Chapter Text
The Butcher had little to do with The Homelander, except for the secret fact that they were fuck buddies. Had been since they were teenagers. If he had believed in fate, he would have called it cruel. They'd both been whiny little boys who needed to get their rocks off in order to feel better about themselves, to ignore the parts of their lives that had led them to this point. In short, officially, The Butcher had nothing to do with The Homelander. Their brands clashed and so did their personalities, but they fucked each other well enough.
“William, you're so fucking tight.”
Butcher's hand pulled at the hair at the base of John's neck, his back arching as he reached over his shoulder.
“Shut the fuck up, John.” Butcher growled, grinding down on the other man, pressing them together as he leaned farther forward over the dining table. John's thrusts became more erratic as Butcher's fingers twined into his hair and pulled.
“You're just-ugh-just so fucking hot when I fuck you like this.”
Butcher smirked, leaning his head back against John's shoulder, his eyes misty as he glanced at him.
“When I let you.”
“Yeah,” John murmured against Butcher's cheek, his nose just behind his ear. “Whatever the fuck you say.”
They moved together, the table under them cracking under their weight as it inched away from them with every movement, forcing them to readjust and restart their rhythm again every so often.
“Anyway,” John began, reigniting the conversation that they'd been in the middle of before Butcher had thoroughly distracted him. “All I'm saying is try it out.”
“Aw, fuck, no,” Butcher groaned, his arousal dwindling. “No. It's your shtick, not mine.”
“Just try it.”
“I started a low-level supe, and that's how it's going to stay.” Butcher grunted, a particularly hard thrust sending waves of pleasure up his spine. His next words sounded fake, even to his own ears. “I want to help people.”
“I help people.”
“Actually help people. Not some fucked up rendition of helping people.”
They both came, euphoria dulling the edges of their disagreement. John’s chin rested on Butcher’s shoulder. He murmured, softly extracting himself from Butcher’s body. “Just try it.”
It was fucked up, is what it was: People shilling out their hard earned money just to see him. He wasn’t even close to being in The Seven but his bearing seemed to strike a chord with some. He sniffed, a finger rubbing against his nose as he listened to the bustle of the people in line. Most were sycophantic consumers who only wanted to meet him because of his association with Vought. They pracitlly pissed themselves when he spoke in his thick accent, probably insulting them in some way that they couldn’t understand, even if they tried. It was part of his brand, the managers said, to play it up if he could.
He inhaled, the cloyingly sweet scent of artificial strawberries entered his nose. The next person in line was a little boy, clutching tight to his father’s hand. The boy was small and smelled of Irish Spring soap. His father nudged him forward with a hand at his back.
“Go on, Hughie. Say hello.”
The boy’s round eyes stared up at him in awe.
Butcher knelt down to the boy’s eye level. His voice sounded like a thunderclap when he spoke. “Hughie? Is that your name?”
The little boy nodded, holding out a small battered journal and a chewed on pen.
Butcher chuckled, a warmth bubbling up within him that he hadn’t felt since his brother died.
Lenny. He reminded himself of his brother's name for the first time in years. He looks like Lenny in this light.
He took both and opened to a blank page, signing his name The Butcher as the boy’s father spoke.
“He just loves superheroes. He was so excited to meet you.”
Butcher sensed a spike of anxiety in the man as he lifted his eyes and stood. He probably didn’t even know who he was, or he never would have brought his son to meet him. All he knew was that he was a Vought hero, and that was enough. He didn’t seem like the type of man to take risks. His hand resting against Hughie’s shoulder, Butcher smiled warmly at him.
“You want a picture, love?” The gentle tone in his voice sounded odd, even to him, as the talent managers and the handlers glanced at one another and made notes on their clipboards.
“Yes, please!”
“Good lad.”
They smiled as Hughie’s father snapped a picture of them with his little silver camera. The man shook his hand and took hold of Hughie’s with the other. They turned away, and Butcher felt colder.
Butcher hated media day. It was fake and demeaning, but it was fine. Boring and tedious. At least he didn’t have to do it as often as Homelander did. When shooting ended, he was free to smoke like a chimney and smell like a bottle of whiskey had been poured over his head, certainly not the most family-friendly appearance.
But he'd taken off, flying away despite the many staff members and assistants vying for his attention. The air above was cold. It shocked his senses and made him feel something, at least.
Flying over a pathetic little town full of pathetic little people, he caught the scent of blood and metal. He landed in front of an out-of-the-way farmhouse, the dry grass crunching like bones under his feet. The silence scratched at his brain as he lumbered onto the wooden porch. It creaked under his weight. The foggy windows blurred his view into the shabby living room. He butted the loose front door open with his arm.
Tossed books and pieces of a broken vase littered the floor. The metallic scent of blood invaded his nose. The dark browns and earthy tones of the house did nothing to hide the growing blood stain beneath the man at the bottom of the flight of stairs. Butcher tilted his head, studying the familiar man.
Neck bent. Broken.
Skull fractured and bleeding.
Thu-thump. Thu-thump….the beat of the man’s heart faded, giving way to silence.
Butcher's eyes lazily wandered to the top of the stairs. Listening to the rustling of frantic packing and staggered breathing, he hauled himself up the stairs, each step creaking under his weight as he admired the pictures hanging on the walls. Most of the pictures featured a little boy, toothy grin and curly hair, of varying ages, but no older than five or six years old. He touched the glass of one of the pictures, tracing the image with his thumb.
“What the fuck!”
Butcher stopped at the top of the stairs. The woman was scared of him, but she recognized him. He raised his hands in surrender. Amicable.
“You're…You’re the….”
“No need to worry, love. Just passing through.” Butcher grinned, toothily, smug. “Got a bit of a problem, though.” He tilted his head toward the body at the bottom of the stairs.
“Please, don't hurt me.” The woman begged, her face paling. “I've got money. You want money?”
Her hands trembled.
“Nah,” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You don't. Look at the state of this place.” He stepped close to her, his breath hot on her face. “You run along, alright? I never saw you. You never saw me.”
“But my son…”
Butcher raised his eyebrows and tsked, his voice a whisper. “Ah, ah, only you get one-”
“Butcher?” A tiny voice called his name, and Butcher turned toward the sound. The boy was just as he remembered him, wild hair and pale-faced. Butcher felt the hard lines of his face soften at the sight of him. Sleepily, the child rubbed at his eyes with a small fist, his other arm wrapped tightly around a cheap Homelander doll. “Mommy? What's…”
“Hello, love. Your mum and I are just having a nice little chat.” Butcher glanced at the woman. “Aren't we?”
“Yes.” She rasped. “Lovely.”
“Hughie,” Butcher's voice was firm, soft like room temperature butter, unlike when he'd been talking to Hughie’s mother. “Go back to bed.”
“But-”
“Hughie,” The woman's voice broke in, shaking. “Go.”
The little boy hesitated before obeying.
“One chance.” Butcher whispered, holding up one thick finger. “It's fate, really.”
He had no intention to elaborate, nor was he given it as the woman snatched her hastily packed duffle bag from the other room and bolted down the stairs without a glance backward. Butcher listened, motionless, to the front door slam shut and the sputtering of a car engine as she sped away.
Cowardly cunt.
Hands in his pockets, he nudged the door to what he assumed was Hughie's bedroom open. The room was littered with various Vought merchandise. Posters plastered the walls. Butcher scoffed. What happened to decorating a kid's bedroom with airplanes or fucking pink rabbits or some shit? Hughie's bed was far too big for him. Curled up in the center of it, Hughie looked far smaller than he was, especially under the puffed-up pile of blankets. A pair of piercing blue eyes stared back at him.
“I know you're still awake.” Butcher sat heavily on the bed.
“Does Daddy know you're here? He'd want to say hi.”
Butcher smiled, a grim and mocking smile that would have curled anyone else's guts.
“He said hi, love. Don't worry. Just go back to sleep.” The man lifted his hand and haltingly placed it in Hughie's mop of hair.
Hughie's inquisitive eyes reflected the dim light of a burning out Homelander night light. Butcher could smell the filament frying, its rattle like a dying mosquito in a trap.
“Where did Mommy go? Did she have to go to the store again?”
“Yeah, she left me to look after you. Now,” Brushing the boy's hair back, Butcher hushed him. “Get some sleep.”
Hughie looked at him, and for a moment, Butcher couldn't breathe. His eyes burned a hole through his chest before the boy smiled and curled up on his side. “Night, night.”
Butcher patted the boy's back. “Night, night, lad.”
“Where the fuck have you been?” Homelander's eyes were wide in disbelief as he entered the living room of his apartment in Vought Tower.
“Shhh.” Butcher grinned at him wolfishly over his shoulder, his feet propped up on the coffee table as he lounged on the couch. He pressed his lips against the warm forehead of the little boy asleep on his chest. He rubbed the child's back, lazily drawing patterns on the back of his The Seven pajamas. “Kid's asleep.”
“Whose child is that?”
“Ain't he a sweetheart?”
“You've been gone all night, and now you show up with some-”
Butcher glared.
Homelander's jaw tightened and flexed under the pressure he put on his teeth. His gaze flicked between Butcher and the child in his arms. Homelander inched closer. “Did you abduct this child?”
“So what if I did?”
“I'm only trying to manage the fallout.”
Butcher raised his eyebrows.
“Very unlike you. Caring about consequences, and all that shite.”
Homelander exhaled a deep sigh. “Very unlike you to do something like this.”
Butcher pressed another kiss to the sleeping boy's forehead.
Homelander squared his shoulders, his growing jealousy plain on his face. “Is he yours?”
“He is now.”
Homelander sucked his teeth and lifted his chin high, feeling far more tolerant of the situation having been given an answer that he liked. “Alright.”
Hughie was warm, pulled awake by the steady rise and fall of a thick chest and the lull of whispered voices. The large hands at his back petted him absentmindedly as he cracked his eyes open and stared up at the man cradling him to his chest.
Butcher grinned.
“Mornin’, love.”
Hughie stretched, pushing himself up against Butcher's strong chest, drinking in the room around him with awe that could only come from a child. He rubbed his eyes.
“Where are we?”
“We,” Butcher sat up, adjusting his grip on the boy as he settled him in his lap. “Are at friend's house. He's very excited to meet you.”
Hughie's little brows furrowed, having yet to notice the other presence in the room. Homelander watched silently, stepping forward with just as much noise into Hughie's line of sight.
“Hello.” He greeted, the little boy's eyes widening as he scrambled off of Butcher's lap. Butcher smiled, his fingers locking behind his head, relaxed and amused.
“You're…you're!” The little boy held out a well-loved homelander plush. The colors had faded, and it had a few obvious new stitches to keep it from falling apart.
Homelander's heart swelled oddly at the little boy's excitement. Unnatural and aching. He'd been on the receiving end of this admiration before but…The boy wrapped his arms around Homelander's waist, his cheek pressed against his belt, little indentations littering his face, and his doll clutched in his hand.
John inhaled, ignoring Butcher's smug gaze. He gently pried the boy off and knelt in front of the child on one knee. “What’s your name?”
“Hughie.” The boy beamed brighter than the sun.
“Hughie.” Homelander tasted the name in his mouth, finding it sweet and pleasant, refreshing. “Are you hungry, Hughie?”
The little boy nodded eagerly. He swallowed, biting the inside of his cheek.
Butcher gave a throaty laugh from the couch as he stood, wiping his hands on his dark pants. “Well, we can't have that, can we?”
The dark-haired man crossed the room to the phone, ordering breakfast lazily as Homelander stood. John held out his gloved hand to the boy, who slipped his little fingers into his grasp.
So tiny . John mused, leading the child to the table. So breakable.
He picked the boy up with ease and placed him in one of the dining chairs. The table barely came to the boy's chest. Adorable.
“Hope you like pancakes, lovey.” Butcher sat down across from the boy, placing a large plate of syrupy pancakes in front of him. The sausage and scrambled eggs were shoved to the very edge of the plate as if an afterthought. Homelander’s nostrils flared. The kitchen staff was slowing, at least by his standards.
Hughie's jaw hung open. “Chocolate chip!”
“Just for you. Eat up.”
They watched the boy struggle with the cutlery for a few moments, juggling between the uteinils and his grip on his doll, before Butcher took the plate back and cut up the two large pancakes with the side of his fork quickly. He slid the plate back in front of Hughie as the little boy tucked the toy under his arm.
“Thank you.” The boy's lilted voice was like a canary’s song, soothing and comforting. He chewed thoughtfully on a few bites of pancake. Homelander could smell the sickening sweetness enter the boy's bloodstream. “Where’s Mommy and Daddy?”
“Mommy and Daddy?” Echoed Homelander, dumbfounded, the trusting innocence in Hughie's voice making his hands shake.
Butcher glanced at the other man before settling his gaze on the little boy. “Your mum and dad left me to look after you, remember?”
“Oh. When will they be back?”
Homelander at least had enough sense to keep from interrupting.
“Not sure. But until then, we’re going to take care of you.” Butcher's warm gaze chilled as his eyes landed on Homelander. “Aren't we, Homelander?”
Hughie's bright eyes swiveled to him, believing and guileless. Pure. Hopeful.
“Yes,” Homelander breathed, his gaze never leaving Hughie's bright face. “We are.”