Chapter Text
He stumbled into his hideout almost triggering his own tripwire. Which wouldn’t have blown him to bits—thankfully, the transparent line was attached only to a simple brass fire alarm setup. Nothing would have happened except for a very loud noise, but it would have been a bit embarrassing, he reckoned. His own defense system and he tripped it just because he was so fucking tired. He was tired all the time now, exhausted, brain seeping through his nose, smelling like tar on a new road…
Butcher sighed. Stepped over the fishing line. Shucked his blood-soaked coat and let it hit the floor with a wet thump. The noise was disconcerting—clothes weren’t supposed to sound like that.
The cabin’s musty interior was soaked in midnight light, inexplicably blue. It felt like a scene from a TV show. Butcher took a few more steps, swaying. Just enough to move from the bare wooden panels to the carpet in the middle of the room. And that was where he chose to collapse, face first, arms still hanging uselessly by his sides. The carpet was thin, offensively so, and didn’t soften his fall in any way. But that didn’t matter, it didn’t hurt. Barely anything hurt him now.
The slicked tendrils underneath his skin shifted, almost lazily. Like they could’ve stopped the fall but chose not to, letting him have his little drama moment.
"Jesus Christ…" A very annoyed whisper reached him from the other end of the room. Butcher knew where it was coming from and didn’t even bother looking towards the cage.
He didn’t budge from the floor, didn’t shift to a more comfortable position. But he did crack a little smile, teeth covered in something black.
Honey, I’m home, he wanted to say in that sing-songy tone that definitely would have pissed off the man in the cage. Make him scoff, make him glare – not that much more though. Not much he could do to him these days.
He felt the blue eyes on him even without looking toward the end of the room. A shuffling noise. The eyes were probably closer to the bars of the cage now. Watching him. Butcher closed his eyes in response. His breath became haggard, deeper yet shallower at the same time. He was settling in for the night.
"You’re just going to—" The annoyance from the cage gave way to surprise. And then more shuffling. And then the raspy desperation. "No, get up, it’s been two fucking days. There’s no water left."
Billy kept smiling and wheezing out air from his lungs.
"Butcher— William!"
He was going to have a nice little nap. A downright lovely one. He can deal with his prisoner in the morning. He can deal with the dying world later. And then he can finally die himself. Kessler laughed somewhere in the back of his mind. Or maybe in the other corner of the room, he wasn’t quite sure.
"Jesus… fuck you." Homelander wished him a good night.
Billy Butcher fell asleep, not sure he was gonna get up in the morning.
The world would probably be relieved if he hadn’t. Not that there was much left of it anymore. He sort of made sure of that.
Two days away from the cabin was more than he was planning for, but he had to spend at least six hours stealing fuel from the nearby gas station. In these unprecedented times, stealing gas meant simply walking up to a fuel pump and filling as many gas canisters as he could find lying around. Nobody protested because nobody was there. Although Butcher could’ve sworn he could hear someone coughing, stashed away, far away from him.
The gas station was deserted, just like the White House, the Pentagon, and the Senate. So Billy could do whatever the fuck he wanted now.
It started with the virus. No, that wasn’t right. It started with one last fight outside New York, the last time he saw Ryan. If one were to be a cunt and press Butcher to call the result of that duel, he’d say it was a tie. Pressed a little harder, he would admit it was more of a defeat. Homelander almost ground his body into a bloody pulp; Kessler’s newfound powers turned out to not be quite enough to bring down the world's first manufactured god. The only thing that saved him that day was Ryan—poor kid, he somehow always got stuck between them. Always jumping in between the adults, pushing his dad away, screaming that he was sick of them of both of them, sick of their fights, and that he never wanted to see them ever again. Then he took off, and Homelander gave chase, his nervous laughter zipping past Billy’s broken body. Butcher laughed too once the other Supes left, just for a different reason.
They gave it a good ol’ college try, Kessler and him. Tried to go about it with whooping fists and laser eyes. But that was never how Billy really fought. From the beginning, it was about scraping by with just his wits. All of this started with a brick of explosive plastic up Translucent’s ass and all of this was going to end in the same spirit of human ingenuity. So he didn’t exactly know what was going to happen when he put the only anti-Supe virus sample he had in a vial of V, but he figured it was going to help. V supercharged everything, including the cancerous mass in his brain. So why not try it on a promising little virus like the one in his grasp?
And he was right, of course. V made everything better.
Observing good scientific conduct, Butcher tested the new supercharged virus out on a couple of Supes tasked with finding and killing him. He didn’t even need to inject anyone, didn’t need to wait for anyone to cum or sneeze on anyone’s face. He did what Neumann’s cowardly boyfriend/husband wouldn’t do— he made the sucker airborne. Very volatile too, judging by the way the Supes immediately succumbed to a fever he could feel from far away, boils and lesions opening on their collapsed bodies instantaneously. A few field tests, a few survivors he allowed to get rescued. The virus was instantly spreading even without his oversight and he was quite pleased with himself. Kessler called him an old bastard in a tone that suggested he would’ve kissed Butcher on the lips if only he could.
Soon, the news was full of reports about the plague that killed off Supes. It traveled fast and even though Vought was on full damage control (he remembered how tight the skin around Homelander’s eyes was while he assured his beloved country that everything was alright in front of the cameras), it soon spread outside anyone’s control. Butcher watched the news reports with a new kind of calm. The first domino was knocked down.
The second one involved another Supe with unfinished business. Soldier Boy was on his trail, probably unleashed by Homelander. At first, Butcher thought it was going to be a problem. There had been a couple of close calls, much too close for his comfort. But then Kessler helped him realize there was a way to cook two birds with one fire. A very big, nuclear fire. He fought Soldier Boy in the Vought Tower and then all it took was a quick call to his sonny boy. Some choice words to Soldier Boy and then a loop of some Russian song (Kessler’s choice) blaring on the speakers the second those clown red boots stepped inside to deal with Butcher once and for all.
Billy had no idea how he survived that and hadn’t lost his powers, his sickness. The explosion was big. New York-big. Reducing a whole city to rubble-big.
Reducing a god to mortal-big.
After that, there was barely any world left outside. The Supes were almost extinct. Some of them banded up together and killed any human in sight, afraid of the symptomless carriers. Infrastructure fell and airports were closed. Based on most reports other continents were still fighting the pandemic, doing a little better since their V populations were much lower than that of the USA. But they were also on their way out because it wasn’t just the Supes. Any trace of V in the body meant a high risk of contagion. This included blood transfusions, fluids, anything. Even being related to a Supe was a death warrant. Butcher had no idea there would be so many people without powers affected. It was a bit of a shame, he figured. But it was for the better.
You’re all fucking welcome, said Kessler one time they both watched one of the last news reports ever produced.
The plague made the whole planet stop, but their job wasn’t over yet. Not as long as there was a single blue fleck of V inside somebody’s veins. So, against the wishes of his aching body, Billy Butcher did wake up in his dusty cabin.
The bright night gave way to an even brighter morning, its sun weirdly pale and dry. It took a while for him to finally gather enough willpower to move his limbs. Everything hurt and maybe passing out on the floor yesterday wasn’t his brightest idea. But he wasn’t exactly full of them at the moment, judging by the way things were outside.
"Ahh, what’s done is done." Kessler walked past his head and moved behind him, disappearing.
Butcher finally unglued himself from the thin carpet to look at Kessler but he was gone already. So instead he focused on getting up and smacking his lips loudly. His tongue felt like a piece of sandpaper inside his mouth. Standing up was a delicate operation that involved a lot of hand support and swaying, but he eventually managed to climb to his feet. And then he immediately looked towards the cage, stepping forward and forgetting about his aching joints.
Homelander was asleep. Butcher moved closer, watching him. He looked like a little plastic toy covered in a weird, undisclosed grime. The cheap bootleg kind of toy, the one with toxic paint and hollow insides, abandoned just a few steps away from the sand pit. Homelander was crumpled up against the wooden wall, the only vertical surface not blocked with metal bars. The cunt already had a favorite sleeping spot– he was settling in so well. He was wearing his favorite new t-shirt (a very weathered Margaritaville keepsake Billy found in one of the drawers– he couldn’t fathom why nobody looted this treasure) and his new favorite cotton shorts. His feet were bare and covered in dirt as if he walked through soot at some point. The floor of the cage was littered with empty water bottles, strewn about in weird clusters. Billy once caught him trying to build little constructions out of those, almost city-like in their planning. Maybe he was imagining himself flying between the see-through towers.
He approached the cage. Homelander’s chest was rising up and down, very carefully. His eyelids twitched. It didn’t seem like a restful slumber. Butcher put his hands on the door, gripping the bars tightly. He kept looking at the grown man he was now keeping in a cage he himself installed in the house. And then he rattled the door on its hinges.
Homelander jumped up, immediately. His hearing wasn’t what it used to be but that kind of noise would have woken up anyone. Blue eyes snapped wide open, completely stunned. Look to the left, to the right, before he finally focused on Butcher, his head swaying like it was made from lead.
"Morning, sunshine." Butcher grinned.
Homelander’s gaze narrowed, his lips formed a thin line.
"Oh, come on now. You were so happy to see me last night." Billy continued in that same sweet voice.
His prisoner sat up, very slowly. Billy couldn’t quite tell if he was moving so carefully because of the zip ties around his wrists and ankles or if there was something else causing him pain. There was something wormlike in the way he moved nowadays– limbs drawn together, moving in tandem because he had no other option. Homelander wet his lips, but didn’t respond. He just stared at him.
"Alright then." Billy let go of the cage door and stepped back. That worked like a charm.
"Where–" Homelander’s voice was so dry that he had to swallow whatever moisture was left in his throat and try again: "Where are you going?"
"To enjoy pissing in something other than a bucket."
Asshole , under Homelander’s breath.
Butcher cracked another self-satisfied smile at that. And turned around, making his way to the bathroom. The cabin had just one which was more than enough for him and his housemate. Just the toilet, a rusty bathtub and moisture-wicked wooden panels. No window. Someone mounted a stuffed deer head above the cracked sink. Whoever it was, they must have liked being watched by the plastic eyes while undressing.
He relieved himself and turned on the tap in the bath, waiting patiently for the slightly brown water to give way to a clearer stream. There was no time for a fancy bubble bath (not for him anyway) but there was enough time to get a rag wet and wipe off crusted blood from where it was pulling on his skin when he moved. He looked towards the sink, catching his reflection in the mirror covered in fly shit. The pure exhaustion in his eyes startled him.
"Definitely not winning any pageants soon." Kessler grinned at him from the toilet.
Jesus. What a stupid fucking thing to say. Billy got up, wiping his face with the stained rag and throwing it back at the sink. The plastic cup with a strangely clean toothbrush wobbled from the impact, threatening to fall. He needed to change his clothes, he could smell the sweat and sickness almost dripping off of them. But there were no spares on hand, so he didn’t. He’ll have to raid another abandoned Walmart to find something usable soon.
Butcher left the bathroom. After a nice morning hooker bath, breakfast was in order. The cabin had no kitchen to speak of, but there was a mini fridge and a couple of cabinets that worked just as well. He walked past the cage in the room, feeling the blue eyes following him. Grabbing a pack of beef jerky (the only thing he could stomach these days) and a bottle of water, he dragged a chair across the thin carpet and sat down in front of the cage. Wordlessly, he opened the greasy packet and ate thin pieces of meat, one by one. Just chewing them tired him out, but he had to eat something. Had to fuel this body somehow.
As he was watching Homelander, he was in turn watching him. Wary. Sensing a prelude to something. He was getting better and better at predicting danger. The cunt carried himself through life with no fear and never had to bother with being careful. But he was learning now. They looked at each other in complete silence, except for the rustling of the beef jerky packet. It took him a long time for Billy to finish his meal, but eventually there was nothing left, except for grease on his fingers. He wiped them on his pants.
"Right then. Water?" Butcher shifted on his chair, picking up the water bottle he set down on the floor before his meal.
"Kill me?" Homelander responded with a question. There was no real weight behind it, just a blind shot into the dark.
It was Kessler who howled with laughter but Billy found his own lips stretching and forming around the sound.
"You just don’t give up, do ya, cunt?" Butcher got up, shaking his head. He put the water bottle a few good inches away from the bars. Exactly on the sweet spot between reachable and unreachable.
Homelander sighed through his nose. But he started inching towards the water bottle, crawling on his side. Conjoined knees and elbows, like a slug on a hot pavement. With face pressed to the bars, he snaked his arms through and squeezed the air in front of the water bottle. Pure hot anger flashed in his bare teeth but only for a single, self-indulgent second. He already knew he didn’t get to show it anymore, that was reserved for those with power. With another puff of air, he flicked his blue eyes towards Butcher.
Billy was already back in his seat. "You need a fucking bath." He told him.
"Okay." Homelander replied immediately. Wasn’t he a good, agreeable lad when he wanted something? Just the best.
"Brush ya teeth too." Billy continued.
"Yes." Homelander gave one more attempt at squeezing his upper half through the bars, but his zip-tied hands didn’t get any closer to the bottle, the spaces between curled-up fingers far too wide. He was lying on the floor at this point, his face was smushed against the bars, completely distorted.
"And a shave?" Billy kept adding to the deal, haggling even though he held all the power in this transaction.
Homelander swallowed hard enough that Butcher heard his throat click all the way from his seat. He watched the former Supe close his eyes, just to give himself a little break from reality. Billy shot up from the chair and kicked the bottle away from the grasping hands. It rolled away with a cheap scraping noise and Homelander keened.
"Okay. Okay." He relented and his voice shot up a whiny, cracking octave. "A shave."
Butcher grabbed the bottle and dropped it inside the cage. "You know why I don’t feel sorry for you, cunt? If you actually wanted to die, you’d stop asking for food and water."
Two blue pools full of wetness glared at him. He knew this, Homelander knew this, they all knew this. Maybe he was being brave, maybe he was just too afraid to feel what death from starvation felt like. Either way, who actually cared? Butcher stood above him, watching him unscrew the bottle very carefully. He always tied Homelander with enough space between his wrists to be able to do some things on his own. At the beginning, he didn’t give him even an inch but eventually, he got tired of feeding him and giving him water. He most definitely got tired of helping him piss into a plastic bucket. Besides, it didn’t matter anymore. There was no way he could free himself now. Thin stripes of plastic were enough to keep him in place these days. Billy simply watched Homelander sink to the bottle and lift it up with just his teeth. Holding the bottle up with one hand, he made the plastic crackle with the force of his gulps, practically sucking the water out of it. Billy focused his stare on the zip ties around the shaking wrists, noting the red lines etched in the skin. Before Homelander could finish his drink, Billy reached in and yanked him, grabbing his shirt. With a surprised noise, Homelander dropped the bottle splashing water everywhere.
He didn’t fight him though. Billy manipulated the wrists closer to his eyes, almost lifting Homelander off the ground. The skin was rubbed raw, pink and angry– but there was no bleeding. Which meant he didn’t try to get out of them and stayed put like a good little captive.
Not offering a single word of explanation for this outburst, Billy let him go. Homelander slid down back to his familiar, crumpled-up pose on the floor. His throat clicked again, either savoring the last bit of water or swallowing down a scream. Butcher grabbed the keys off the hook on the nearby wall (always on display) and unlocked the cage door. Then before Homelander could shift away, he hauled him up to a half-sitting position and dragged him towards the bathroom.
"Ah, fuck." His prisoner whined. He was probably hoping that Butcher changed his mind. No such luck.
"How are those cracked ribs of yours?" Billy walked backward while dragging him, head hanging low right above Homelander’s matted mop of hair.
"Still ffffucking cracked!" Homelander hung onto the first syllable in ‘fucking’ for as long as he could before exploding into the rest of his sentence, flailing like a fish on the hook. There was so much desperation in his voice but Billy couldn’t tell if it was aimed at him, the one who cracked the ribs, or the useless body Homelander was stuck in. As a payback for this little outburst, he dragged him forcefully over the raised door frame to the bathroom, jostling him violently and drawing a gasp.
Butcher didn’t waste time once there. He pulled out a knife (always in his back pocket, no matter what) and cut Homelander’s ties around the ankles. They snapped and before Homelander could move, he grabbed his chin, hard. Homelander stilled immediately. Billy smiled, revealing his dark gums. Homelander glanced away, furious. And scared. Scared little cunt, no lasers, no strength, can’t even fly away. So used to taking whatever he wanted and now all he could do was let Butcher cut him into tiny little pieces.
"Up. On the loo." He let his breath wash over Homelander’s face before standing up straight. His prisoner pushed himself off the floor with both of his tied wrists and very slowly climbed on top of the toilet, bent at weird angles.
"You need to go?" Billy asked. The silent creature on the toilet seat shook its head, so Billy made a mental note to clean the bucket in the cage before locking it up again. He turned around to the sink behind them both, grabbed the toothbrush and the cheap plastic razor in both of his hands.
"Which one first?" He stretched out his palms, presenting the offerings.
Homelander didn’t respond, his head hanging low, gaze fixated on the bathroom panels. Butcher kicked the ceramic seat underneath him, the sudden movement startled Homelander enough to look up and pay attention. His gaze flicked between both hands, the whites of his eyes flashing like press cameras.
"The razor." He croaked out.
"Ah. Starting with the worst?" Butcher grinned knowingly. The cunt hated it, that much was obvious. He was already on edge, tensing up defensively. Billy leaned in, inspecting the face he imagined punching in and destroying too many times to count. There was some dark stubble framing it, though not very noticeable. Butcher seized him by his chin, digging his fingertips into his skin.
He probably could survive another day without his thoughtful grooming. But Homelander of the past had always been so clean-shaven and put together– just because he was a prisoner now it didn’t give him an excuse to let himself go. Butcher calmly explained this to him the first time he did this to him. He held him just like he was holding him now, his hand gripping Homelander’s chin, sometimes moving to his throat. Cheap razor sliding down his cheek, scraping stubble off, completely dry. He told him that just because he didn’t have his powers anymore– Homelander flinched at that and a little nick opened underneath the sliding blade. Butcher could recall it almost perfectly. Blood swelling up. Blue eyes opening wide. They still did that even now, even though it’s been almost two months of Homelander’s new existence. Every little wound still came as a shock, a complete indignation.
His breath quickened as he thought about that first shave. He cut him up plenty of times before and since, but there was something special about that little nick. In the present, he continued to drag the razor up and down, twisting Homelander’s head and adjusting its position as necessary. The man in his hold was doing his best not to move, lips pressed together with so much force they started to lose color. He knew the rules of this game already. Still hated it, for all the same reasons that made Billy look forward to it every time the stubble grew back to the point of being visible. Butcher looked down at this former god, sitting so still, not daring to even breathe harder than necessary– lest he gets cut again, lest he gets reminded of how easy it came these days.
Billy dug his fingers deeper, feeling the clenched teeth underneath the soft layers of meat and skin. Homelander finally squirmed and the dulled blade created a little flap of bright red on the cheekbone near his right ear. Butcher thought he could smell it. He was certain his senses weren’t any sharper after that one shot of V he took. Maybe he was imagining the iron-rich scent, maybe his dying brain was making up sensations just to keep him going for another day.
Homelander offered a pained noise. Butcher took that payment and moved on to the other side of his face. He was doing a shit job at the actual shaving; there were still rough patches left here and there. Billy continued his work in silence, save for the little puffs of air from his lungs. The tendrils underneath his ribs slid between them, making space for the labored breathing.
Homelander’s pupils shrank to little dots as he continued to stare to the side, away from Butcher. He was stewing inside, but he knew better than to really show it. A few more nicks, but far less than the last time they’ve done this. Butcher moved on to his throat, grabbing Homelander by his greasy hair and tilting his head back. His Adam’s apple jumped up and down. More dry scraping, the cheap razor left reddened tracks on the skin. One more little cut. A shuddered breath, owner unknown. Billy stepped away to look at his handiwork.
"There. Don’t you look church-ready." He hummed. A laser-free glare was the only response he got. "C’mon. Wasn’t that bad. Could’ve used the knife. Like the last time."
The remainder of the last time made Homelander disarm the already harmless stare. He dropped his gaze just a bit, but it was enough.
"Thought so." Billy threw the razor back into the sink. He reached for the glass knob and turned on the tap, splashing water on the toothbrush. The tube of toothpaste was on the floor, he wasn’t sure why it was there. Maybe there had been more struggle than he remembered. Pressing a little white bead onto the toothbrush, he instructed: "Open."
Homelander let out another sigh. First, he had to close his eyes. After all, there was a mirror in front of them. Only then his lips parted, allowing Butcher to calmly slide in the toothbrush. Billy gripped his chin again, this time without much force, and started to leisurely brush his teeth. The toothpaste turned to a minty foam and Homelander swallowed it almost immediately. He was probably starved for anything with a taste inside his stomach after two days. Butcher explored his mouth with the brush, enjoying how pliable the thing in his grasp was. Deciding he had enough after a few numbing minutes, he let go. Without a word, he turned on the water in the bathtub. Another flash of the knife from his back pocket and the zip ties around Homelander’s wrists fell to the ground as well.
Plugging the tub with a cork, he jerked his head at Homelander in an unspoken command to strip. Homelander squinted at him, rubbing at his left wrist. He was completely free now. Could just get up on his twiggy legs and book it from here. Run, run and run. Wouldn’t get very far though. And then he’d have to get punished and it would be this whole fucking thing. Butcher wasn’t looking forward to that after the night he just had. He was here to unwind.
"C’mon now, cunt. Take ‘em off and get in." He grabbed the exposed forearm and pulled the former Supe up. A little wobble moved through both of them.
"You make me sick, you know that?" Homelander hissed, but his arms dutifully crossed over his torso to shuck off the Jimmy Buffet t-shirt. Butcher wouldn’t mind a little Margaritaville moment right now.
But he reckoned that watching indignant, shaking Homelander strip from the clothes he himself put him in was the closest he was going to get to cheeseburgers in paradise. The shorts joined the shirt on the bathroom floor. The cunt didn’t stay still even for a second, not letting Butcher watch him any closer. All he got was a brief flash of the enormous pane of bruising on his left side, green and purple, like cartoon vomit. With a huffing step, Homelander got inside the bath and sat down with a splash. Butcher reached in to turn off the water, staring right into his eyes. Homelander didn’t look away this time and held his gaze.
"Alright then." Billy sat down on the now free toilet seat. He padded his shirt until his hands located a chest pocket with a cigarette pack. Fishing one cigarette out, he lit it with the cheap lighter squeezed inside the pack.
They sat in silence. The only sounds in the room were the sizzling of the musty tobacco in Butcher’s cigarette and an occasional splash of water when Homelander moved his hand to angrily wipe at his eyes or nose. When the first cigarette was gone, Butcher sparked another one immediately. It made his stomach lurch but he ignored it.
This was nice.
It took five chain-smoked cigarettes for Kessler to finally say something. He was standing in the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
"You could bleed him to death in the tub. Barely any clean-up to do."
"Mm." Butcher made a non-commital noise. Homelander’s head snapped in his direction, his blue eyes squinting at him. So paranoid. Must be torture for him to try and guess what was going on in his head without hearing his heartbeat.
Billy made sure not to look at Kessler and instead nodded at the wet thing in his bathtub. "Wanna know where I’ve been those past few days?"
Homelander went through several different facial expressions (disgust, feigned indifference, fear) before settling on something he deemed neutral. He shrugged with one shoulder.
Butcher explained, almost lazily: "Found another outpost. Followed the radio signals and they led me to another Supes camp. Mostly students. I’m thinking Godolkin." He flicked another cigarette butt into the sink. "They was all masked up– smart kids. Didn’t account for me though."
"Ugh, Jesus." Homelander dragged his wet hands down his face. And then shook his head at him. "You think I care about some spoiled, rich students?"
"Ain’t doing this for you." Billy sucked on his teeth.
No, this was all for him. He didn’t remember much from last night. Just glimpses of the sick flesh bursting from him and snaking into every tent, dragging bodies out, snapping necks, diving into guts until they sprayed blood and stomach contents. They fought back, of course. They were smart kids, brave too. But there was no stopping Kessler. No stopping them together.
They had a mission, a bit of a pinky promise. Every single Supe dead, no matter what. The plague did most of the work and now they just had to finish it.
"This, however–" Kessler gestured towards Homelander shivering in the tub. "—is just you, Butcher."
Billy let out an amused breath.
"Well, you know how it is. Gotta unwind after a hard day of work somehow." He said to Kessler and earned another stare from Homelander. Changing the topic, he glanced at the former Supe: "I should get you some bleach."
Almost instantly Homelander’s palm shot up to slick back his matted hair. His roots were showing, desperately. It was a fun little surprise to learn that the cunt wasn’t a perfect Mr. Aryan on his own.
"What do you care?" He scoffed.
"I think you do." Billy shrugged.
"I could give less of a shit." Homelander shook his head and pulled his knees up like a sulking child. A little glance towards him: "You know what I want."
Death, an escape from this powerless existence. Or Ryan. Either one of those.
Butcher hummed. "Yeah. And you know what I want." He got up from his seat.
"Jesus." Homelander shook his head again, this time with more force. Billy watched him attempt to blink away tears, looking at every place in the bathroom but the spot where he was standing.
Butcher wordlessly stepped outside the bathroom, grabbing a fresh set of zip ties from the nearby table. He had those stashed in every possible spot in the cabin. Turning around, he heard a splashing noise and was faced with a dripping, naked body. He calmly took in the furious blue eyes and clenched fists.
There was nothing that Homelander could do to him. Not anymore. But he kept forgetting that. Or maybe he was perfectly aware of that fact but still couldn’t act in any other way. Butcher watched his face twitch and contort, waiting patiently. What was it going to be this time?
An escape attempt. Homelander suddenly leaped forward and squeezed past him (cock flopping wildly), still dripping with water. Butcher let him get a few steps in, listening to the desperate slaps of Homelander’s wet feet on the wooden panels. And then Kessler reached out through him, tendrils shooting up and dragging him back. Homelander gasped as his back slammed against Billy’s chest. The cancerous tentacles flexed around his every limb, then they made sure to completely cover his waist in a moving, squirming layer.
"Fuck– fuck, stop." Homelander choked on something in his throat when the sick flesh squeezed around the cracked ribs.
"And you’ve been so good this morning. Took that shave like a champ." Butcher sighed, forcing a bored tone. They’ve been here before, too many times. At this point, he was starting to doubt Homelander’s ribs were ever going to heal.
He reached around the struggling body in his hold and grabbed the wrists in one hand. Applying pressure, he squeezed out the fight from his captive who let out a frustrated hiss-whine and went slack in his hold. The mop of half-blond, half-brown hair was now resting on his shoulder almost like a lover would. Standing this close Butcher could feel every pained breath drawn in and released, moving through Homelander like a stuttering wave. The zip tie loop went around the wrists and closed, tighter than before.
"You’re losing clothes privileges for this." Billy informed him factually.
"Don’t fucking touch me with those disgus–" Homelander didn’t finish the sentence, Billy squeezed his entire body again and cut that short. His little chew toy. He could reach in and pluck the voice box out of it if he wanted to.
Butcher let him go. The disease slinked back inside him and he pushed Homelander towards the only couch in the room. He stumbled and went down to his knees, face pressed against the green fabric.
"You know exactly what I want." Unprompted, Butcher picked up his previous thought from the bathroom. He followed Homelander with another set of zip ties in his hands. He set to work while the body on the floor stiffened: "I want you to suffer. I want you to feel every single kind of pain humans go through." He tightened the zip tie noose around the ankles, watching the skin bulge around them, on the top and the bottom. More wetness in the bluest eyes he’s ever seen this up close. "Then I want you to see what I did to your little Supes regime. Because I won’t fucking rest until every single one of you is dead."
He drew back to his full height to observe the crumpled-up body beneath him. Red-rimmed gaze met his own, but it wasn’t angry anymore. Just panicked, confused. Butcher loved to see him like this. Regretfully, there was no other way to describe how much he enjoyed seeing him like this. He didn’t just like it, he loved to see Homelander tragically out of his depth.
"And then, yeah, mate. I’ll kill ya. Or I’ll let you go. Just to see if you’re gonna blow your brains out. Maybe throw yourself off a cliff to see if you can still fly. I won’t give a shit then." Butcher was hauling him up to the couch now. He sat down next to him, thighs touching, and he wrapped his arm around him as if Homelander was his extremely wired cinema date. "‘course, you know, I have to find Ryan first."
Homelander’s lips moved but no noise left them.
"Shh, shh." Billy shushed him anyway. "I made a promise. It’s not up to me."
"Damn right." Kessler was watching them from the chair in front of the cage.
Nobody knew where Ryan was. Once he stormed out on both of them, not even Homelander could find him. Part of the reason he was able to set up a Soldier Boy-powered trap for him was because Homelander was just too busy looking for Becca’s boy, too busy to watch his own backyard.
Every day Butcher tried his best to guess where Ryan was. Assuming he was even alive. He had a feeling he was. And given how Homelander reacted every time he brought him up, there had to be some weight to that assumption. Right now, he was shaking his head, tears flowing freely yet again.
"Oi, oi. You’re gonna get dehydrated again." Butcher tried to flatten his tone, acting like he didn’t just go on an unhinged tirade. He would’ve made a very convincing villain in one of those old Vought movies.
"Shut up." Homelander snarled in the last vestige of the fight he had left in him. Butcher squeezed whatever exposed flesh was between his fingers, warning him. But then he let him go.
"Now, we’re gonna sit here. You’re gonna let me gloat a bit and then I’m gonna feed you. That’s all I’m gonna do today, alright? I’m bloody knackered and you’re not helping." Butcher raised his arms defensively.
Homelander didn’t respond. Which didn’t matter. Butcher already couldn’t remember a single flash of what happened in that student camp yesterday. Kessler smugly sucked on a smokeless cigarette, swallowing the memory and tucking it away. There was still so much work left to do. But there was also something to look forward to every time he came home. That’s why Kessler made his bored threats against Homelander but ultimately let Billy keep him. He’d let Butcher have anything as long as it kept him focused on their promise. Theirs, not Becca’s.
Something churned in his stomach. But he simply got up and patted Homelander’s bruised shoulder as he moved towards their little kitchen to grab the cunt something with vitamin C to stave off scurvy.
The world was falling apart but Butcher was doing pretty well, actually.