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He buried his dog in the garden of Aunt Judy's house. Terror had lived with her longer than he had with him and Becca, so in a way, Butcher was bringing him home.
Hughie insisted on helping him bury Terror. Maybe he felt bad that nobody else came. They didn't come because Butcher didn't invite them. Either way, Hughie stood right next to him, and his hand on Butcher's shoulder was probably the only reason he hadn't done anything more drastic.
"He was a good dog," Hughie said.
Butcher nodded slowly.
He didn't do something drastic then, but he would have to do it soon.
That charged blast from Kimiko took away his powers, but didn't quite cure the black mass in his skull. The nosebleeds started soon after Terror's funeral. The first time Butcher woke up with a bloody pillow, he could only smile as though he'd seen an old friend.
In a way, he was glad dying was back on.
He decided to stay at Aunt Judy's old house, right where he buried his dog. He didn't want to go back to New York with Hughie. What was even the point? Vought was still in charge, Stan Edgar was about to be crowned again, and Butcher sure as shit didn't want to walk the streets with brand-new Supe-cunts staring at him from billboards. No, he stayed in the quiet cul-de-sac, with most of the neighboring houses still abandoned after the purges organized by the previous government. He ordered groceries, smoked cigarettes, and started stockpiling painkillers.
He knew he should go see a doctor. He didn't. He sat in Judy's chintzy living room, with his boots on her coffee table, and watched the news while his brain slowly churned itself inside his skull.
* * *
The first time he saw him, it was dead of night. Butcher got himself piss-drunk, drunk enough to go looking for the raw patch of earth that hid Terror from him. Butcher stumbled outside, bursting through the patio doors, his legs swaying while his head felt like it was going to split in two. He wanted to apologize to him—he'd promised Terror he'd reunite him with his mom, and it had just dawned on him that he'd failed him. He really couldn't keep a single promise in his life. Butcher promised to visit Lenny, never did. Promised that he'd get Becca back, never did. Promised to keep Ryan out of danger, never did. Promised to get rid of Supes for Kessler, never did.
The only promise he managed to keep was to Homelander. That was the only one.
As he filled his lungs with cold night air in desperate gulps, he saw him. Standing by Terror's grave, looking at it. His cape was motionless despite the breeze.
Butcher stilled.
He watched the blond head turn toward him and send an award-winning smile over the eagle-bearing shoulder.
"William." Homelander greeted him. "What a surprise."
Butcher didn't say anything. All at once, he could feel the sick warmth of blood swelling in his nostrils and dripping down his face.
"You don't look too hot." Homelander pursed his lips.
He could see him so well, the sharpest and most defined thing he had ever seen in his life. Lit up as though there were a spotlight directed at him, making his garish suit glow in the dark. Homelander watched him with amusement, waiting for him to say something.
"You're dead," Butcher rasped.
"Yeah, no shit." Homelander rolled his blue eyes at him, and for a second, something switched. The tape had skipped, played something else underneath it, and the Homelander in front of him was now staring at him with a bloodied face, swollen lips, dead eyes, and a dripping hole in his skull that Butcher had carved out himself not too long ago. But then he blinked, and Homelander was back to his pristine, TV-ready self. "I'm dead, your dog is dead, and guess what, buddy—you're not that far behind."
Butcher just stood there as Homelander turned around on his heels in a dance-like movement. As he walked toward him, the blades of grass did not bend beneath his boots.
"I know you feel it. That tumor in your head." Homelander was closer and closer, his tone lower and lower. "It's back. I mean, it never left. You just hit the pause button on it with Compound V. And then you made the very smart decision of burning it out of your body just to get me." Homelander pouted at him. "Oops."
The ghost stopped just two steps away from him. Butcher raised a shaky forearm to his seeping nose, trying to stop the deluge of blood. His skull now felt squeezed from every side imaginable, threatening to crush itself under its own pressure. He knew this feeling; he had felt it every time not-Kessler or not-Becca spoke to him.
"Y-you're not here," Butcher tried to dispel him again.
"That thing you did with the crowbar?" Not-Homelander ignored him. He mimicked hollowing something out with one hand. "Maybe you should try it on yourself. You could just scoop the cancer right out."
"Kessler—" Butcher started, only to get cut off.
"Oh, come onnnnnn, William." Homelander scoffed explosively, glancing to the side. "You think that's what your brain wants to see now? Some guy you left in the trenches forever ago? No, no. I'm topical. Relevant. I'm still it. I'm the one you're still thinking about while the whole world has moved on."
Butcher shambled forward. He knew he was talking to the black sludge in his head, but it looked like Homelander, so he had to do something, grab him, shake him, kill him again. He raised his arm and swiped clumsily. His splayed fingers went through the air; the momentum of the unconnected touch sent him stumbling and then collapsing face-first into the cool grass. He almost gasped with relief as it brushed against his burning, bloodied skin.
"Didn't you just say I'm not really here?" Homelander leaned over him and looked at him with very exaggerated confusion on his face. "Is the tumor making you stupid, too?"
Butcher curled up onto his side. Nausea twisted in his guts like a knife, a wave of bile squeezing its way up. For some reason, his eyes began to sting too. Hot, so hot, hotter than the blood dripping out of his nose and ears. He knew that if a neighbor happened to come outside now, they'd see him curled up on the lawn and silently weeping in front of nothing.
"Aww, William." Homelander cooed somewhere above him as Butcher stared at the tips of his red boots. "You didn't cry at your dog's funeral, but you're crying now?"
He was. Somehow, Butcher only now understood he really was going to die, and this time there was no suicide mission that would make it make sense. He took that option away when he sank that crowbar into the newly frail skull of Homelander, the real Homelander.
He did this to himself, and for what? For Ryan to leave, for his dog to die, for a few days of news headlines, and for Stan Edgar to be back in the CEO chair.
"Stings, doesn't it?" Homelander asked quietly.
"Shut the fuck up," Butcher whispered. "You're fuckin' dead. I killed you."
"Yourself too." Homelander drew himself up with a little smile on his face. "Funny how that works."
* * *
Butcher woke up in his bed. He didn't remember making it back to the house. It was bright outside now, and the light made his eyes hurt.
The TV was on. That made his head hurt.
He turned onto his back. That made his entire body hurt, too.
"Morning, sleepyhead." A voice next to him.
Butcher opened one eye to see him, of course. Homelander was sitting in the chair next to his bed, attentive as a nurse. There was a spilled glass of water on the floor beneath his crossed legs. The ghost grinned at him effortlessly. He looked ready for a breakfast show, ready to share tips on how to stay in shape and discuss the most recent VCU film.
Homelander continued to smile, and Butcher closed his eyes. His head was killing him, but he couldn't tell if it was the tumor or just the reliability of a hangover.
"Go away," he rasped. His throat was so dry that it hurt to speak.
"And go where? I'm inside you." Not-Homelander was still grinning at him. Butcher could tell that just from the tone of his voice.
Butcher lifted a shaky hand to his face and pressed it against his eyes, shielding them further from even the tiniest cracks of light that slipped between his eyelids. Maybe if he ignored the cunt, it would get bored with him.
"I won't. You don't even know how happy I am to see you like this," Homelander immediately debunked that theory.
"You're not happy," Butcher ground out through his teeth. "You're not anythin', happy or sad. You're my dyin' brain misfirin' on all cylinders and makin' me see things."
"Oh, I know that. I'm just trying to stay in character." The cancer colony in his brain that wore a face that once decorated magazine covers purred at him. "Come on, play with me here, William. I'm gonna need a bit more yes-and from you, less please-god-no."
Butcher clenched his eyelids tighter. "What the fuck d'you want from me?"
He knew he was talking to an empty chair right now. He knew. But that special tumor in his brain, created from his bad decisions and Vought's cutting-edge technology, made everything seem so real. And while before he could make Kessler go away by accepting his mission, he had no idea how to exorcise this specific ghost.
"Nothing," Homelander replied with an implied shrug. Butcher could even hear the slither of his cape that would accompany a movement like that. "You're sick and dying, and I'm just here to keep you company."
"Yeah? No deals with the devil this time?" Butcher finally craned his head and peeked between his fingers at his cancer made manifest.
"Nope." Homelander popped his lips.
Butcher felt his mouth twitch into a smile. Right.
He slowly swayed himself upright. Homelander watched him, one elbow on the back of the chair, the rest of his body so relaxed. In total contrast, Butcher had to work hard to convince his stiff legs to even swing over the side of the bed so he could get up. Nausea grabbed him, but he powered through, taking his first step toward the stairs. He had to drink something before his tongue shriveled and fell off. The blue eyes watched him leave with amusement.
He climbed down the stairs one step at a time, holding onto the railing with both hands. Butcher left the colorful, flag-wrapped ghost upstairs, but when he finally shambled into the kitchen, Not-Homelander was already there, waiting for him with another little grin on his face.
Butcher ignored him, pouring himself a glass of tap water with a shaky hand. The clothes he slept in were soaked with sweat after this little trek.
"Yikes, William. How long do you think you've got left?" Homelander asked somewhere behind him. "A month?"
Butcher ignored him again. He drank his water in tiny sips, slow enough not to throw up.
"Seriously, that double-suicide plan you had going on with Ryan would have treated you better," Homelander added, so casually.
The glass slipped out of Butcher's hand, shattering in the sink. He turned around, his nostrils flaring, teeth bared.
"This ain't how you acted when you begged me to spare your worthless fuckin' life," he snarled at the Supe in the kitchen.
Homelander wasn't smiling anymore. He raised both brows at him.
"You fuckin' asked me to suck my cock. You wanted to eat my shit on live TV," Butcher reminded him in a growl. "You almost pissed yourself like a fuckin' baby."
He had already forgotten that this Homelander wasn't real. Real Homelander was rotting somewhere in the ground, or maybe cremated and dumped from the top of the Vought Tower.
"Is that how you want me to be?" Not-Homelander asked. "Is that what's going to bring you comfort in your final days?"
Before Butcher could answer, Homelander was suddenly on the floor, on his knees, his nose broken and bloody again. Both of his arms were wrapped around Butcher's thighs, his face pressed against his crotch, and he felt it; he somehow felt all of that. He felt the trembling weight around his legs, Homelander's hot breath on the zipper of his jeans. He inhaled sharply, trying to lean away, but the counter behind him stopped him, and in front of him, he had an insurmountable wreck of a man. Scorched, covered in bruises, one eye flooded with blood, the other leaking tears. Butcher gripped the counter with one hand. His stomach churned at the sight of the canyon in the middle of Homelander's skull. From this angle, he could see the remnants of pink brain matter inside that cavern, mixed with bloodied strands of hair and bone shards.
Homelander gasped wetly, pulling back from him only so he could find his eyes.
"I'll do it—I can suck you off, I'll do anything, please—" He wheezed at him, his voice laced with the struggle of a punctured lung. "Please, don't kill me—"
Butcher could only look, eyes wide with shock, nausea rising.
"Please, I'll let you fuck me, whatever I did to Becca—" Homelander paused to swallow whatever mucus or blood had gathered in his throat, then continued, more tears dropping, more snot shining on his cut lip. "—you can do it to me, you can do it so much worse, please—"
Butcher felt his lips move, but nothing came out. Homelander stared at him with pure terror in his eyes until something changed in them, a glint that was as far removed from a tear as humanly possible. Homelander's voice remained pleading, but the words became twisted:
"You can fuck the hole in my head that you made, is that what you want?" Homelander climbed higher on his knees, closer to him. "Is that what you want?"
"Jesus Christ—" All Butcher could muster was a shaky whisper. Then the disgust managed to break through the shock, and he was yelling, kicking the broken thing on the floor away. "Get the fuck away from me, you sick fuckin' bastard—"
Homelander collapsed back, falling flat on his caped ass. The ghost from his head stared at Butcher from the floor, a pink sliver of his tongue swiping some of the blood from his upper lip, cheeky as all fuck.
"Some other time, then?" The minced meat that constituted Homelander's face grinned at him.
"Shut your fuckin' mouth." Butcher felt his chest heave. He wanted to kill this thing all over again; he wanted to grab its skull and pull at its open edges until he opened its head like a Venus flytrap.
"You really should have let me kill you," Homelander mused casually.
"Shut the hell up," Butcher repeated, gripping the counter behind him so hard that his wrist started to shake.
"William, you know how this tumor bullshit works—" Homelander swayed up to his feet, dripping brain matter all over his aunt's kitchen floor. He stumbled a bit, but then he was back to his full height. He caught Butcher's eyes, suddenly so solemn. "—everything I say to you, you've already thought of before."
Butcher suddenly remembered he was talking to himself.
As soon as that thought formed in his brain, Homelander disappeared. The kitchen was empty again.
He exhaled shakily, wiping at his face.
* * *
Obviously, the ghost was back the next day. And the next. In fact, Homelander started to show up in every waking moment of Butcher's life. Sometimes bloodied, sometimes immaculate. The way he acted depended on Butcher's mood, something he learned very quickly. If he had more fight in him, then Homelander taunted him with his battered body, teasing him with the fact that he could not do anything more to it. One morning, Butcher awoke to Homelander sitting at the foot of the bed like a dog, his head resting on the mattress, bleeding all over it, and watching him with a gentle smile that showed off his chipped incisor.
But when Butcher was bowed over a toilet bowl, throwing up black sludge into it, Homelander would sit on the edge of the bath, in a freshly pressed suit, his body full of Compound V.
"Eugh," he would comment as Butcher purged another wave of half-digested food and whatever toxins his tumor was seeping into the tissues of his body. "That's disgusting, William."
Butcher ignored him, most of the time.
But he did reply to him when things got bad. When the headache was so utterly unmaking and unraveling that all he could do was curl up wherever he collapsed, sweat dripping down his temples, his veins swamped with pain. That was when he talked to him.
"Fuck—make it stop—" he would beg the red boots standing in his field of vision, obscured by the thin veil of tears.
Homelander usually hummed something in response, not even a word. Just a sound to let him know he was there. And not helping.
"Fuck you, you f-fucking—" Butcher liked to curse him out in moments like these.
"Say please," Homelander drawled, leaning over him. "I was nice when I begged you to stop."
"Fuck—" Butcher gasped, still on the floor like a half-squashed bug, no limbs but enough organs still functioning to keep writhing. "You fuckin' cunt, you're dead, you shit-eatin' cunt—"
"You know, I'm starting to think I got off lucky." The red boots stepped over him, disappearing somewhere to the side while Butcher grabbed his head with both hands because if he didn't hold it together, it was going to explode—
"C-cunt—" Butcher choked out when another ice-hot stab of pain erupted somewhere behind his left eye.
Homelander clicked his tongue. "Alright, relax already."
All at once, everything stopped. Not just the pain. Everything. Everything was gone so completely that Butcher thought he must have died just then.
But then the world suddenly came rushing back. He gasped as he returned to his body, but somewhere else. He was in the upstairs bathtub now, completely naked, his hair wet. The water splashed, sending suds everywhere as his whole body jerked violently. Butcher pressed his back against the wall, panicked—
"What the f—" he breathed, his chest heaving.
And then he realized his head wasn't splitting open anymore. He almost felt whole.
"You were starting to stink." Homelander was sitting on the toilet, fully clothed, unlike him. He wore a bored expression.
"You—" Butcher blinked at him, craning his head toward him.
"I gave you a bath. Like a dog. You're welcome." Homelander got up and leaned against the sink, right in front of him. He narrowed his eyes slightly at Butcher's confused face. "Oh, right. You forgot that I can just take over your body when I feel like it."
Butcher focused on breathing through his nose, one hand clutching the edge of the bathtub. Kessler used to do that—not-Kessler. Jesus Christ, so many ghosts in his head, his leaky fucking head. Before Butcher managed to tame those tendrils that used to live in his body, he remembered moments of blacking out and then coming to much later, usually to some sort of bloodbath.
He had forgotten that this could still happen. Or he had just pretended it was no longer a possibility. The idea of Homelander, even a fake one, wearing his body like a suit made him clench his jaw.
"Oh, relax. I'm not taking you anywhere. Like I want to live the rest of my life as Billy Butcher." Homelander rolled his eyes.
One thing the tumor always got right when it pretended to be Homelander: it always made him say his name like an insult, just like the real deal. Good attention to detail.
"Thank you." The ghost pressed a gloved hand to his chest.
Butcher exhaled roughly, leaning back in the bathtub. He didn't even care that he was completely naked in front of that cunt. He was just glad the headache was gone, as pathetic as it made him feel.
"It's only gonna get worse from here, buddy," Homelander told him.
"Shut up," Butcher rasped, closing his eyes.
* * *
The blackouts started happening more frequently. In the morning, he would be stumbling down the stairs, and before he could reach the final step, everything would go completely dark. Then Butcher would wake up somewhere else, in a different part of the house, and one time—horrifyingly—at the cash register of the nearest gas station.
"Will that be all, sir?" The clerk blinked at him, confused by the stunned silence he offered her.
"I—" His mouth moved as he looked around, trying to understand where he was. Butcher's gaze darted down to the counter. A whole carton of cigarettes and an obnoxiously red-and-blue slushie. "I—yeah. That's all."
"Okay," the clerk said slowly, clearly thinking she was dealing with some creep. "Cash or card?"
"Card—wait, without the—" He pointed at the slushie with a hand he could barely lift.
"I already made it, sir..." the clerk protested, bracing herself for another annoying customer-service moment.
"Yeah, I... I'll pay for it, just—throw it away, love." Butcher exhaled, patting the pockets of his coat for his wallet, which thankfully was still there.
The clerk made another strange face at him. She was probably glad to see him stiffly march out of the gas station. Butcher's car was parked outside, right beside the first pump. And on top of it, there was a red-white-and-blue ghost with that fucking slushie in his hand.
"You fuckin' cunt," Butcher ground out through his teeth the second he sat behind the wheel of his car.
Homelander, who was sitting next to him now, took another sip of the slushie. Loudly.
Butcher looked down at his body. The body that had driven him there without his input at all. His heart lurched.
I need to tell someone, he thought. Ryan or MM or—
"If you even try to as much as send a text to Campbell, I'm gonna make you eat that phone." Homelander was fiddling with the car seat now, leaning back far enough to put his clown-red boots on the dashboard. "No one can help you now, William. It's too late."
Butcher was silent for a moment.
"Yeah," he nodded slowly.
And he twisted the keys in the ignition, driving back to Aunt Judy's house. Back to his hell on Earth.
* * *
More headaches, more blackouts. Day after day, all of them bleeding into each other. It was hard to tell the time anymore as his life turned into a series of glimpses. He felt submerged under water so black that he couldn't see a thing. Sometimes he would come up for just one short breath of air, take control of his body for a few moments—until a red-gloved hand dunked him back into that black ocean. So black that Butcher had to wonder if maybe he had already drowned. Then another glimpse would arrive.
This time, he woke up on a couch. Butcher blinked carefully. His body was slumped, and he was slowly but surely filling it out again, taking control of each individual neuron and muscle strand. Aunt Judy's living room was dark, except for one singular source of light. The TV was on. Butcher wet his lips, looking at the flickering screen.
"Is that what you're doin' with my body now?" he rasped. "Just watchin' the telly all day?"
"Shh." Homelander shushed him without even looking at him. He was sitting on the coffee table, legs crossed, his red boot kicking the air in a nervous rhythm. "Look at that. Stan Edgar's welcome-back speech."
Butcher attempted to focus his blurry gaze on the screen. He could see a podium, and behind it, presumably Stan Edgar. The voice sounded familiar enough.
"—from now on, I want to make it clear that Vought only has one mission. Making sure that what happened with Homelander will never happen again." The blurry Stan Edgar addressed the camera, his tone as calm and measured as ever. "Vought was created to protect those in need, and I assure you, we will stand as this country's vanguards once more—"
"Jesus," Homelander muttered. "They're eating this up."
Butcher let out an amused breath. At least the cunt was distracted enough by the screen to let him sit up and stretch his legs.
"They're just gonna let him waltz in and take the company again." The blond head shook slowly, seemingly in disbelief.
"Yeah, well. What did ya expect?" Butcher rasped.
That wasn't a fair question. He also thought everything would be so different after Homelander's death. But in the end, it was like it had never happened at all.
"You left me there," Homelander said suddenly, his head hanging low.
"Eh?" All Butcher could manage was a questioning noise. Someone turned off the TV. The room went dark again.
"You left my body there," Homelander explained.
Butcher blinked. The caped cunt turned around to look at him, and Butcher had to sternly remind himself that this was his tumor, this was his fucked-up cancer talking to him—but the problem was, it didn't seem like the tumor itself remembered that. The shining eyes Homelander was looking at him with were too real, too wounded.
"You left me there to be grabbed by Vought again," the ghost whispered, maybe too afraid to raise his voice in case it cracked.
Butcher stared back at him.
"I bet they pulled every drop of fluid out of my spine," Homelander glanced up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. A sudden scoff rocked his body. "I bet they drained my balls dry so they could squeeze one last bit of value out of that investment." Another shake of his head, so resigned now. "They're growing another Homelander in a test tube somewhere as we speak, and you know it."
Butcher waited a moment before answering.
"Yeah," he confirmed with a heavy exhale.
He had considered that. But it was a thought that was easy to ignore when it was just that, a thought. It felt more pressing when someone else said it. Especially in that voice.
"You went through all this trouble." Homelander turned to look at the dead screen. "Ruined your body, got Frenchie killed, made Ryan hate you, killed me—just so all of this can happen all over again?" Homelander paused. He glanced over his shoulder at him, and there was that voice crack that had been a long time coming: "—in some shitty fucking sequel?"
Butcher wet his lips again. He didn't know what to say.
"I know you're mad," Homelander added quietly. "That's not how things were supposed to go. We said scorched earth, not—everything as it used to be. This fucking mudball doesn't deserve that."
"You want Vought gone? You?" Butcher raised a brow at the caped cunt. Jesus, now he was talking like this was the actual Homelander in front of him.
"You think I'd want Stan Edgar to win?" Homelander shook his head. "You think I'd want to be replaced?"
Butcher thought about it for only a second.
"No. You wouldn't."
The ghost stood up. His cape swayed slowly from side to side as he approached Butcher.
"We don't have to fight anymore." Homelander stood in front of him, lit only by the moonlight outside the house. "We can still fix it. I just need you to say the word, William."
"Fix it?" Butcher repeated, his throat getting dry.
"Oh, please. You know where MM hid the virus." Homelander leaned down and cradled his face with gloved hands. The dying brain inside Butcher's skull even supplied the smell of dyed leather to go with the touch. "You've been thinking about it. This whole time."
Butcher closed his eyes.
"You can fix it. It's what I would've wanted," Homelander whispered. His thumb carded through Butcher's beard.
"You ruined my fuckin' life," Butcher breathed. "I don't give a shite about what you would've wanted—"
"I gave your life meaning," Homelander mused. "I think that's the opposite of ruining it."
Butcher clenched his eyelids harder to stop the tears from swelling.
And then all he could say was:
"Just let me warn Hughie when it's time."
He grabbed the hands around his face and squeezed them in agreement. The black behind his eyelids became even darker, swallowing him whole.
* * *
Next time he woke up, he was in Grace's old safehouse, the one she shared with Ryan once upon a time. His body was kneeling on the wooden floor, breathing in the freshly disturbed dust. The safe in Grace's closet was already cracked open, the vial with the virus waiting to be grabbed. He briefly wondered how the fuck Homelander had gotten inside it, but then he remembered that if he knew the combination, then so did his own brain tumor.
Butcher looked around. It was still dark. Homelander must have dragged him out there right after that conversation. He couldn't see him anywhere. For the first time in weeks, he felt fully in control of his body.
He glanced at his hand. His phone was in it, Hughie's contact information already pulled up. Butcher's breath shuddered.
He pressed the call button.
Hughie picked up after a long, long while. He tried his best to sound like he hadn't just woken up, but his voice was still hoarse and confused.
"Butcher—? Are you okay? Is something—?"
"Oi-oi, lad," Butcher rasped into the phone. "Look, Hughie—I just wanted to..."
Apologize. Explain myself. Tell you I'm sorry for dragging you into this mess. Sorry that I made you into my conscience. No wonder I needed you. I think I'm losing a fight to the one in my head right now.
He didn't say any of that.
He just breathed out, "Someone stole the virus."
"What?" Hughie woke up immediately. Butcher could hear him shuffle in bed, sitting up. "W-who? Are you in the safehouse?"
"Yeah, and I'm lookin' at an empty safe," Butcher confirmed. It was empty because the vial was already in his hand.
"Shit. Shit, fuck—" Hughie hissed. Someone let out a confused noise next to him.
"Hughie," Butcher said slowly. "Starlight needs to run, and you need to find Kimiko. This shit might be already spreading."
"Wait, hold on, w-we can try to find whoever took it and—"
"Hughie, there's no time. You got a kid on the way. Do the right thing." Butcher interrupted him. Then he added, softer now, "Sorry, lad."
"Butcher—"
He hung up. Before Hughie could call him back, Butcher slipped the SIM card out of his phone and snapped it in two. He then pulled out his cigarette pack and put one between his lips. The sound of his lighter clicking was probably the loudest noise this abandoned house had heard in a while.
Homelander was back in the room, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.
"Ready now?" he asked.
Butcher took a long drag of his cigarette. Maybe he should have called Ryan before snapping the card. He had a feeling that Homelander would have let him.
"I would have," Homelander said. "But I also know you wouldn't have called him."
"Then I'm ready." Butcher got up from the floor.
This time, the world didn't have to go dark. Homelander simply stepped into his body, filling it so perfectly, and it felt right. It felt like this whole time, Butcher had been nothing but a waiting receptacle for him.
They had hollowed each other out a long time ago, and with one of them dead, there was no more weight to this life. No wonder Butcher was aimlessly drifting away after his death.
But at least they could fix this now.
Butcher watched his own body as their perspectives swapped. Now he was the one leaning against the wall, while the Butcher in front of him smiled. The grin was off, too perfect, too cinematic. Too Homelander. Something else wore his skin and clothes now, but it didn't matter. It had lived there for a long time now.
His body got into the car, and he followed after it without a word. The virus vial clinked in the pocket of their coat.
* * *
Getting into Vought Tower was easier than expected. Maybe it was the fact that the company was still scrambling to put together the new Seven, and they didn't actually have any Supes guarding the premises. Or maybe it was because they made sure to get in before the morning rush.
Homelander led him into the basement level as if he actually knew where he was going, and not just following memories of the schematics Butcher had studied over and over. He steered their body with so much confidence that it really felt like this was his kingdom, one he was returning to raze before anyone else got to have it.
They dumped the virus into the fire suppression tanks. Butcher watched the black ink drip into the water and disappear immediately.
As they left, a guard spotted them just as they were calling the elevator up. Vought goons were trained to shoot first and ask questions later—and that was how their body ended up bleeding from a gunshot wound to the gut. Butcher managed to clip a few guards in return before the doors shut behind them. He pulled his shirt up and stared bewildered at the massive splotch of red overtaking every other color in the fabric.
"Oof." Homelander stood next to him in the elevator, puppeteering his hand to press the button for Floor 99. "That doesn't look good."
Butcher shook his head, trying his best to ignore the waves of hot blood pouring from him. The gunshot wound didn't hurt; maybe his tumor had turned off his pain receptors. But with V burned out of him, there was no way he could survive a wound like this.
But that was fine. They both entered the Tower knowing they would not leave it.
The elevator dinged. Butcher stumbled toward the conference room, passing by not-yet-removed sculptures of the Seven. He briefly stopped in front of an elaborate gilded relief of Homelander, bracing himself against it. He stared at the massive cape, at the golden halo behind his head.
Butcher wondered if the real Homelander would actually be grateful for this. Maybe he would get to ask in whatever afterlife waited for him.
"That's a nice thought," his Homelander told him.
Butcher snorted and pushed himself away from the relief, leaving a bloody handprint on it.
His legs were barely working, but he managed to get inside the conference room while various shouts echoed through the hallways. It sounded like Vought had finished mobilizing its little army, and it was coming his way.
Homelander was waiting for him by the main chair at the head of the V-shaped table. He pulled it back, inviting him.
Butcher had to support himself with the edge of the table, but he managed to collapse in the saved seat. He turned in the chair with effort, now looking out at the city. It was quiet. The sun was almost up, filling the room with beautiful orange light.
He sighed. "The view's nice. Is it always this nice?"
"Always," Homelander confirmed quietly, standing in front of the glass now. "That was my favorite part of coming here."
Butcher selfishly committed the sight of still-calm New York to his memory.
And then he pulled a cigarette from the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt. He managed to put it between his lips, but that was the last effort his tired, sick body would allow him.
"I can't—I can't move my arms," Butcher whispered.
"I got you, William," Homelander purred into his ear. His left hand twitched and moved on its own.
It grabbed his lighter. Put it up to his cigarette. Waited for him.
Butcher inhaled and sparked it himself.
The fire alarm went off immediately, and every sprinkler in Vought Tower flooded the offices with virus-tainted water. In just a few seconds, it would become ground zero for the first and probably last Supe pandemic ever.
And all Butcher could think about was that he was glad the sprinklers didn't put out his cigarette. He took a long drag as more hurried footsteps drew near the conference room. He glanced down at his wound. Judging by how heavy his eyelids were getting, he had to be on the verge of bleeding out.
He looked at Homelander standing in front of him, hands behind his cape, the usual pose Butcher associated with him. His hair was dry despite the ongoing contaminated shower around them. His eyes looked gentler than they had any right to be.
"Can you stay?" Butcher asked as the alarms continued to wail around them.
"Oh, William." Homelander breathed. "Of course I can. You stayed with me till the end."
Butcher nodded in gratitude, barely able to move his head. He didn't have enough strength to take one last drag of his cigarette. His lips parted slightly, and it fell to the floor. Homelander smiled at him as New York continued to get blurrier and blurrier behind him.
"Good night, hero."
Butcher smiled too. And closed his eyes.