander didn’t twitch. “J-John, what about RYAN? Who’ll look after him? And, and what if this cunt does this to him next–”
Nothing, fucking nothing, he’s gone. He’s completely bloody gone. That filled him with an odd despair. Even if I get out of this, I’ll be takin’ revenge against a bleedin’ husk. Not like this, you read my bloody mind, you cunt, not fuckin’ like THIS. Homelander’s face was blank as he released Billy’s hair and grabbed the side of his head instead. In a mirror of how he’d half-blinded Maeve, one thumb covered Billy’s right eye.
“Hannah has given me permission to make a mess,” he said, voice both listless and flat, and started to dig his thumb in. “I am going to rip your head off and keep it. Good-bye, William–”
Refusing to die without one last mad swing at the fences, Billy used his hold on Homelander’s neck to yank himself forward and slammed a sloppy, needy, fuck-me-now kiss over his slack lips. Homelander yelped in surprise as his thumb dug painfully into both of their faces and Billy’s lip split from the impact.
His blood leaked into both of their mouths as, below them, every light on the Vegas Strip went out at once.