Chapter Text
"You can't fucking do this!" Homelander insisted, begged practically, though he knows that deep down, the situation is futile. William Butcher had made up his mind, and nothing was going to stop him now.
Homelander almost slips on his own blood, struggling to drag himself up as he finds the edge of the desk behind him for purchase. He lets his head rest on the wood as he brings his blue eyes up to look at William's dark, merciless ones. "I... am the Homelander!" He growls, like prey trying to convince a predator of their prowess— trying to convince himself. He had always been the top dog, a god among men, superior above all. Destined for greatness. The greatest. Vought said so. Madelyn said so. Everyone had told him so!
"No. No, you ain't nothing." Words that highlighted the reality of his situation, and directly contradicted what Homelander had been told— convinced of— all his life. Butcher spoke in a low tone, his voice almost a whisper, a volume that could've been mistaken for pity. It's the disgust for Homelander's groveling, and a new found resolve for revenge put together. "And this...this is for my Becca."
Homelander's eyes widened, heart beating fast against his chest as he shook his head in disbelief at the fact that he was going to die. He's going to die, and there's nothing he can do about it.
He mouths a 'no...' in denial, as he braces for the inevitable stab through his head that Butcher was about to bring upon with the crowbar. His face twisted with horror, his mouth agape as the metal was swung, the raw ire and vengeance behind the swing evident, gracefully pulled off with the strength of a broken man.
A crunch, and penetration from metal almost instantly brought a stop to his life as flesh crumbled under steel, a sharp headache that lasted for only a second before he succumbed to darkness. Gone, in a flash. For Homelander, this was the end.
'Wake up.'
...................
His muscles flinched, cold shock running through his spine as he jerked awake, eyes wide, breath caught in an inhale as if his lungs had been devoid of oxygen and were desperately trying to get their air. Sweat covered him from head to toe, with warm covers of fur that encased him in indiscriminate embrace, buried beneath the folds of bright blue patriotic blankets.
Immediately, his hand flies to his forehead, where the crowbar had been stabbed through, expecting a hole, wetness, and pain. There was nothing. Skin is all his fingers felt, no fatal wound to be found.
Then, his fingers trail down to his face, in search of the broken nose and split lip that Butcher had inflicted— he was sure that he was supposed to be hurt and damaged—but his face remained untouched, as if the Brit's fist never made contact in the first place.
He quickly starts searching all over his body in a panicked huff, checking himself almost involuntarily for any signs of the absolute beating he'd suffered under. His palms fly across his chest, arms, shoulders...and find nothing.
He was alive.
Not a body. Not a ghost left to wander as its physical corpse decayed under the inevitable process of decomposition, rotting six feet under or something. Nope.
He was...
'I'm alive?'
What the hell was going on?
Homelander slowly moved to sit up, careful not to make any major movements or sounds in case Butcher would appear and continue to pummel him into a pulp for it. When nothing happened aside from the slight creak of the furniture under him— his bed?— the hairs that stood up on his back could finally relax. With the evidence of a threat no longer present, Homelander fought through the anxiety and finally focused on the world around him.
The environment was suddenly different to the one he'd been in just seconds before. In his surroundings where there had been the Oval room with The Boys sprawled over the floor and death hanging over his head, was instead replaced with the familiarity of his bedroom within the Vought Tower. The bright sun's rays subtly peaked through a crevice from almost-closed curtains, gently illuminating the sheets, his body and part of the room.
Shocked, Homelander took in the suspiciously calm situation, staring into space before jumping out, ripping the blanket away from him. He shifted to the edge of the mattress, careful not to hit his calves against the golden mustard bedstead as he stood up, completely nude and drenched with sweat, as brief confusion and anxiety plagued his mind for a moment.
Was this a dream? An illusion? Some cruel joke the universe decided to throw at him now that he was dead? A punishment brought upon him by the higher beings?
Before he has time to contemplate, his phone rings from the counter of one of the drawers beside his bed. His alarm.
He paused as he watched it cry in the cheesy default alarm ringtone that he never bothered to change, vibrating against the wooden surface it had been placed on. Unsure, he slowly strolled sluggishly over to it, picking the phone up to turn off the alarm, if only to rid his enhanced hearing of the annoyance. With the sound finally cut off, the lock screen appeared and he froze.
10:35 AM, July 19, 2019
'Twenty...nineteen...?'
Either the device in his hand had malfunctioned, or the screen was really displaying the correct date. In other words, the year was 2019.
He was back in 2019.
It took some time for his brain to process, but once it had landed that it was apparently twenty-fucking-nineteen— what a terrible joke from the fucking universe— Homelander immediately went to check his Twitter, opening the app to scroll through posts relating to Vought and The Seven. His heartbeats quickened their pace when he saw the most recent news focused on Lamplighter's departure from The Seven, and Vought's recent announcement on finding his replacement. Things that he had been through and saw happen already.
His thumb was already moving before his mind caught up, exiting Twitter and going into the contacts app.
All of The Seven, Stan Edgar, Madelyn, Ashley, some contacts with PR, business deals and branding, etcetera. But no Ryan.
'What the fuck?'
Homelander let out an incredulous sigh, combing through his slick back hair with his other hand. The stray strands of blond on the side of his face lightly swayed as he shook his head in disbelief.
It seemed like he...traveled back to the past, somehow? Unless this was his life literally flashing before his eyes, though everything felt too tangible and real for it to simply be a dream. If the former was the case, then...
'I can kill Butcher.' Was the first conclusion he reached. He could enact his revenge on the man, find him, and reduce him to nothing. Rip him to shreds. Turn him into pieces. He could do it right now. He could do it to his entire group of degenerates, one by one, and with no chance of anyone getting in his way, he could take over Vought and continue his ascent to godhood. To his rightful place in the white house, where people would worship him, continue his subjugation of the world, permanently cement himself in America's history with the immortality he would gain from V1. Maybe even wipe New York off the map if he was feeling up to it. He could continue being The Homelander, the greatest hero in existence. He could have it all.
His blood rushed at just the prospects of achieving, continuing what he had worked so hard towards all this time.
He could do everything! He could...
'...And then what?' The last part of his thought process slipped into his mind before he could stop it, and all the excitement that had been bubbling dissipated just as quickly as it came. The grin creeping up at the corner of his mouth had evaporated, lips quivering as he waited for the next train of thought.
It never came.
He could imagine standing over Butcher's dead body, showering in triumphant glory as his enemy bled out, the light in his eyes fading out.
Nothing.
Strangely, the fantasy fell flat. He didn't laugh maniacally in premature victory over a reality where he could win, with what he knew now. He didn't pat himself on the back in relief at his unmistakable and bizarre survival. He just...stood. Didn't do anything, didn't feel anything.
Because in the end, he did have it all. He already did. At one point, he was the most powerful being on earth, capable of whatever he put his mind to. Worshipped and feared. And in the end, it made him feel more alone than ever. More lonely than he'd ever been.
Even if Butcher hadn't succeeded...and then what?
He realised that he felt indifferent towards the prospect of resuming what he was pursuing in his previous timeline, before the Oval office. Before everything went to shit. He already knows how the story ends— him dying at the hands of Butcher, The Boys, or otherwise. He'd died once before, already, and living again just meant he would die again. The V1 could prevent that, but then what would he live for once everyone on earth died and the sun exploded and everything he lived for was reduced to ashes?
Nothing.
And after that?
More nothing.
"Fuck me, I guess." He shrugged to himself, already exasperated and numb. He dropped his phone onto the mattress, not bothering to make the bed as he made his way to his bathroom, if only to distract himself from the existential dread he was dealing with. He stopped just in front of the sink, leaning against it while gripping its porcelain edges as he stared long and hard at his reflection.
He looked much younger. Less wrinkles pulling at his skin brought more youth to his face. Grey hairs hadn't even begun growing on his scalp, and his eyes weren't as dead. But overall, he still looked like a mess. He almost half-expected his alter ego to show up and call him out on it. But he— his other self— never came.
A minute of steady, reflective silence passed before he even moved from the sink, eventually opting to just default to his daily routine. He began quickly brushing his teeth, taking a short shower, going through his closet to chuck on his suit once he was done freshening up, before styling his hair in a somewhat presentable state.
He looked in a mirror once again, the one just above his vanity table. He straightened his cape, fixed his collar so it wouldn't pinch his nape and bend out of place. He adjusted his pose to make himself look bigger, chest out and fists resting on either side of his hips, finishing off with his signature smile, readying himself for the day. Ah, yes. A perfect representation of The Homelander. Perfect, as he should be. It pleased him, if only for a second.
Then, his smile dropped. Blue eyes stared back where he could see enthusiasm start to dip rapidly.
He smiled again, with more resistance. It dropped back to a thin line. Nothing.
He tried again, cheeks aching and lips quivering.
Nothing.
He just returned his reflection with a frown.
Red boots lightly tapped onto the smooth floor as he walked away slowly, his steps heavy with phantom fatigue as he passed by the various decorations that were placed, painting the penthouse much like a museum dedicated to all things American. Classist paintings on almost every surface of the wall, stone statues in every corner.
Homelander did not acknowledge any of it.
Cape flowing, he stepped into the private elevator that provided direct access into the suite, officially starting his first day since coming back.
The air carried him along the air as Homelander flew over the terrains of New York city, currently on the move with a scheduled save Vought assigned him with Queen Meave for the day, marked on his schedule that he had checked earlier out of habit. The sun's rays caught the corners of his golden eagles on his shoulders as he made his descent down towards the particular street he was to land in, already seeing the staged crime unfold, with an armoured truck veering straight towards a group of civilians.
Homelander peered down as Maeve jumped down from a nearby building, just in front of the hijacked vehicle's direction as she tanked it head on, the truck's exterior immediately being destroyed when it crashed into the figure ahead. The superpowered woman stood as bits and pieces from the truck's parts flew in recoil past her, the impact bringing it to deceleration as she braced for the collision, and she briefly disappeared within the wreck. Actors emerged from the vehicle, who hastily 'took hostage' of the nearest duo of teenagers unfortunate enough to be the targets.
Homelander noticed the camera crew situated next to an adjacent building across the road, already filming in accordance with Vought's PR, and he acted naturally. Flying down slowly, he activated his heat vision aimed at one of the gunmen's weapons pointed at their hostages, quickly melting its shell, causing the gunmen to drop the weapon in a panic, before collapsing onto the road. Landing on the ground, Homelander calmly walked towards the other lackey, who had began firing with his own rifle at him, the bullets bouncing off of his costume. It didn't take long to reach him, and Homelander promptly grabbed his blazer's collar and flung him multiple feet in the air with little effort.
"Homelander?"
The super turned around. One of the freed hostages uttered his name in awe and amazement at him.
Homelander hesitated before deciding to provide a response. "You boys okay?" He asked, his signature smile automatically in place.
"Can I- can I get a selfie?"
"Sure." Homelander responded with less avidity than he had expected, watching as a crowd of witnesses start swarming around him and Maeve, all of them wanting to get a picture of them. Applause surrounded him from all corners of the avenue, cheers and cries from many praising their heroism. He posed beside them, presenting himself as the hero that everyone admired, cracking a charming smile as they all looked at him, showering him in the love he craved all his life.
When he looked at them...
He felt nothing.