Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Becca loves Christmas. She always has. She readily admits that she is one of the annoying people who starts buying decoration in August. Who calls the start of November 'Christmas the First,' who listens to 'Last Christmas' and 'All I Want For Christmas Is You' on a loop as soon as the leaves start turning red. Who laughs and runs outside when she sees the first snow of the year. When she was Becca Saunders, she had Rachel as her partner-in-crime. Now, she is Becca Butcher, and her husband would probably forget it's the holidays if she's not here to tell him. But it doesn't matter because once reminded, he lets her do her thing. He's not enthusiastic about it, but he lets her. Looks at her that certain way when she hangs up decoration upon decoration. When she starts dressing up Terror to look like an elf. Sometimes, she jokingly calls Billy her Ebenezer Scrooge. But it isn't really a joke. His ghosts of Christmases past simply aren't happy.

If there's one thing Becca absolutely hates about Christmas, though, it's the corporate aspect. She likes her job at Vought well enough, but she'd rather be home with Billy, clad in nothing but Christmas-themed woolen socks and making out in a candle-lit living room, then make some hot cocoa – still naked. Instead she's here in her best gown, entertaining investors and Ms. Stillwell who is currently hugging her close and exuding entire clouds of Chanel. "Good to see you, Becca, you look fantastic!" she says, and Becca is so sure she just read her name off her name tag and now makes it sound like she's known her for decades. But Becca is grateful. Getting a hug from this one means she's in good standing with the company. "The pleasure’s all mine, Ms. Stillwell," she replies politely with the best smile she can muster which is about as real as Madelyn Stillwell's, and they both know it, but what does it matter? A little corporate Christmas joy has never done any damage. "Please," the Head of Hero Management says, "call me Madelyn." Alright, very good standing with the company. Great! Becca's smile becomes a little more real, but she's still glad when Ms. Stillwell, no, Madelyn stalks off to take some photos with The Deep.

She looks around the room, surveying who's still here and who's already leaving again to gauge when it would be polite to make her exit when her husband approaches with a vodka soda – heavy on the vodka, less heavy on the soda. "Oi, gorgeous," he says, and it's not the most charming compliment she's ever gotten, nor is it the most charming compliment she's gotten this very evening from some men who only respect her wedding band as a challenge, but it's the one she wants to hear. The one that makes her actually feel like a goddess in the flesh. 'You start glowing when you’re around him,' Rachel once said, and it wasn't meant to be a positive thing because her family has never really approved of her choosing this man above all others, but it's true enough. Everything be damned, Becca loves Billy, and she loves that Billy loves her, and is that such a bad thing? And is it a bad thing that she likes showing her happiness off with radiant joy, broadcasting it for the world at large?

Billy goes on one of his rants about the drinks and the food and everything, and Becca kisses him on the mouth just to interrupt him before he can offend everyone within earshot. They start planning their exit when- "Meeerry Christmas!"

He comes down the stairs like God Himself walking down from the sky, and he might as well be with how the room starts turning to him as one, how the very light seems to follow his descent.

Becca and Billy are no exception to staring at the man, but it comes as a surprise that they're the ones he seems to be staring back at. Homelander extends a finger, points it straight at her. Knows her name. Knows that she's been working for him. Is satisfied with what she's done. She's flattered. More than that, really, because even though by and large, Madelyn Stillwell's support of her work is worth more from a job-related point of view, Becca is as mesmerized by Homelander as everyone and can't deny that his approval means a lot.

Looking to her right, she can see that she's not the only one mesmerized right now. Billy's starting to get that look, and he hasn't even had that many drinks yet. Just a beer, at least from what Becca has seen. She quickly introduces Billy as her husband, and it momentarily breaks the tension between the three of them, but she's surprised that there even was any tension to begin with. Maybe she's just seeing things, and the vodka-soda-with-zero-soda was a mistake, but when their little bout of smalltalk is over and Homelander walks off to greet Queen Maeve, Becca takes one look at Billy and knows she was not mistaken. He's clearly sizing the supe up.

"No," she says, plainly and with no room for misunderstanding. "Not him. Billy, seriously?"

"Them pics on the telly do not do him justice. He's pretty, alright."

"Billy," she hisses, "I'm sure he can hear you, keep it down."

"You think he don't know he's a fine piece of ass?" Billy takes a sip of his beer, still staring without shame.

Her heart is beating a mile a minute. "I could lose my job over this. We said it before, we don't mix our jobs and our private lives, and definitely not like this. Billy, please, no."

"Come on. You want it, too, right? One word from you, and I back off. But he way you look at him, you were already tearing that suit off him."

"I was thankful because he offered me a job." She's about this close to taking the glass from Billy and just dragging him out of there to talk sense into him in the parking lot, staying out of polite obligation be damned, but there's no stopping Billy once he's on the hunt, and he's only just gotten started.

"And undressing him in your mind. I get it. Not blaming ya. Not the kind of ass one should hide behind a cape."

Homelander is still looking vaguely in their direction, even if not straight at them, but the way his brows furrow out of the blue confirms to Becca that, yes, he is listening, and as if she needed any more confirmation, the hero turns to them and tilts his head at Billy questioningly. The only thing Becca is mentally doing now is turning in her two-weeks and waving her job goodbye. But Billy is unbothered, just tips his glass and gives Homelander a single nod of appreciation, and Becca can see the supe blink, falter, mouth slightly open, before he turns to Queen Maeve and whispers something to her.

The other supe's head whips around to them. Becca's only shaking her head at this point. She's not even properly angry at Billy, really, mostly angry at herself for thinking it was a good idea to bring him here. As much as she loves him, he has his issues with boundaries. It's not that they don't do this. They're mostly living monogamously these days, but they've had their fair share of others to share their bed for a night. Billy is a jealous man by nature, possessive of her, but from time to time, he likes it when others appreciate her, just to prove to them he does it better. She loves it, she does, but there's things that are off-limits: there's work colleagues, and superheroes, and then there’s The fucking Homelander.

But it's too late. Queen Maeve is whispering something back to Homelander, but her gaze is still on Billy and Becca, and there's something in her eyes that Becca can't quite decipher. She would have thought Maeve would be jealous, outraged, obviously offended at some humans flirting with her long-term boyfriend, but instead the heroine looks dejected and… is that pity? Can't be. Either way, it doesn't feel right, but Becca has no time to dwell on that look because Homelander is actually leaving her side and walking back over to them, and Becca takes a breath. Prepares damage control.

"Did you mean that?" Homelander asks her husband, and Billy nods easily, a smile on his lips.

Becca can finally get her piece in, so she doesn't waste a second. "I am so sorry for what my husband said, sir, and it really wasn't my intention to-"

"I'm not offended," Homelander says and looks at her, all crooked smile and fond eyes, and now it's Becca's turn to blink, to falter, to stare open-mouthed. "It's… flattering that there seems to be genuine interest." It's a weirdly stilted way to formulate a proposition, but she's absolutely feeling propositioned.

And so is Billy. "Mutual interest, I hope?"

Homelander sucks on his lower lip for a second, seemingly in thought, before he inclines his head. Nods. "I'm not saying no." He keeps his voice down, but public interest has moved on by now, and nobody is paying much attention to their little threesome. Or threesome-to-be, as inane as it seems.

Billy's always been the kind of guy to simply go with the flow. The logistics fall to Becca, and this is no exception, even if she's still thrown for a loop. "You are… partnered."

The supe's intense blue gaze finds her again, and he gives her a sheepish smile, leans in conspiratorially. "And you're married, aren't you?" He chuckles lowly, pleased with his flirtation. She can smell him from this close, cologne and something below that, masculine and enticing, and her body reacts for her, gifts her goosebumps and butterflies and heat in her belly – and a partridge in a pear tree.

There's no doubt that he can tell because his gaze wanders between her eyes for a second, smile tight with concentration. She knows about his super senses, and if she puts two and two together, he quite literally just checked whether she was horny for him. Which, just to get that out of the way, she is. Very much so.

"There's nothing wrong with a little action on the side," she tells him earnestly. "Just as long as everyone's alright with it. Is Queen Maeve alright with it?"

"She's the one who sent me over here back to you. I'd say that's all the endorsement we need, right?"

It certainly is for Becca, even if she still thinks this is the worst idea they've had. She's not certain whether to kiss Billy for making this work or slap him for stressing her like this. But up close, she really can admire the most powerful man in the country – fuck, in the world – and appreciate his looks. He'd look great in their bed. "Alright," she says. "Let's."

There's a shadow of something moving across Homelander's face, an expression that seems to come and go too quick for Becca to really see, but if she had to guess, she'd call it insecurity. Is he honestly surprised that they agreed? When he's the one who's come over again and flirted back? If yes, that's charming, and she gives him a smile that turns into easy laughter now that her tension eases a bit, and then looks at Billy to get final approval of their third party, even if he's definitely not the one to back out.

"Just gonna finish my beer," her husband says, and that settles it.

They agree to meet at their home. It's less risky, more discreet than staying at the Tower and fucking in Homelander's apartment, certainly, but Becca is a little disappointed that she doesn't get to see where America's top supe sleeps. She's always been a bit curious about Floor 99, and she's only been twice, and only in the part accessible to everyone, never the heroes' private rooms. But with a hookup like him, discretion is of the utmost importance, and so the Butchers drive home after some more smalltalk with people that Becca honestly only half-listens to.

"We did not just agree to have casual sex with The Homelander, right?" She drags her hands down her face in the passenger seat, trying to check if this is a dream. "Tell me we didn't."

Billy laughs. "Come now, gorgeous, that has to be the lay of a lifetime. You make it sound like I'm dragging you kicking and screaming. You love it."

She looks at the city lights flashing by, and leans hear head against the car window. "I fucking love it, you can't even imagine. But it's crazy, isn't it? I mean, what possessed you to flirt with him? We didn't even know if he was into men."

"Well, you were too shy to do it, and he was too shy to do it. Someone had to."

"Did you just call him shy?"

"Come on, that deer-in-the-headlight eye he shot you when you said yes." So she didn't just dream that. Billy noticed it, too. "He wouldn't have done it if his girlfriend hadn't physically pushed him over."

"Drive faster," she tells him, trailing her hand down his arm, playful and excited. "I want another shower before this. And you will be taking another one, too."

The shower turns into an easy make-out session-slash-getting-clean-on-the-side-slash-keeping-the-puppy-out-of-the-cabin. They're doing their little ritual of getting close before a hookup, staking their claim on each other, getting into the mindset they want to be in for when their third rings the bell to their home, no matter who said third might be. The ritual is always the same, and they never once miss it. "Want you on your A game, tiger," she whispers against Billy.

"Ain't nobody paying attention to me here. He's gonna be aaall for you. I just wanna tease him a 'lil. Maybe eat him out if he's into it. I just wanna see my girl enjoy her hero."

"Mh," she mumbles into his skin, "you should go all the way. I'm fine with everything. I definitely wanna fuck him, but I have nothing against you doing the same. You caught him, now reel him in, Butcher."

They get dressed comfortably, but not casually. Definitely not for this. Billy ditches the jacket, but chooses the suit, and Becca puts on a knee-length dress that she would otherwise not wear for anything but a high-class date. Becca lights a few candles, thinks about some nice scents, but decides against them when she remembers it might offend Homelander's senses. The reality of who their hookup for the night is still hangs over her, but by now – at home and prepared – any anxiety has long since turned into excitement, and she starts tapping her feet a little when she puts on some lounge jazz just for the mood of it.

A soft thud signals Homelander's arrival, and Becca is a little surprised to hear it from the balcony and not, as she expected, the front door. She gives Billy a soft chuckle and walks upstairs to open the balcony door for their guest. She immediately shivers when Homelander is accompanied by the cold winter air. "Didn’t expect you to choose the balcony," she laughs.

The hero chuckles. "Ah, just a habit, really. I have a landing pad by the penthouse." He offers her the object he's been holding in his hands: a nice bottle of red from 2005. The year the Seven were officially founded. "It was difficult to find a suitable gift on such short notice, but I hope-" He trails off, and there's that charming shyness again, in his smile as she takes the bottle and thanks him, asks him inside.

He looks around the bedroom like he's in a museum, hands clasped behind his back, underneath the cape. Now that he's here, he does seem a little uncertain, all slow steps and wandering eyes, but it's nothing Becca isn't used to from her and Billy's usual nights. There's always some that need a little prompting. She's just surprised he is one of them. Being who he is, he probably had quite a number of hookups in his time, even if he's now been with Queen Maeve for close to seven years. Which, it now seems, is an open enough relationship.

Either way, Becca takes charge, touches his arm, which just makes him startle around, stare at her for a second. Deer in the headlights, Billy called it, and it's true enough. "Billy's downstairs, if you want to open this bottle and have a glass before-"

Homelander smiles. His arm is still ice-cold from having flown here, but Becca imagines the temperatures outside don't bother him at all. It's weird. She's been working at a superhero company for years now, but she's never actually been this physically close to a superhuman before, and she never thought she would be. It makes her wonder what sex will be like, if it’'l be different from what she's used to. Her fingers trail down his arm in an attempt to make him more comfortable because he still seems a little uptight and out of his element. "I don’t really… partake much in drinking, even socially," he admits, and isn't that interesting. True, she thinks, she's never seen him at a company event with even a glass of champagne. He really doesn't drink. "But you go ahead and open it, please, I wouldn't want to be in your way."

"You very definitely aren't," she assures him and lets him take the lead to downstairs. Laying eyes on Billy again makes the hero pause, but Becca can see some of that old appreciation from before at the party in his eyes again as they roam up and down her husband's body.

"Right on time," Billy greets him, but doesn't touch.

"Not an event you would want to be fashionably late to, I assume," Homelander replies, smile back in place, but there's something… off about the way he says it. Becca is beginning to believe what she has mistaken for charming shyness might, in fact, be actual anxiety. She's trying to think of the best way to ask whether he has any experience with casual sex or groups at all, but as usual, Billy – her brash knight in shining armor – takes it on himself to ask. In his own way.

"You been to many such… events?" he says, getting out two glasses from the shelf at Becca covertly lifting two fingers at him.

Homelander takes a breath that is deep enough to give him a few seconds to think about his answer, then blows the breath back out without giving it. He chuckles again, and yes, Becca can tell this is actual anxiety. She finds it endearing. Exciting, too, but it does make things a little more delicate. "You want me to be honest? I've never been."

"And we're the first?" Billy asks as he receives the glass Becca has filled for him. "I'm sure a man like yourself can't save himself from offers left and right, you probably have to fly away from your admirers."

Homelander is eyeing both their glasses for a moment, maybe reconsidering whether his decision not to drink was the right one since now he is the one with nothing to keep his hands busy, but manages to find his footing again. "I didn't think I'd be the type. It's just not something I would have considered, but Maeve did tell me to go for it if I wanted, and well… here I am."

"I'm charmed that it's us," Becca says, taking a sip of the wine. It really is good. Amazing choice for a man who doesn't drink, even socially, but she wouldn't have expected him to have any cheap wine either way. "And there's no need to be nervous. This is supposed to be fun, there won't be anything happening that we don't all agree on. If you just want to watch, that's fine by us as well."

He looks at her, really looks at her, and she can't help but smile at the open admiration in his eyes. Maybe the best compliment she's gotten all evening. "I'd like to do a little more than just look if you don't mind."

"I don't mind," Becca says, and this is the tipping point that always happens eventually, shyness or not, and she does take the opportunity where presented, sets down her glass and moves towards him slow enough to communicate her intentions, giving him time to back out if he wants. He doesn't, so she leans up just as he's starting to lean down, and they meet halfway. His lips are still cold from his flight, but they're soft and eager, and he moans a little into the kiss, and Becca's just about completely smitten when she realizes he's letting her take the lead. There's no way this could have gone any better.

Homelander's tongue darts out and licks the traces of red from her lips. She feels raw power brimming behind this kiss, and the knowledge hits her that she couldn't push him away even if she really tried. There's no give to him, and it's both exhilarating and worrying. She's never felt superhuman strength before in her life, but she does now when his arms come up to embrace her, fingers finding her hair and freeing it from its tight ponytail, gaining confidence as they go. "That's it," she encourages him. "This is just what I want." And oh, he seems to be spurred on all the more by that.

She finds herself pressed against the kitchen counter quite vigorously, Homelander's hands now cupping her face. He's definitely found his sea legs, but she can also tell he's starting to get carried away with it, and so Becca gently extricates herself from the kiss, tipping her head to the side. Homelander immediately goes for her neck, kissing along her jugular. Meanwhile, Becca winks at Billy from across the counter, subtly motioning with her head for him to join in when before he stood against their oven, arms crossed in front of his chest and enjoying the show.

Becca wonders whether her husband is going to go for her or Homelander, and she gets her answer when Billy walks over to them, snakes a hand around Becca's waist and, in the same movement, pushes a finger underneath Homelander's chin, prompting him to let up from where he's clearly been sucking hickeys into Becca's neck judging by the feeling of heat underneath her skin. Billy doesn't like feeling left out for too long, and he lets Homelander know by simply tipping the supe's head up by his chin and assaulting his lips with a kiss that isn't half as tender as the one between Homelander and Becca started out as. Becca watches as Homelander's eyebrows shoot up before his eyes flutter open, full of surprise and, frankly, shock, but he doesn't protest, just lets himself be led into another kiss. God, Becca admires silently, he is the perfect man for this. This is better than any fantasy she could have ever conjured up.

"Not the best place for this," Billy says finally, breaking the kiss, even though Becca can see Homelander chasing the taste of his lips. For his trouble, Billy smears their shared saliva against the hero's lips with a thumb. Her husband has never much been one for hero worship. "Let's get upstairs, luv, why don't we? Hm, Becs?"

"Sure thing!" she says and hops from where she was half-seated on the counter.

They keep Homelander right in the middle of their little group, Becca leading him to their bed by the hand, Billy ushering him forward with two hands on his hips, periodically pressing into him from behind. He couldn't make his intentions any clearer. So much for: 'Maybe I'll simply eat him out.'

Becca lets herself fall onto their bed, legs swinging off the edge, looking up at Billy and their unlikely conquest, uncaring that her dress is riding up and exposing her thighs. Let them have a little show. Homelander is definitely mesmerized by the sight of her naked skin above the black lace stockings she's put on. But Billy is keeping him occupied, seemingly unwilling to let him go. "How do we get you out of this ridiculous costume, huh?" she hears him whisper in the hero's ear.

Homelander has his eyes closed, lips slack, letting himself get manhandled by her husband with no protest at all despite Becca presuming by putting 2 and 2 together that this is his first time with a man at all. And it's her Billy. He's in for a treat. Since he's receiving no answer, Billy goes searching for the zippers of the costume himself, exposing some of Homelander's skin to their view and managing to unhook the cape from the eagles holding it in place.

"Wait," Homelander says and grips his hands from where they're grappling for the opening of the chest flap. Becca can see on her husband's face a little of the same surprise she felt upon first feeling the strength behind Homelander's touch. Billy isn't used to anyone being stronger than him. "I don't- I think you gotta know that I don't look… like that, underneath the suit."

Becca has the immediate need to comfort him. She wouldn't have thought that he expects them to believe that the obviously over-the-top costume is an accurate depiction of his natural body. Becca would be rather surprised if it turned out he had muscles like that. Or that anyone does, human or supe. "Doesn't matter. You look great. Don't worry about it."

"Yeah," Billy confirms and tries to free his hands from Homelander's grasp, which the supe reluctantly allows. "Never met a bloke with an honest-to-God eight pack. I know they pack you lot full of foam to make you look like a stuffed turkey in those costumes, but I'm interested in what's underneath all that."

Homelander turns his head to look at Billy for a second, some of that old insecurity back on his features, before he sighs. "Fuck," he murmurs and finally starts cooperating with Billy. It's an agonizingly slow striptease, the suit being difficult to get out of. Becca wants so much to relieve some of the throbbing between her thighs, but she doesn't, opting to keep her hand firmly against her belly and not a singular inch below. Watching the two is just getting her all the more riled up, and while she wouldn't call herself impatient by nature, she's definitely getting there.

Homelander's naked body is a sight to behold, the candlelight casting flickering dark patterns across unblemished skin with honestly more body hair than she would have expected him to have for all his usual clean-shaven aesthetic. She's never even seen him with a bit of stubble on his face, but the rest of him is furry, chest hair swirling in patterns that briefly make her think of Van Gogh's 'Starry Night', and her fingers itch with the desire to trace the patterns there, first with her hand, then with her mouth.

She takes her time following the line of hair down to where Homelander is hard and obviously raring to go. Uncut, she remarks with a tilt of her head, and then wonders how she could have expected anything different. There's no tool in the world to cut him. It's a nice cock, just the right size for her to enjoy, and she's glad. With strength like his, getting pounded by a bigger cock doesn't sound like a good time for her. Or her cervix.

"Fuuuckin' beauty," she hears Billy groan. It's a bit unusual that he is so taken with one of their guests. Usually, he's the one watching, and Becca is the one enjoying another's body. But she sees the appeal he finds in that now, watching her husband's hands trail over Homelander's abdomen, all while the supe's gaze is fixed on Becca.

"Are you going to keep him all to yourself?" Becca asks Billy, and then, when her husband finally lets up and steps back to discard his own clothes, says to Homelander: "Feeling more comfortable now?"

She gets a nod, but it's a small one, the hero's eyes darting down to the floor. "Can I… hang up the suit somewhere? I don't want it to crumple?"

"On it." Billy, now as naked as their guest, gathers up the individual suit pieces and hangs them on a clothing hanger, even. Gentlemanly of him.

"Thank you." Homelander sounds so earnest. He's so… unlike what Becca expected him to be. Even more so when he turns back to her, sits down a little gingerly and extends a hand to trace fingers up her calf. He's avoiding her eyes. "This is still new. I like it, but it's…"

"A lot." She finishes for him when it becomes clear he's trailed too far off. "I have something that helps." She sits up and gifts him a wink. "But don't tell the boss about it." And with that, she stretches to her right, rummaging around in the nightstand drawer until she's found what she's looking for: some weed, paper, and a lighter. When she turns back to Homelander, he looks at her like she's just pulled a gun on him. So he hasn't done that, either. No drinking, no threesomes, no smoking. Damn, the man's a true saint. She almost feels guilty for corrupting him.

"You… smoke? Recreationally?" There it is again, that voice that sounds like he's saying something rehearsed. What an endearing habit when he's nervous. Must be the actor training kicking in.

"Only sometimes. On days like today." She rolls a joint and wants to offer it to him, but that might just overwhelm him, so she lights it for herself and takes a drag before beckoning him forward. Though his eyes are still wide and uncertain, he obeys, follows her across the bed, almost on all fours which just reminds her of the insistent throb of desire between her thighs, and kneels in front of her, just close enough to immediately capture his lips, open them up with her own and blow the smoke straight into his mouth. When she draws back, his eyes are closed.

"Unusual taste."

Becca chuckles. "That’s all?"

He cracks one eye open, then the other, and gives her a smile that at least looks a little more sure of himself. His hair is already mussed, and it makes him look nothing like America's hero. He looks like any other man Becca's age. They are the same age, she remembers. She wonders briefly if he also panicked when he saw that big 3 appear in front of his age, the way she did earlier this year. 30 means growing up, doesn't it? Not smoking pot in her bedroom and running barefoot down the stairs to get Cheetos. "Not certain drugs work on me, even recreationally."

"Worst thing that can happen is that nothing happens. Best case, it relaxes you a bit."

"Why relax?" Billy, now finished with his task, sits down on the bed with them. "Gettin' shy now? Promise we don't got no hidden cams to film this and post it on the internet."

Homelander casts his eyes down, and Becca enjoys the way his long lashes look in the candlelight. She takes another drag of her joint. "I wouldn't expect that. Any camera in here I could easily sniff out, I hear their little beeps. No, I wouldn't have come here if you had planned something like this. I'm just…" He swallows hard.

"Only what you're comfortable with." He seems to really need the constant reminder, but Becca is happy to provide him the reassurance he seeks. Verbal reassurance, and tactile too, if he's up for it.

"Believe me." Homelander's eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. Becca thinks it's ultimately sheer carnal desire that makes him overcome the last of his anxiety, with the way he looks at her now. "I want it all."

"You haven't had the half of it." Becca is on him, kissing the last taste of smoke out of his mouth, her limbs feeling heavy and languid, and she enjoys the feeling of his skin against her fingers, the marble-like quality of it, soft to soft touches and hard to firmer ones. Clearly non-human, but not in a bad way. The hair on his chest is as soft as it looks, and she trails her finger down his happy trail, lifting an eyebrow, asking for permission to go further, all the way, finally take them there and do what they've come here to do.

Homelander nods, eager and assured again, and Becca encloses his erection with her hand, wraps her fingers around him and starts moving as she feels Billy slide up behind her and peel her out of her clothes, the hero's groan and the drawn-out slide of the zipper happening simultaneously, melting into each other, Homelander tipping his head back as Becca tips hers forward, giving Billy access to her throat. It's only when Billy moves to remove her stockings, too, that Homelander interferes, voice breathy and higher than Becca would have expected him to sound in his desire. "I'd like them to stay on."

"Sure thing, guv." Billy grins at him from where his head is still on Becca's shoulder. His hands grip her thighs. "Front or back?"

Homelander's brows furrow, but he can't properly hold the expression steady with Becca's fingers still working him up. She feels the puff of warm air against her face as he speaks. He's so much warmer than a human, everywhere. "What?"

She decides to help out. "Want me on my belly or on my back?"

The supe's reply comes out with no hesitation, exhaled in a low moan: "Back." He throbs in Becca's grasp and pulls back from her with a barely audible whimper. Was he getting close already? She gently traces a fingertip along a vein on his cock. The resulting shiver that moves through his body is her reward. His head is thrown back, lips open and loose. She's getting jealous. She'd like to feel this good, too.

She stretches to reach over to the nightstand again, opens up a drawer, and pulls out a row of condoms, looks back at the men, then pulls out the lube as well. Who knows what'll happen? She's wet enough for days of this, but who knows what the boys want to get up to? "I got two sizes, choose whichever fits better." She throws the condoms at Homelander, and he catches them perfectly, but gets that look on his face that tells her he isn't all that familiar with them. Becca knows some secrets about Vought's supes. It's her job to curate their entire online presence; she knows things. But now she knows Queen Maeve is likely on the pill. "You need help?"

Homelander blinks. "No. Nope. I got it. I can handle it."

Billy barks out a laugh. "Am I gonna need one, too, luv?"

That does get a nervous little chuckle out of Homelander. "I've never- uh, why do you assume that I would be the one who-?"

Billy nods his head in Becca's direction. "Well, you're gonna be balls-deep in my girl, so that's gonna be a bit difficult, don'tcha think? I ain't gonna do it if you tell me not to. But I'll throw the suggestion your way, and you'll decide what ya want."

Homelander closes his eyes, fingers busying themselves with ripping open one of the condom wrappers. "I can do whatever I want." Becca's brows furrow. It's an odd thing to say, and it doesn't even sound like he's talking to either of them. But before she can dwell on it, his eyes open again, and they're just as dazed with need as they were before. "I want it. Give me everything. Let's have fun."

"Alright, these are fighting words!" Becca lays back until she can comfortably feel the pillow underneath her shoulder blades. The other one she unceremoniously shoves underneath her hips to raise herself up. She offers herself up for the taking, and it absolutely must seem scandalous to a man like Homelander. "Just in case you need a prompt, I like getting eaten out to get ready, so if you're up for it-" She spreads her legs, but Homelander absolutely does not need the prompt.

He lunges forward, gets comfortable between her thighs, hands roaming up her stockings and then over her skin. His nose follows the same path, the tip of it gently bumping against her, sliding upwards as if guided by some base instinct to smell and taste her. Becca lets out a breathless laugh at the mere thought of his super senses. This entire experience must feel insane to him. To her - a little high and painfully horny - it's already a lot. To someone like him? She can't even imagine. He brings her back from her thoughts with a small nip, teeth just about scraping the skin of her thigh before he actually dives in, and he isn't shy at all about this. Secret two unlocked, Becca thinks as she lets her head fall back, Maeve gets damn good head.

Her pussy feels hot enough that even his warmer-than-human breath against it serves as a cool breeze. She doesn't get more than a second's reprieve before his tongue circles her clit. Yeah, he knows what he's about. She barely has the wherewithal to grasp his bleach-blond hair and pull his head further down. He goes willingly, moaning against her, tongue flicking out again and again to lick up all the traces of liquid lust that seep out of her. "Fuck." Becca doesn't know what else to say as she chokes on some more syllables. Her eyes meet Billy's across Homelander's body.

Her husband has apparently waited for this moment because as soon as their eyes meet, his own hand wraps around Homelander's flank. The hero visibly shivers with excitement, and a little noise reveberates against Becca's core. "I like what I'm seein' here, luv. You makin' my girl feel good gets you a reward if you want it." Billy has never been shy about a thing in his life. He boldly reaches around Homelander's kneeling body. Becca can't see what he's doing, but it's obvious that he starts jerking Homelander off by the movement of his arm and the way Homelander's hips start thrusting of their own accord. Becca tries to move her own hips against Homelander's face in much the same rhythm.

It works.

And that's a good sign. It's a really fucking good sign that they've barely started, and they're already good together. "Fuck, I'm ready, I'm ready." She is quick to take this one step further because she's impatient, and she's never been the kind of woman to come twice. She just isn't blessed in that department, stoned or not. Homelander understands, props himself up on his hands and leans forward to kiss her, allows her to taste herself on his lips. It's bold. It's dirty. She likes it, and she makes sure he knows. "I need you inside. Don't keep me waiting."

To his credit, he absolutely does not keep her waiting. Billy actually does the honors and rolls a condom onto the hero's cock, gives it one more stroke and practically shoves Homelander forward with a small slap on his ass that leaves Homelander raising an eyebrow at Becca. Her laughter is the catalyst for him to laugh as well, and it feels good. It feels right. It doesn't feel at all like she's fucking America's most famous celebrity. Hell, the world's most famous celebrity, really. She's met plenty of people who haven't heard of the Spice Girls. But nobody is unaware of Homelander. No, it feels fun and intimate and a little clumsy in the way she craves sometimes because it makes it more real as Homelander lines himself up and pushes in, enters her slowly, but with determination.

"Ngh." He positions his arms to the left and right of her head. She can feel the warmth of him, that subtle vibration of sheer power around him. The slide in is gentle, but she can feel the way his arms shake. He's holding back. She wishes she could tell him not to, but that's probably not possible. "Feels... really good." She only nods in response, and they both fall into another bout of breathless laughter. She doesn't know if the weed has affected him, but she thinks it has. He seems more relaxed now, at ease, peaceful. Maybe it's just because the social formalities are out of the way. Maybe he's found his footing with the simple pleasure of sex being a familiar activity. Whatever it is, they enjoy the bliss together.

And not just the two of them. "I want it, you know." Homelander has his eyes trained on Becca as he speaks, but she knows he isn't addressing her. "I want you to fuck me. I want to try. When I said I want everything, I- ngh, I meant it."

"Thought you'd never ask." Becca watches as Billy gets the condoms and the lube, going the whole way and even warming the plastic bottle up in his hands. When he catches her watching him, he winks. She chuckles, wraps her arms tighter around Homelander, digs her fingers into his back and relishes in the strength of the muscles she feels underneath as the hero keeps fucking into her with slow, measured thrusts. She kisses Homelander's shoulder, tastes salty sweat and keeps watching as Billy moves across the bed and kneels behind Homelander. One of his fingers - wet with lube - slowly traces a wet trail down the small of Homelander's back before moving down the crack of his ass and no doubt circling his hole. "I'll be sweet to ya, don'tcha worry. Just gettin' you wet enough."

Homelander's breath hitches, eyelids fluttering for a moment before he recovers and picks up his faltering rhythm again - long, deep strokes that leave Becca feeling full and fullfilled. He's warm and considerate, like comfort food. He groans, the sound coming from deep in his chest, and Becca can tell that Billy must have entered him. Her husband is gentle, probably mindful of this being the hero's first time, but only at first. He wraps his hands around Homelander's hips, pulls him backwards a little, fully impaling him on his cock, then pushes forward again, grinding into Homelander and making Homelander grind against Becca. "Now who's driving, luv?"

"You." Homelander nearly rasps the word. "Fuck, you are. Shit, this is... Didn't think it'd be like- Hh. Ah."

"That's right. I'm driving. And I'm gonna make you both feel good, a'right?" Billy's kneading Homelander's flesh with his hands, almost like he's trying to calm down some skittish animal. Becca muffles her groan against the side of Homelander's neck, buries her face against him as one of Billy's thrusts jostles him forward just right. Billy knows her so well he can get the angle right through another body.

Becca lives through these next minutes in impressions: her fingers slipping on Homelander's sweat-slick back, her eyes barely focusing on the ceiling lamp, her body clenching around the hero's cock in a way that makes them both sob, the slap of skin against skin when Billy fucks into Homelander and Homelander fucks into her, and she can fully forget where she ends and the others begin, and it's good enough for her to vocalize her pleasure in something that may or may not be a barely strangled scream as she throws her head back and succumbs to her body's demand for release, kickstarting a chain reaction.

It's like Homelander only waited for her to come because as soon as he feels her walls convulse around him, he hiccups a choked-off moan against her shoulder, lets himself be pushed forward one final time by Billy, and then she can feel the wild twitches of his cock inside of her as his pleasure takes him. He's shivering, shaking like a leaf, no doubt overstimulated by the new sensation of being fucked into climax.

And it's like Billy has only waited to feel the satisfaction of knowing that they both came before he, too, lets go, thrusts into Homelander one more time, a second, a third, and stills, mouth open on a silent sound, eyes scrunched closed, before he relaxes, the only time she sees utter serenity on his features - right after sex, fucked-out and high on hormones.

They collapse into a heap. Becca barely manages to move her leg from where it's been riding Homelander's side for the past minutes. Her muscles have liquified. "Someone stole my bones." Her voice sounds tired, even if she doesn't exactly feel tired. Just perfectly, gloriously fucked. She's aware that condoms get removed and Billy provides wet washcloths.

"Five-star service." Homelander doesn't sound any different from her, exhausted and happy. She wraps her arms around him as Billy gets rid of the cloths they cleaned themselves and each other up with. Service top through and through, her husband. He's not a selfless man by nature, quite the contrary, but whenever they're in bed, some switch flips, and he has to one-up himself with how best to please her or show off how good he is to their third.

"Right?" Becca nuzzles her face into Homelander's shoulder. "He's got his good sides."

"Yes, I can tell. Can't say who's luckier, you or him."

"I'd say we both are. I wanna thank you. I know it's cheesy as all hell, but hey. Thanks." She kisses Homelander's cheek. "I know we gotta talk about it. Because we have to see each other at work, and you being who you are and-"

"Can we... not talk about anything from the Tower right now?" The hero's voice suddenly sounds different. A little choked-up. Becca has to raise her head to visually convince herself he's not crying. He isn't, but his blue eyes are fixed on something on the far wall. He shakes himself out of it and chuckles. "What I mean is, this is good the way it is. Don't bring work into it."

"Sorry for ruining the afterglow." She cuddles back into him, and she stays there until Billy joins them again and demands the middle space. He does have the habit of getting a bit possessive after. It's as much part of showing her off as when he lets these other men enjoy her body, knowing that she's his and his alone at the end of the day. Homelander does look a little taken aback by his behavior. He doesn't get too close to Billy, not the way he did with her, but she can hear him quietly tell her husband that he enjoyed what they did.

They don't stay in bed forever, much as all three of them profess that they do wish to. It's best if Homelander doesn't spend the night. The goodbye isn't awkward. Things have changed, and they're familiar with each other now in that way that only people who've had sex with each other are. Homelander - dressed in his costume again and standing on their balcony - makes a joke about flying while under the influence of drugs. They all laugh.

Becca hugs him, and she can feel him linger, can feel how he wants to prolong their touching. It's similar with Billy. Homelander's hand stays on his arm just a tad too long.

"I'll see you at work," the hero tells her, gives Billy one last nod, and shoots off into the sky. Becca's hair is sent flying from the small storm he leaves in his wake, and she has to fish strands of it out of her mouth.

She looks at Homelander's silhouette as he makes his way back to Manhattan, watches as he descends when he reaches the Tower, flying downward in a curve, then she takes a look at Billy. "We did not just have sex with The Homelander. That was a dream, right?"

Billy huffs. "Christmas miracle come early, Becs. And you know who to thank for it."

Chapter Text

Becca meets Homelander in the hallway of Floor 99 five days after their tryst. It's the last day of the work week before the holidays, and even a place buzzing with beehive energy as much as Vought Tower feels a bit calmer. Many members of staff and several heroes have already left for home, to spend time with their families, friends, or just to enjoy a bit of hard-earned time off. Becca has three hours of work left before she can join Billy at home, and as she sees Homelander walk down the hallway, she wonders where the hero will spend the holidays. He's always been a particularly mysterious man. She went looking for details after she took over his account, but there was very little: rural upbringing, his parents died young, apparently no distant relatives at all, a small-town baseball career before his powers developed and he became who he is now.

She gives herself a quick once-over, makes sure her skirt swings perfectly and her ponytail consists of more than loose strands that have escaped it. It's ridiculous, of course. It's not like they're dating now. They had sex. Once. But Becca feels a certain way about it. It's a bit of an open secret that many members of Vought staff sleep with the superhumans. Some brag about it. Several of them even brag about the injuries they sustained during sex, smugly showing off bruises and casts, comparing, checking off names on lists. Nobody has ever mentioned Homelander. Likely because nobody ever tried propositioning him. And now Becca walks among them, with this sweet little secret, and she doesn't feel like bragging. It would be rude. He was so kind, so… innocent about it. She would never tell anyone. It makes it difficult, of course, keeping a secret. And she doesn't feel a hundred percent happy about it, either.

She knows Maeve is already gone. Now, usually, she wouldn't speculate about anything, but she can't help being a little anxious over maybe causing a rift between the couple by… well, by seducing Homelander right under Maeve's nose. She doesn't feel guilty; everything was consensual, but she only got Maeve's consent through a third party, and as much as she wants to say she trusts Homelander-

"Becca!" He's all smile and teeth, coming to stand in front of her, effectively cutting off any way out for her and making null and void any plans she had for how to handle this meeting as smartly as possible.

"Morning, sir. Good too see you bright and early. I hope you're well."

"Better now that I see your lovely face on 99. What brings you up here today?"

She feels like an intruder on here, and again, that's a ridiculous feeling to have. She just works here. But it feels like she took something. Like she stole some little item from the company and is only waiting for everyone to find out about it. Maybe that's the real reason all the others are so open about their relations with the superhumans. Sharing in the anxiety of feeling like you've done something wrong. She realizes her reply comes a little too late, but Homelander's face shows no impatience, just polite curiosity. "I wanted to give my opinion on the pitch for Translucent's new account. Miss Stillwell asked me here to provide some more feedback."

He nods. "I heard they want all photos to show him invisible."

"Which I said was the worst idea I've ever heard."

That does earn her raised eyebrows. "Did you say that like that? To Madelyn?"

"Not in those words. I did say that I strongly advise the hero accounts to be more personal. They are supposed to have an air of… privacy. They're for the public, but the people aren't supposed to know they're for the public. The fans want to get to know the Seven by looking at what they think are their private accounts, in ways they otherwise couldn't."

"You can," Homelander says, suddenly dragging the elephant in the room between them, and that poor animal is kicking and screaming, Becca can tell, or maybe that's just the blood rushing to her face and making her lightheaded with surprise.

"I suppose so," she replies and tries out a smile, but even she can tell it feels fake.

"I'm sorry, was I… not supposed to bring it up?" He does look a little insecure, and Becca is almost glad she isn't the only one stewing in the awkwardness. Where's Billy when you need him, quick with his tongue, some witty one-liner always locked and loaded.

"You can, I just don't want it to be a… thing. We never did discuss how we want to handle it. And-" She takes a look around, but nobody is listening in on them, and she's sure that if anyone was, he would notice quicker than her. "And people have to walk around us because we've been standing here a while."

Homelander laughs, but does dutifully start walking her towards the elevator. She looks at his side profile. The soft slope of his nose. The thin lips that are a lot softer than she would have expected them to be. She lowers her gaze and locks eyes with one of the eagles on his shoulder. The animal seems to be silently judging her. Yeah, maybe she won't get a better chance to tell him what's on her mind: "I know it's not my place to ask, but… is everything alright with Maeve and you?"

Homelander's brows furrow in confusion, but then his features relax when he catches her meaning. "I never spend Christmas with Maeve. She's with her family. She hates her father, but well, family is family. I hope you don't think she broke up with me because she didn't approve of what we did." He presses a button on the elevator, and the doors slide open with a soft 'ding.'

"Good to hear. I admit I was worried." Becca feels she can speak more freely once they're alone in the elevator.

Homelander's gloved hand presses more buttons. "No, Maeve and I are built to last. I don't know what could break us up, but certainly not me having a threesome that she told me to have. By the way, how is William?"

Becca can't remember when anyone last called him 'William.' "He's fine. Home already." She sincerely hopes Homelander doesn't ask what her husband does for a living. She usually just tells people he's in the military, but that would reduce her to 'military wife.' "Taking care of the puppy."

"Ah, and there I thought there was a bit of… dog smell. In your home. Guess I was right."

"We have a bulldog. Terror. We usually lock him in the bathroom when we- When we have guests over." Nailed it. Didn't mention that threesomes are a regular occurrence. Nailed it.

"Pets are delightful. I always wanted to get a dog for the children." His voice has gone soft, eyes fixed on the elevator door. Then he blinks himself back into the here and now and seems to become aware that he overshared. "The potential children, I mean. Maeve and I, we're… um, well, it's a work in progress." He looks at her from the side, a tense smile on his lips. "Those are things I probably shouldn't be telling my social media manager who just admitted to saying she wants the hero accounts to be more personable."

It does feel like a blow. He's right, of course, but it feels like he's accusing her of something she never even thought of, and it hurts. "I would never share anything you don't want me to. It's all curated. You have last say over everything." She doesn't like the direction of this. "Would you really expect me to just decide that over your head?"

He hums non-committally. "Will you be spending Christmas with William?"

She's quite happy to change the subject. "I will. Christmas Eve, we're alone. Christmas Day, we meet with my family. His are in Britain. We never see them. Any plans of your own? Pinky promise they won't appear on Twitter." She tries not to sound offended. She needs to remember that he isn't just anyone. His private life appearing online is a real worry. One that could cost him his career. TMZ would love to publish the headline: HOMELANDER AND QUEEN MAEVE - WHY THEY STILL DON'T HAVE A FAMILY.

Thankfully, he smiles. "A hero never rests. Holidays mean the Seven are down to the Two, but hey, Noir and I will hold position."

"So you and Santa are going to be the most hardworking guys this weekend, hm?"

"I'll try not to collide with his reindeer when we both fly in orbit." He makes to leave the elevator, but does turn around to her when he's half-in, half-out. "I'd like to see you again. How about we meet after the holidays?" He leans forward in that conspiratorial way he has, holding a gloved hand to his mouth. "I'll even give you an in-depth interview with lots of little tidbits to work into next year's social media campaign."

Now usually, Becca would see this as just another joke, but jumping back to their previous conversation, she can imagine he feels pressured to offer her something. "Popcorn and a movie's more than enough," she says, knowing she doesn't have to consult Billy about this. He's been talking about 'the pretty cunt from Vought' for days now.

"And maybe more?" he asks, and is that hopefulness? Is The Homelander actually trying to get into their bed a second time? Were they that good? Hah, who would've thought?

"Depends on whether I like your replies to my questions. You better prepare. They'll be in-depth." She winks at him, glad they've gotten over that weird and uncomfortable tension.

"Looking forward to it. Well, I gotta get going. A hero's work is never done. Merry Christmas, Becca." Earnest. Genuine like a knight in a fairy tale.

"Merry Christmas, Homelander."

They smile at each other until the elevator doors close and they're out of each other's sight.

Homelander sighs and sits down on the couch to surf through the channels. He just got done recording a video message addressing the nation for VNN, and as much as he tries to shake it, the fake smile still feels plastered to his features. The honey-dripping words that were written for him by corporate feel like boiling molasses on his tongue. He sent Maeve a message (nothing fancy, just a quick Merry Christmas complete with ornate tree emoji), but it didn't even get through. She has her company phone switched off.

The Tower is nearly empty. Noir is in his apartment, cutting paper snowflakes with his knives, and his teammate's silent joy in the childish task freaks Homelander out just enough that he wants nothing to do with it. Mister Marathon has gone out drinking with Lamplighter, meaning they'll be gone for at least three to five days until they're both sober enough. Maeve prefers her deadbeat father to her own boyfriend. Translucent is with his baby son and wife, and the thought of that makes Homelander's stomach twist. Translucent doesn't even celebrate Christmas; he's Jewish. Why does he even take the day off? It's just another day to him. Means nothing. The Deep is… He actually doesn't care where The Deep is. In the ocean, probably. There they go. His loving family. Scattered by the winter wind in all directions, as far away from him as possible.

He earnestly thought about flying by the Butchers' house, just to look through the ceiling and see how they're spending the holiday. He was already outside on the landing pad, but the cold air cleared his head and he walked back into the penthouse. He's getting desperate. Maybe he will go for a fly, but not anywhere near their home. Maybe he'll see what Madelyn is doing. She's usually alone on Christmas Eve. She's alone, nowhere else to be, and she still doesn't want to spend the day with him. He remembers when he asked her, once, three years ago. The look on her face made sure he never asked again after that.

He doesn't need them, any of them. He'll look through social media later, once the holiday feature with his speech aired. There'll be plenty of love coming in. The people know his worth. They appreciate the hard work he puts in. He can give them a sneer and some passive-aggressive holiday cheer, and they'll still cajole.

But of course everyone's a fucking critic and just when he started feeling content about that plan…

Pining for a married couple is a new low, tiger. Even for you.

Of fucking course he has words about it. Homelander groans and rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. He pinches the bridge of his nose. The voice is like a headache sometimes. "Did I ask for advice? No. So shut up."

And where would we be if I listened to you, huh?

Homelander tries to locate the voice. It's definitely not coming from inside his head this time, meaning that he's waiting for him somewhere. Judging by the distance, it's one of the bedroom mirrors, but he doesn't feel like walking over there, so he stays put and listens to the tirade.

You could have had her, tiger. You were on your way to your office. You could have had her alone in there, shown her who's boss. Instead what do you do? Beg to come to their doorstep like some dog who's been given a scrap of meat.

Now that's just exchanging the facts for bullshit. "She was flirting the entire time. She likes me."

She pities you. Come on, you gave the game away. You were her hero, and at the first show of any kind of affection, you unpack every last weakness you have. What's next? Telling her and her husband how Mommy and Daddy were so mean to you when you were a boy?

"Why are you so angry about this? Nothing happened. It was just sex. Good sex, and I want more of it."

I'm scared you're going to hurt yourself, John. The sudden softness in his voice shakes Homelander to the core. He sits up straight, leaning forward to get closer to the voice. He likes this one the best. You're already hurting the relationship you do have. If you don't play this smart, you lose Maeve and the Butchers.

"You make it sound like I'm in love with them. I'm not."

You're getting attached. That's always dangerous.

"Well, I don't feel like I'm in danger of anything. I made friends. We have fun together. There's nothing wrong with that. Everyone else does it, but oh, when I do it, it's bad? Because I'm too fragile to handle it? Is that it? Not made for polite company, me?"

Now you're just arguing for arguing's sake, John.

Only hit dogs holler, big guy.

"Shut the fuck up, both of you."

And oh, Christmas miracle, they do.

But now there's a timid little knock on the penthouse door because apparently he's the loneliest man on the planet and yet can't have a minute of peace to himself. He squints until the walls melt away and sees a PA standing in front of his doors. Or at least he thinks it's a PA. Hard to tell, hidden the way she is by several gift baskets, bouquets, and envelopes that she's apparently painstakingly carried here all on her own.

Well, time to unwrap some gifts early, it seems.

He strolls over to the door, leisurely, not in a hurry, intently watching the way that woman's arms are beginning to buckle under the weight of his presents. He just about manages to wipe a smile off his face as he opens the door. "Oh, would you look at that, are you my Mrs. Claus?"

The woman blushes (or maybe that's the blood rushing to her face from straining to hold up all that she is carrying), but dutifully hands over everything. "These are all the gifts you have received from our sponsors as well as the TV programs you appeared on in the past month. Oh, and I nearly forgot this one." She tries to fumble for something in her pocket with one hand, and when she pulls the item out, he identifies it as a small envelope, covered with so many tacky Christmas-themed stickers. "It was sent to your office, and I took the liberty of delivering it personally."

"Thanks," he says, easily carrying the other gifts on one shoulder and looking down at the envelope she hands him. "You can go, merry Christmas." He waves the woman off impatiently, and she hurries towards the elevator.

He deposits the other gifts next to him on the couch. He doesn't even look at any. It's either flowers, chocolate, some Americana-themed knick-knacks, expensive aftershave that grates his senses, dozens of bottles of the finest wines and liquors that he doesn't want to drink and will probably just gift right along to his teammates (and maybe William, he seems like the guy), some watches he won't wear because the suit is skin-tight, zipped shut. Useless trinkets. Impersonal. Might as well be a fucking tie. At least Maeve was honest and gave him absolutely nothing but a quick and unenthusiastic blowjob before she fucked off to 'her father,' which, let's be honest, just means some other man whose bed she'll stumble into. There's no way she'll see that old geezer. He hasn't caught her in the lie. Yet. But he will, eventually. And there he went to huge lengths to be honest about his threesome when she just-

Nope. No. Not getting upset about this on Christmas. He looks down at the envelope that's still in his hand. 'To: Homelander,' it says. 'From: Santa'. Alright. It smells faintly of dog. He rips it open to pull out the card inside.

It's a pretty traditonal Christmas card: a tasteful drawing of a glittery tree and a pile of presents underneath, candles and coziness. The kind of picture you just like to get lost in. He never even bothers to put up a tree in the penthouse. There's nobody else here to look at a tree and admire it, no children to surprise with presents in the morning.

Homelander sighs and opens the card, only to be greeted with a few lines of neat, even handwriting:

Dear Homelander,
a very merry Christmas, peaceful holidays, and a wonderful new year from
Becca, Billy, and Terror

P.S. Interview's on the 27th. Come by if you have time.

There's an inky pawprint next to Terror's name.

Homelander stares at the card long enough for the words to start turning blurry. It takes him even longer to realize it's from tears brimming in his eyes. He thinks long and hard about whether to just throw the card into the fire.

He decides it gets a place of honor on the mantle, surrounded by bouquets of winter flowers.

Becca puts the popcorn down and wipes her hands on the side of her pants unceremoniously. "I think butter's a better choice for popcorn, but I know there's probably some heathen out there who prefers caramel. I just think it's too much of a mess during a movie. I don't wanna get the remote sticky."

Homelander hums and reaches into the bowl, plopping a piece of buttered popcorn into his mouth. Becca watches his reaction with some vindication: the way his eyes flutter closed and he honest-to-God moans his pleasure at the taste. "Better than what they serve at the Vought premieres," is his final verdict, and Becca is happy. It's her family's secret popcorn recipe, guarded fiercely, only worthy of the most select of movie nights. And now it's Homelander-approved. She's sad that she can't tell Rachel about it, but that's one thing they discussed tonight: no outside involvement. There's a circle of trust here, protecting everyone's privacy and keeping the potential for scandal down. Par for the course for friendship with a mega celebrity, Becca thinks. And yet. She'd love to tell Rachel.

"Lacks salt," Billy says as he shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

"Don't listen to the Englishman," Becca laughs as she leans across the table for the remote. "His tastebuds never developed."

Billy never feigns outrage. No, her husand is much too cool to join in the antics. All they get is a lopsided grin. It's one of those qualities that made Becca fall in love years ago. The ability to face anything, absolutely anything with a grin and a swear word. "Oi, you lot. As soon as there's two of ya, you start going all independence on me. That what I get for letting not one but two septics into my home?"

"Three. You forgot Terror. Born and raised in New York."

Terror's in the room with them for movie night. Homelander was quite delighted to meet him. Becca hoped their puppy wouldn't immediately chew the suit to pieces. Or pee on it. Or try to hump the hero's calf. But he was on his best behavior, plopping down on the floor and expecting belly rubs, and Homelander - much to Becca's surprise - went to his knees without hesitation and cuddled Terror to the dog's utter satisfaction. Ever since, they've been inseparable, and now Terror has curled up next to Homelander and is snoring contendedly into the man's side.

Billy has stretched out on the sofa, leaving Homelander just enough space to sit. Still not one for hero worship. His socked feet are practically in Homelander's lap, but the hero doesn't seem to mind. He looks out of place in his costume. Billy and Becca are both in lounge wear, and she's starting to think that might have been a dumb choice, but at the same time, she doesn't feel like contorting herself just to impress Homelander. Especially when he doesn't even complain. This is their home, and if they want to be underdressed next to America's Hero, then so be it. They were stark naked last time, anyway. This is a larger-than-average percentage of covered body parts.

Since the couch is well and truly full with all three of her guys, Becca huddles into an armchair, heated blanket draped over her. Homelander called it her hero cape. "Not all of us can be preternaturally warm," she quipped, and he shrugged it off.

"What are we watching?" she asks and draws up Vought's streaming service, logging into her account. One of the perks of being part of Vought is getting all the accounts for free. "I guess it's gotta be a Vought movie. Guest's choice. What's your favorite?"

Homelander leans back and looks at the screen where Vought's huge selection is just waiting to be watched. His face and hair look eerily pale from the blue hue of their TV. "My favorite actually hasn't been filmed yet. They want to do a TV show about me. Working title is Brightest Night, but it might be changed. Not giving any spoilers." He locks his lips and throws the key away. Terror perks up to see if he threw a treat on the floor, then - disappointed and betrayed - continues his nap. "What's your favorite?" he asks, turning towards Billy.

Billy shrugs. "No offense, luv, I don't watch that hero drivel. It ain't bad, but I feel it's a little disingenious to show all those 'based on a true story' cold openings when people know the real world ain't like that. Them movies? Contradict themselves at every turn. Bad continuity. Gets me stark raving, I can't even watch it."

"Fair enough," Homelander says, face unreadable, but maybe that's just the half-light. If Billy hasn't hurt his pride up to this point, it's unlikely to happen. He seems forgiving of her husband's brashness, even if - no judgment, but still - Becca has heard some horror stories about Homelander's more diva-like qualities on the down-low. She hasn't been able to verify any of that for herself. He seems like such a sweetheart. As if to prove it, he asks: "Your favorite?" And turns to Becca.

"That's probably really embarrassing, but it's Origins."

Becca doesn't know Homelander all that well, much less privately, but she can tell that his smile changes. Shifts. Becomes less real, more like a mask. It's his eyes, she thinks, and feels the temperature in the room reach a new low that has little to do with winter. They're usually so vibrant and bright, and now they look empty. Pairing that with the wide smile he still has on his lips puts him square into the 'creepy' category.

Time to call him out on it. "I assume you're not a fan of that one, going off that reaction?"

Apparently he wasn't aware that his dislike was that open because he reins in his expression and sputters. "No, I mean, it's my biopic. My movie. But…" He puts his hands in his lap and looks at the popcorn bowl. "Imagine if someone made a movie about your life. And it's not a bad movie at all. It gets awards. But you look at actors who play your parents, and you know they're not… you know, your real parents. You are played by some blond little boy who only knows who you are from the movie screen, same as everyone. And it makes you feel strange when you watch it. It doesn't fit your memories at all. On the red carpet, they interview you and ask you how happy you are to see such an accurate portrayal of your own youth, and you can't tell them, you just can't! Or else it'll be awkward and bad for the movie. And the people clap and cheer and lap it up, and now all the online forums are full of screenshots of your false childhood. And you still gotta smile along." Homelander trails off, mouth twisted in dismay. He shoves more popcorn into his mouth and stares at the screen like it's personally offended him.

The silence in the room is deafening. Or would be deafening if it wasn't for Terror's rhythmic snoring.

Becca is trying to digest his words. She didn't expect a rant of this proportion. She feels a little unmoored by the sudden whiplash of his mood changing. "I didn't know that so much of it was fictional. I thought you were… more involved in the production."

Homelander looks at her with wide eyes. He seems a little sheepish now, movements slow and calculated as he leans back again, like he's embarrassed by what just happened. "Yeah, my involvement ended when I signed off on having it made. There was a cameo at the end of it if I remember correctly, so I do appear in it. For five minutes that I filmed on my day off, to play Adult Me. Truth is, I never watched it. I was at the premiere, but I made a point to stare at the row of seats."

Billy decides to end their awkward suffering by sitting up, reaching for the popcorn and the remote all in one and turning off Vought+. "That's a two-to-one vote against Vought movies, Becs. Sorry to say. It's Die Hard."

"No, it's alright," she's quick to reply. "Guess I'm just getting a little disillusioned with how Vought handles their hero franchises." There's an odd guilt in the pit of her stomach. She was advocating for this exact thing: making the hero accounts more personal by… essentially lying better. Making the heroes do photoshoots for fake lives, just to appease the people. That's marketing. Of course it's fake. But she never heard the perspective of the other side. "I'm actually glad you told me. Gave me a different perspective. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up at all."

"No," Homelander says, shaking his head. "You didn't know any of that." He's smiling again, even if he seems a little sad now. A bit deflated after his anger has stopped flaring so bright. Becca knows that feeling well. Being upset makes one tired. "Whoops, guess I destroyed the mood," he adds when nobody replies anything. He picks up the glass of coke Becca served with the popcorn, taking a long sip before sardonically raising his glass to the TV.

"You didn't!" Becca exclaims. "It's cruel that the production team just decided to make all those decisions without you. Billy's right, we're watching the only correct choice of Christmas movie. Die Hard."

"And I ain't watching it with a pillar of salt. Luv, how about you relax? Still sitting here in his suit, zipped to hell, rigid like a statue." Billy sits up, body language open, one arm over the backrest of the sofa in the most obvious invitation to get close. Homelander still takes his time observing first the arm, then Billy before giving in and huddling against him. "Oi, careful with the eagle, I don't want a hole in my thigh."

"Sorry."

Becca decides she doesn't want to cede her spot to the dog and leans forward to gently pat Terror awake and shoo him off before joining Billy and Homelander, extending her blanket and draping it over the three of them. It doesn't quite fit, but hey, all the more excuse to cuddle closer.

They forget the incident by the movie's halfway point, and by the time they've arrived at feeding each other pieces of popcorn and drinking from the same glass because they're too lazy to reach for their respective ones, all tension has dissipated, and it finally feels the way it's supposed to: a movie night between friends. It's a good thing Billy wants to watch this movie every year because they miss the last couple minutes entirely, too caught up in sucking each other's tongues.

"I don't know what it is about… this," Homelander gets out in a moment of reprieve when Billy actually lets him use his mouth for anything other than making out.

"About what?" Becca asks and stakes her claim on her husband, kissing him with abandon. Billy's hands are already unhooking her bra. She feels this is moving too fast, but where her head can't keep up, her body's not disappointing her: she's so wet it's starting to get uncomfortable.

She can see Homelander make a swooping gesture out of the corner of her eye. "This. All of it." He's out of breath. It sounds sexy. "When I'm with you, I am just saying things. It's like I'm not thinking about what I'm gonna say, it just… pours out."

"Probably a novelty when you got a whole Oscar production worth of cameras up your arse every second of every day and scripts to read off of." Billy uses the dumbfounded look on Homelander's face wisely and presses a kiss to his lips. "You need some simple folks to keep you humble and honest. Someone to whisper in your ear that you're only mortal." To underline his statement, Billy bites the hero's earlobe, and Becca can see Homelander shudder. She doesn't want to wait and cups her hand over his crotch.

"I'm not," Homelander sighs and leans his head back, exposing his throat for Billy to nibble. "I don't. I'm not- hah, not like you."

"Nah, you're an exotic bird. Pretty to look at, and dangerous up close. You gonna flash those pretty eyes for us?"

Becca wants to scold Billy for it; it isn't right to ask Homelander to perform his feats for them when he just complained about having to be a show pony for Vought, but the hero obeys immediately, red light springing forth and almost startling her with its intensity. She's never seen the eyes outside of a movie screen. They're beautiful. Vibrant and exuding heat like a fireplace. His pupils are white-hot and leaving imprints in her eyesight when she looks around the room.

"Fuckin' perfect," Billy comments, and Homelander looks at him, eyes still gleaming crimson, and laughs. It's a fraught sound, dragging at Becca's heartstrings despite the insistent throb of lust in her core.

They fuck on the couch, surrounded by crimson light that flares all the brighter when Homelander cums inside of her. He's apologetic after, but honestly not as much as Becca would have expected a man who just creampied a woman without protection to be. She shrugs it off either way. "Not a particularly fertile day," she smiles and proves it to him by pushing Billy down onto the couch and sitting on his cock with Homelander's semen still dripping out of her.

Climax finds her laughing about them having the time to lay out a towel over their sofa, but not to put on a condom.

Becca knows it's probably a very bad idea to bring it up again, but she's been thinking about it non-stop since her brain started working again properly, so she traces a nonsensical pattern across Homelander's chest and looks up at him, enjoying the way Billy's hands massage her sides. He's slowing down. He's going to fall asleep. "They said the childhood pictures were really of you. I wasn't Senior Director when they filmed Origins, but I remember the meeting about the marketing for it. There was a lot of talk about authentic photographs."

It's good to see Homelander less upset about it now, but he still swallows before he gives his reply. "They aren't. All of them are staged." His eyes find hers. "I think what I find even worse is that they were staged recently. They didn't even go through the trouble of finding stock photos from the eighties. No, they just edited them all to look twenty-five years old." He gets comfortable. They're on the bed now. Becca only has a very faint memory of how they arrived there in the aftermath of what was an explosive encounter. If she blinks, she can still see lights dance behind her lids. "That's how much I'm worth to them. A bunch of fake photos."

Becca sighs and cuddles back into Billy who isn't even moving anymore. Down for the count. He did come two times - inside of her and inside Homelander's mouth, which was hot enough a sight for Becca to rub her clit to climax number two. She sees the way Homelander tilts his head as he watches them and offers him a place in her arms, effectively swapping their positions so he gets to rest on her chest now. He's back to moving with a deliberate slowness, like he doesn't trust the peace. "Not gonna bite you," Becca says, and that does make him move closer and rub his cheek against her collarbone. "You should show me a real childhood pic once. Don't think I ever saw one. I always love comparing people to when they were small. It's so interesting to see which features developed early and which only came in late. I had such a round face as a girl, and then it got longer when I hit… oof, maybe fourteen? Meanwhile Rachel's stayed that round. Which I never would have thought. She grew up so much quicker than me."

Homelander is silent for so long that she's beginning to believe he also fell asleep. Men, right? But then she feels him shake his head, the tips of his hair tickling Becca's chin. "I don't have a lot of pictures from my childhood. I think there is one… somewhere. I was… maybe twelve. And I'm standing there, hands clasped together, all prim and proper, you know how it is in family photos. And my entire family is behind me. It's one of those uncomfortably serious pictures. Where nobody ever looks happy. You wouldn't recognize me. I had long hair back then. Like a girl. It…" He laughs a little to himself. "It took them years to figure out how to properly cut it. Normal scissors weren't doing much. Still don't. Getting my hair done requires a whole team. My stylist has to wear a mask when she bleaches it. They use… I don't know. Some kind of industrial-grade bleach, none of that run-of-the-mill drugstore stuff."

"Wow."

"Yeah, and a chainsaw."

Becca blinks.

"Eh, I'm just kidding," he's quick to say when she stays silent. "I'm kidding, seriously. They didn't use the chainsaw for cutting my hair." He lifts his head. There's that boyish look of mischief back on his features. Becca thinks she doesn't even need the picture. He looks so young right now. "They used the chainsaw to cut my nails."

Becca slaps him across the head, and he lets it fall back onto her chest, warm breath puffing onto her skin as he laughs and laughs and laughs.

He still doesn't stay the night. It's already three in the morning, and Billy and Becca really do offer that he can at least get a few hours of sleep in their bed, but he insists that it's less suspicious if people see him fly across New York in the dark. "I go for midnight flights all the time, but coming back home in the morning? That gets people posting rumors on social media, and it isn't hard to get to the truth for this one."

"We should get out of New York, maybe," Becca says, groans and stretches, still perfectly sore. She's looking at Billy, and he understands instantly. "Somewhere nobody knows us. Island time."

"I'd say Cuba, but-"

"Communist country," Homelander mumbles with only slightly less disdain than he had for Homelander: Origins.

Billy huffs. "Now why did I know you would say that? Belize. The Maldives. Hawai'i. Any takers?"

"I'd have to be incognito," Homelander mentions off-handedly, but in a tone that makes it clear he wants them to appease him and tell him that obviously he doesn't have to.

"Good thing," Billy says, "that you know a top bloke who just so happens to collect Hawaiian shirts."

Chapter Text

Homelander goes to see Madelyn as soon as he knows she's in the office. She hasn't even taken off her coat and scarf when he walks in after two knocks. Not that he has to knock. He can simply see whether she has any other visitors by x-raying the door. But it's the polite thing to do. Her handbag sits on top of her desk still, which it never does. Usually, she keeps it on the floor next to her, neat and orderly. Snowflakes are melting on top of her hair. It feels like he caught her in a secret moment, before she becomes the woman he knows. She smells of perfume and exhaust gas and the cold. The tip of her nose is red. She's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen, and yet his mind isn't occupied with her beauty at the moment. There's something else he needs.

"What is it?" Madelyn asks, her voice just a tad impatient. He knows she doesn't like being disturbed this early in the day, but this couldn't wait. She unwraps the scarf from around her neck and puts it down on top of the handbag, all the while looking at him with raised eyebrows. He doesn't like her tone, so he gets to the point immediately:

"I'm taking some paid vacation days."

"Paid vacation days?" Madelyn repeats as if he just asked her to accompany him to Jupiter. It's not like he doesn't understand her confusion in part. In all his twelve years of officially working for the company, he has never once taken a single day off. No missed performance, no event left unattended, no holiday spent anywhere but the Tower, ready in case duty calls, no public appearance skipped, no speech unread, no TV interview unrecorded. But despite knowing that she should appreciate how dutifully he throws himself into his work for them, there's something about the way she says it that irks him. It's because he works so hard for Vought that he should be deserving of taking a couple of days off. It's never been a problem with the others. Half the time, Maeve doesn't even tell Madelyn when she fucks off somewhere, and it's Homelander who has to break the news that she isn't coming to this or that thing that Madelyn planned out for them.

"I'm going on a vacation," he says, feeling a little defensive, and he hates himself for how the words come out. He has nothing to be defensive about. Why does he have to defend himself? "Two weeks."

"Two weeks?" Madelyn's eyebrows reach heights that he thought they couldn't, but before he can ruminate on it, her expression relaxes into a smile. "Alright. Let's talk about it. You want to take time off, that's something we can discuss. When would that be?"

He feels a bit steadier knowing he has a plan in his pocket, quite literally. Becca sent him a message yesterday with all the booking information for their hotel and attached a photo of herself with the plane tickets, winking at the camera, sticking her tongue out. She looked so happy and excited, and apparently it was contagious. Homelander hasn't looked forward to something this much in a very long time. "The vacation is already booked and ready. I'm leaving in three days. I'm going with friends."

Madelyn's heartrate hasn't been steady since he came in, but now, it's all over the place, rising as soon as the words are out, then calming back down when her shoulders lift with a deep breath, then rising again when she frowns at him. "You booked a vacation without telling anyone first, and you're going with friends?"

He's had enough. "You're making it sound like I'm doing something wrong, Madelyn." He forces a smile, but the chuckle he places at the end of his sentence to diffuse the tension sounds about as disbelieving as he feels.

"No, no. You're not doing anything wrong. I just wish you had informed me a bit earlier. You do have two events booked that you are supposed to attend. Have you forgotten about them?"

He'd rather bite his own tongue off than admit that yes, he has forgotten about them. They're stupid appearances at some children's event. She could send anyone else. They're kids. They have terrible taste in greatness anyway. Any D-lister will do. Or maybe someone closer to the kids' age range, some Teenage Kix members he can never remember the names of because that roster changes with the weather. But he's disappointing her. He knows he is. He should have consulted her first, and he shouldn't have gotten caught up in Becca's and William's enthusiasm, he should have-

"Are you going with Rebecca Butcher and her husband?"

Madelyn's words cut through the fog of shame that's beginning to cloud up his rational thinking, and he's back in the present in an instant, blinking at her. "How- How do you know that? Is it even important who I'm going with?"

Madelyn finally takes the time to shrug out of her coat. He steps forward on autopilot to take it before she even extends a hand and proceeds to hang it on one of the hooks by the door. "Thank you," she says, softly, and it's a soothing cushion against her harsh words from earlier. He briefly closes his eyes, smiles. She appreciates him. She needs him. He has nothing to fear. "I know because she requested time off, too, and when I asked her about it yesterday, she told me she was going to spend some time in warmer climates to wait out the rest of winter. And now you tell me you're leaving, too, around the same time."

He licks his lips. His mouth still feels a bit dry. "You're right. I'm vacationing with Becca Butcher and her husband. That should not be a problem. I know I rarely use it, but I do have identification through my secret identity."

Madelyn is still looking at him, hands propped onto the top of her desk, leaning forward with a warm smile. "That's so nice! I didn't know you were close with them."

"It's, uh... It's a recent development. I met them at last year's corporate Christmas event, and we talked. We... We share a bunch of interests, turns out, so yes. We became friendly. It's not... It's not a problem. You and I are close. I can be close with people from Vought. You don't have to worry about the vacation. I'll go as John Gillman, like I did when I was younger. I'll make sure nobody recognizes me." The fake name sits heavy on his tongue. It feels like a stranger these days. Not that it ever felt any different. He's never been John. He wasn't born to be John. But if anything is worth using his secret identity again, this is it.

Madelyn keeps staring, her eyes unreadable, a stark contrast to the way her lips are curved so pleasantly. "You are under no obligation to answer that question, but is this a sexual relationship? I am not asking as your superior, I am asking as your confidante. It is perfectly alright if your connection to Becca Butcher is, indeed, of a more intimate nature. I'm just curious."

Homelander can't bear it any longer. The eye contact makes his knees buckle, so he breaks it, and he knows that gives the game away. He feels better when he gets to look at the walls for a change, the monotonous shades of brown and beige that make up most of Madelyn's workspace. His cheeks are burning. He doesn't want to answer the question. Now she'll know he's cheated on Maeve. And that he was intimate with one more woman that isn't... her. And William, although she hasn't brought that up yet, and he certainly hopes she won't.

"Fine." Madelyn sighs. "Like I said, this is your private life. I am not getting involved. I'll talk to people for you, and we'll figure out how to grant you your vacation days on such short notice. Consider it done. But Homelander?" His name magically draws his eyes back to her, and it's only when he blinks that he realizes there's tears clinging to his lashes. "Keep it professional. Distance."

"I'm not in love with them," he says. Then his eyes widen, he sputters, backtracks in his mind what he can't backtrack in reality. Madelyn closes her mouth, smiles again, nods. He sees it almost through a haze. "I gotta go. Thanks for... everything. For... taking care." He retreats, tail between his legs, out the door.

When he slams it shut behind him, the hinges rattle, but don't break.

"Oi, I need that!"

"Thought I might wear it during the flight." Becca smooths her hands down the palm-print shirt. She doesn't often wear Billy's clothes. There's never really an occasion where they're appropriate. Certainly not to work. And not with their loved ones, either. She remembers Easter last year with her parents and Rachel. Becca came in wearing some cream-colored monstrosity she found in Billy's designated shirt drawer, and the room fell silent. Not in awe, she might add. She never pulled a stunt like that after. While she's not looking forward to the constant need to look over her shoulder for paparazzi while going on vacation with someone like Homelander, at least the man has no visceral reaction of disgust to the mere presence of Billy or anything that is his. She can wear what she likes. "Thought I'd get myself into that tropical mindset. You can pack another one, you got plenty."

Billy's hands grip her arms from behind, and then he's in her space, kissing up her shoulder where the shirt has slipped down a bit. "Best thing about seeing you in that shirt is knowing I'll get to peel you out of it later. And that I get to wear it for the rest of the vacation, smellin' like my girl."

Becca shudders, leans back. They really don't have time for sex before leaving for the airport, but that doesn't mean she doesn't want it.

"There's always some closet we can squeeze into while we wait for take-off," Billy says like he's reading her mind, and the thought sounds good enough to almost drive all her worries away. Almost.

Becca turns around to face her husband. "Stillwell talked to me again. Yesterday. I didn't... I mean, I told her about the vacation randomly a couple days ago, but yesterday, she came up to me and very pointedly wished me a good flight and started joking about getting a tan, and it felt weird. It was almost like she knew. Do you think Homelander told her?"

Billy clicks his tongue. "She probably knows where he's goin' at all times. She's his direct superior, right, so she probably manages his hours. Wouldn't be surprised if she put two and two together there. I don't think Homelander blabbed about us, though. He's takin' this seriously. Comically seriously. He refuses to stay a second longer than he has to just to keep up the pretense."

Becca sighs. "That's exactly why I didn't like the idea of even getting involved with him. It's way too late now, but this is exactly what I was worried would happen. That we'd get into something much bigger than us. Ever since he told us about Origins... I don't know. I've had a weird feeling going into the Tower. Like there's something not quite right. Doesn't feel like my workplace anymore. I'm second-guessing everyone's motivations."

"I'd say somethin' about that just being what it's like with these corporations. Vought's likely laundering funds off-shore, they've probably bought a bunch of politicians, they're definitely committing tax fraud, and so are their heroes. Homelander probably hasn't paid a cent of taxes in his life because he keeps donating to charity to keep his own wealth down." He realizes his jokes aren't cheering her up and stops. She's biting her lip, deep in thought and only half-listening to him. "Or d'ya think somethin' else is goin' on?"

"I don't know," she finally says. "I don't know. I just don't wanna get caught up in it."

"We can always stop. Not like us anyway to keep anyone around for so long."

Becca nods. "I like him, though. He's got something about him. He's vulnerable. I don't think he's happy with his life, and I'd never tell him that, but I don't think he really wants what he's got, despite what he says to the cameras."

Billy chuckles. "There she is, Saint Becca of the Lost Causes. D'you wanna save him like he's some pretty princess up in the Tower?"

Becca swats him away. "Shut up, you know I don't like it when you say that. He doesn't need saving. Neither do you, for that matter, because I know that's what you're thinking. So hey. How do you feel about him? I know you keep calling him a pretty cunt, but than can mean anything. How do you really feel about him?"

"He's got an arse to die for, and he bends pretty every which way. Clingier than Terror when I kick him out of the bog to take a shit, though, and that rubs me the wrong way, I ain't gonna lie. He's bad with boundaries, I can tell, no matter how shy he is."

"We haven't been great with boundaries, either," Becca reminds him. "There's a lot of stuff we did that happened in the heat of the moment. Forgetting a condom was risky enough, and I'm so, so glad that test was negative." She cards a hand through her hair. "Maybe everything's actually alright with Vought. Could be that I'm just projecting because I wanted a friendship to work out for us for once."

There's some things they rarely talk about, and this is one of the topics Becca likes to avoid, especially around Billy. They have her family and... that's it. Billy has people he's somewhat close with, men from the military. He calls them his 'brothers in arms', but they never call or visit and seem to keep their distance. Not like Billy reaches out a lot. She doesn't know all their names, only some of them: Chapman, Jock (she never did find out his last name, but it's probably a positive thing that Billy cares enough about him to call him by his first name), Kessler. She doesn't like any of them. She's seen Kessler exactly once, and the way he joked around with Billy gave her goosebumps. Becca herself isn't faring much better. She didn't even realize how lonely she was until she started talking to Terror when Billy was away, deployed on missions he came back from silent and sullen and drinking more than usual. She talks to Rachel, but she can never be as open as she'd like with her sister, or else the 'I don't like him' comes out, and that conversation never ends well. Vought's artifice and corporate suits don't make good friends. Sometimes she wonders if anyone but Billy and Terror would even notice if she disappeared.

"He's as lonely as we are, that what you're sayin'?"

Becca nods, swallows her sadness, and decides pointedly to enjoy her vacation.

"What is this?" Maeve asks, sitting on the side of his bed and looking more like forgotten luggage than the suitcase he's in the process of filling with pieces of clothing. Something about her tone is grating to him. It doesn't make him angry; it just makes him feel something that comes dangerously close to guilt, and he swallows it down. He has nothing to feel guilty about. "You're just fucking off for two weeks with your new flames, huh?"

"Like you did during Christmas break," he reminds her because how could she have forgotten that she spent almost three weeks gone without warning? She always does this, taking freedoms for herself where she doesn't allow him to have them. He hates it, but what's a man to do? He's smitten. "You gave your permission."

"For a one-night-stand." Maeve has her hands squashed between her knees, looking for all intents and purposes younger. She's still in costume, having just come to see him after an interview they filmed in the Tower studios. "I didn't know it would escalate like that."

He busies himself with folding some clothes off to the side to hide his smirk. The faint guilt has dissipated. All that's left is a quiet feeling of contentment at getting under her skin with this. She cares. She actually does care. Might even be getting jealous. "It's nothing. Not any more than your other lovers are."

"There are no other lovers," she insists, sounding frustrated, and he somehow dislikes that she's telling the truth. He listens extra hard for a lie, but there is nothing. "Look, John, do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I can't tell that when you hug me extra hard as soon as I come back from any sort of visit to my family, that you're smelling me for some hint of... whatever weird guy smell you think clings to me? I'm not cheating on you. You're projecting because you're the one cheating, and it makes you insecure."

He throws a pair of shorts into the suitcase. "I am not cheating on you, you just can't handle me having other friends. You're jealous! I'm flattered. But I'm not the insecure one here, Maeve."

Maeve sighs and stares up at his ceiling. "Are you breaking up with me?"

The question comes out of nowhere, and he sputters as it sinks into his consciousness. He can't even fathom that she would ask such a thing. "Of course not. You and me, that's forever. Nobody can separate us."

"Because I see you with Becca Butcher." Her eyes give away none of her feelings. She's just looking at him. He hates being seen. Being looked at is fine, the fans do it all the time, adoring him, sometimes undressing him with their eyes. He could float on that adoration. Being seen is uncomfortable. He can't know what it is Maeve sees when she looks deep enough. She's seen too much of him. So have the Butchers, probably. They're still nice to him now, but if he's not careful, they'll end up treating him like Maeve - like he's a nuisance. Something strange. Something lesser. Or like the doctors. Like he's something to be studied. Like there's things in his mind that are to be noted down and preserved because nobody else thinks like him. Maeve looking at him feels like an itch he can't reach. "You're always joking around with her, opening doors for her. People are talking. I don't know if you're aware of it, but everyone in the Tower is talking about it. And that thing with her husband? Your late-stage bi awakening?"

"That is not what it is!"

"No? Who fucked whom there? You had your cock in his ass? Or you let him into yours?"

"Maeve-"

"John."

"You are jealous." He smiles. "It's not a good look on you."

"I wanna know where we are with each other, but it's impossible to get a straight answer out of you. Sit down." She pats the bed next to her. "I'm not letting this go. Sit down and tell me, here and now, what you're doing."

He does sit down next to her and wastes no time prying her hand out from between her knees and taking it into his. She lays her head on his shoulder, as close as the eagle allows her. That's rare, her seeking him out. Usually, he is the one initiating contact. It makes him feel needy, sometimes, but she seems to like it. She treats him better when he makes himself small and harmless for her. He gets angry, she pulls away. He doesn't know if she's putting on an act or not now, but he wants to believe it's real. "I love you," he says, because it's true. "I don't want to lose you. They're not my lovers or anything. They're-"

"Shiny new toys for you. That's how you see humans, right?"

"You know me so well." It definitely feels right. The Butchers, they're... human. Not gods, not anything out of the ordinary. Normal humans. A regular couple, the way he used to be with Maeve, maybe, but that's in the past. Red string of fate or not, Maeve and him fight a lot, but the Butchers never do, it seems. He's never seen them disagree. They're so happy. It's addicting in the way he imagines a drug would be. They're nothing special. But looking at them, being with them, that feels special. Extraordinary. Like a family. "They're toys. They're not like us. Not built to last through the ages. They're not a threat to us, Maeve. Don't worry." He pats her hand.

"Would you ever permit me the same? That I get to... have other friends? With or without benefits?" She rolls her head, looks up at him, her face half-hidden by her hair. He still can't read her expression. She's always been an amazing actress. "If I say I want to take some human to bed, what would you say to that? Would you allow me to?"

He wants to fire off a 'yes', but then his brows furrow, and the reality of it comes crashing down, and his heart aches with a fury at some man he doesn't know who would touch what's his. "I... I don't think so. I'd kill that person. I wouldn't even hesitate."

"Then I want you to stop with this. Go on your vacation, fuck it out of your system if you must, but after that?" She turns the tables on him, her hand sneaking out from his grip and grasping his fingers, pulling him forward like he's trapped in a vice. There it is, her anger. He's almost missed it among all this vulnerability. "You belong to me. We're stuck with each other, hell or high water. Just us, right?"

That feels right. "Just us," he echoes, leans forward and kisses her square on the lips. She reciprocates, but does seal their deal with a small bite that can't break his skin but does sting a little. He chuckles, caresses her chin with his thumb, and pulls back to continue packing.

Seeing Homelander at the airport is almost a shock. No, Becca has to rethink that properly: seeing John Gillman is a shock, because the man waiting for them at the gate has very little to do with America's biggest celebrity. He's dressed like any tourist: khaki shorts, a navy polo shirt that looks boring compared to Billy's usual attire but shows a scandalizing amount of neck, sandals, and a cap that hides his bleach-blond hair. He looks normal. Attractive, but normal, and antsy as anything. He hasn't spotted them yet, and the amount of people around him probably throw his senses off like a bloodhound who's surrounded by too many scents at once, so he can't hear or smell them, either. No, he keeps turning his head left and right, almost flinching in the crowd whenever anyone gets too close to him. Eventually, when they're almost in front of him, he takes to protectively wrapping his arms around himself in order to shield his skin from anyone touching it. Becca tries to remember if she's ever seen him in anything but the suit (excluding instances where she's seen him without anything on), but she doesn't think he's ever worn clothes that aren't his costume in public.

She switches her suitcase to her other hand and waves with her free arm, and that finally catches Homelander's attention. The look of utter relief as he sees them makes Becca laugh.

"Hope you haven't been waiting for ages," Billy says as soon as Becca is released from a very tight hug. The two men pat each other's arms in a gesture of friendship. Homelander throws another glance around, but nobody is paying any attention to him. Not that Becca blames them. He really doesn't look like Homelander in the slightest. It's like he's stripped his signature mannerisms along with the suit, and with the cap showing nothing but darker roots, he is no longer America's golden boy.

"I should have flown slower. I've been here for two hours," Homelander admits. "I bought some drink with milk, but it was coconut." He furrows his brows in disapproval, a hint of confusion in his tone. "I didn't know that was so popular here."

"On an island, luv?" Billy asks, shoulders shaking with laughter. Homelander briefly looks offended at being the butt of the joke, but he recovers quickly. He instead decides to relieve them of their suitcases without being asked, hoisting them all onto his shoulders in a show of strength that is entirely out of place in this setting where nobody expects a supe. Becca barely manages to open her mouth before Homelander remembers himself and lowers the luggage back onto the floor with a sheepish grin and a 'sorry, sorry'. He still insists on carrying it all on his own, however. It's charming in a very awkward way that makes it hard to refuse the kindness.

The ride on the boat to their hotel is relaxing. Becca enjoys watching the sea pass them by on ground level after the hours spent on a plane. The ocean is a vibrant blue, and she gets the intense desire to just dive into it. Billy is next to her, one arm wrapped around her shoulder. The breeze from the sea doesn't help against the sun beating down, and Billy's hand feels unbearably warm. She huddles into him despite it all. Fuck the heat, this is exactly what they came here for in the first place. Becca catches Homelander's eyes. The hero is standing a little to the side, looking for all intents and purposes like the third wheel. Going on vacation together is new for all of them. It's taken a while for Homelander to warm up to their routines at home, but by now, he usually feels comfortable, cracking jokes and inserting himself into their lives without the initial skittishness. This is different. But a good kind of different.

"Scared of paparazzi?" Becca asks him when she catches him throwing a look around. They've positioned themselves to stand as far away from any other people as possible, out of earshot of any fellow anglophone travellers, so Becca feels it's safe to mention who Homelander really is. "Or waiting for some poor tourist to fall into the water and having to swoop in and save them?"

"Neither," Homelander replies, sounding distracted. His head swivels back around, following something Becca can't see. "There's swarms of little fish down there everywhere. I… I actually haven't seen the ocean this close without flying across. It's beautiful."

Becca has no idea how he constantly manages to sound like a boy experiencing the wonders of the world for the first time, but it never stops being adorable. "They offer diving sessions here, if that's something you wanna do. There's no need to just watch from above the surface."

There's enthusiasm glistening in the hero's eyes, and he throws her a wide smile. "I'd love that! We should all go! Maybe we'll find a place where there's not quite so many people. I'd hate to wear all the silly headgear for humans when I can hold my breath perfectly all by myself."

"What's your record?" Becca asks because that's the thing you ask when someone shows off their underwater breath-holding skills.

"Four hours, forty-three minutes, twenty-eight seconds," Homelander says, not missing a beat. Becca is stunned. That's an impressive time, even for a supe, she imagines, and he clearly kept impeccable count of this feat. "But that was in an underwater tank. I might have held out longer if there'd been fish to look at. I was a kid, I bet I would have loved it."

Becca frowns. "Was that in a controlled environment?" Whenever he talks about his childhood, his family comes out of the anecdote sounding weirder and weirder to Becca. Who puts a little boy in such situations? Then again, Homelander likes to boast, and if that trait carried over from when he was younger, then he probably asked for an opportunity to show off his powers.

Homelander nods, leans forward to put his arms on the rail of the boat and stares out into the deep blue surrounding them. "I really wanted to impress people," he confirms Becca's suspicions. "Nearly got myself into trouble for it because that feat pushed me to my limits. Thankfully, they could pull the plug on the container quickly. Coughed my little lungs out, but well, lived to tell the tale. This here is still better. I'd enjoy going for a swim."

"Finally figuring out why your fishman loves the water so much?" Billy jokes.

Homelander shoots him a withering look immediately. "Don't ruin this by bringing Deep into it. The man's an embarrassment to the profession."

"He has a terrible outfit, and that's sayin' a lot for a superhero. The fake chain just drives me around the bend, it looks so cheap. At least your eagles come with… some decorum. They're still tacky, mind you, but…"

Homelander looks genuinely touched by the backhanded compliment. "I will say, it's strange not wearing the cape. I keep trying to adjust it because I can't feel it, which is usually a sign it's gotten stuck, but it just isn't there."

"Fuuuckin' workaholic, only thinkin' about the hero bollocks, always on the job, even here," Billy comments, readjusts his sunglasses and does not look like a hypocrite at all, despite the fact that Becca knows he's always thinking about the wars he fought.

They booked an island resort because they wanted the luxury of private bungalows and alcohol, which only gets served to tourists, not to the majority-Muslim population themselves. Becca and Billy share a bungalow; Homelander gets one to himself. Their little spaces of island bliss are next to each other, however, and they can come and go as they please. Becca thought it necessary to remind Homelander specifically that he's welcome to come over into their room. During the day... and during the night, of course. It feels almost scandalous. They've had sex several times now, but never in a place where anyone could see them slip into each other's bedrooms in the middle of the night.

But for now, she can't even think about sex. The heat has her tired and lazing around with her feet propped up on the chair she's sitting on. Homelander's been skittish again, warming up to casual intimacy and then cooling off at seemingly random intervals, so Becca decided to set up temporary camp in his bungalow with Billy to have a chat. Now they're watching Homelander pull open every closet and cabinet, filling it with his belongings. Becca herself has always stuck to the creed that a vacation meant living out of the suitcase: the wrinkled clothes, plasticky smell, messy-bun-with-a-flower-tucked-into-her-hair, sticky sunscreen drying uncomfortably on moist, sandy skin - all of that is better than glamor. But obviously, Homelander disagrees. He stretches to put some more of his clothing into the closet, then turns around when he notices that she's watching. "I usually have a personal assistant who does this for me, so I'm sorry if I'm doing it wrong."

"You're not," Becca says.

Billy sees that differently. "Looks like it's your first time at a hotel, mate."

Homelander chuckles. "It isn't. Just my first time doing it on my own. I spend what feels like half my time in trailers and hotels all across the globe, for filming or conventions or whatever they send me to. But my stuff always just magically-" He snaps his fingers. "-appears out of thin air when I enter. And I never take clothes with me at all. Just a spare suit in case some inbred fan or other spills an energy drink over it." He pauses, and Becca can see his Adam's apple bob on a nervous swallow. "That came out wrong."

"Nah, I get it," Billy says. He already has a cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth and seems to deliberate whether he should stay here or go outside for a smoke. He's been really considerate of no-smoking rules indoors, and Becca thinks it's at least partly for her benefit. It took her ages to quit. "I'd blow my brains out if I had to do what you do for a living."

Homelander exhales loudly through his nose. He sounds amused, despite the topic. "Yeah, I've thought about it before. Doubt it'll work, though. I don't know how many bullets have been fired off at me, but as of now, not a scratch."

Becca scratches at a small scab she found on her arm out of sheer tension. She hates when Billy gets into this mood. She doesn't need two people who think joking about it in weirdly serious ways is the height of hilarity. "Jesus, can you two lighten up a bit?"

They steer the conversation into more pleasant waters after, talking about the flight and where they'll go for dinner. Homelander pulls out his phone - a sleek black Vought device with no personal touch - and starts randomly suggesting restaurants based off Google reviews and how appetizing he finds the photos of the dishes. Billy has to remind him he can't zip from island to island and that every restaurant on a different island requires another boat ride instead of a three-second flight through the air. Disgruntled, Homelander hands the phone over to Billy on two conditions: "None of that vegan shit. And make sure it has seafood. I want to take pictures to upset Deep with." It sounds so deeply personal and childish that Becca snorts. If she ever had any illusions about the heroes having even a bit of heroic dignity, the past few months have taught her that they're very normal people, same woes and grudges as mere mortals included. Billy calls a place to reserve one table for them, then returns the phone.

Becca can see Homelander swipe across the screen with his thumb, then enter a password, too quick for her to figure out what it is, even though he makes no move to hide the tapping of his fingers. "Oh, would you look at that!" he says, clearly delighted like a boy. "Three thousand reactions in the past hours just from that one post my brilliant social media manager typed out. Seems she really earned her vacation! I want to leave some strategic replies to certain fans. Which demo do you recommend I reply to?"

Billy shakes his head in exasperation and turns away, finally sauntering out of the room to have a smoke on the pier, leaving the door open because despite all his posturing, he wants to remain a part of the conversation. "Fuuuckin' workaholics."

This time, Becca agrees. Vought is far away, and that's a good thing. She slides up behind Homelander, wraps her arms around his frame, and plucks the phone from his hands, locks it, and throws it onto the bed. "I'll think of something. But for now? Our hero has earned his vacation just as much as his brilliant social media manager, don't you think?"

He frowns, briefly, as his social media attention fix is cut short, but does settle into her embrace. She notes that his skin is still perfectly dry, not a drop of sweat. His unusually high body temperature actually seems to have cooled down a little. Is he that good at adjusting it? Maybe he can achieve that effect willingly, warm in the winter, cold in the heat. She's jealous. There's sweat pooling around her collarbone, under the soles of her feet, between her breasts. She throws Billy a look across Homelander's shoulder that can't be mistaken for anything other than what it is: a proposition. Billy smirks, lifts an eyebrow, blows out some smoke, then apparently decides he would actually like to be here for this and simply throws the cigarette into the sea before joining them again.

Homelander picks up on the changed atmosphere in the room. "Dinner first, though, right?" he asks. "I already showered and put this entire outfit on. I won't crinkle it."

"It's dinner, not one of your fancy performances," Billy reminds him, but does performatively lift his hand and draw a performative line with his fingertips across Homelander's side, where the performatively patriot-blue-colored polo has ridden up a little and exposes a performatively pornographic strip of skin. Homelander shudders, a whine low in his throat that sounds refreshingly unrehearsed. Becca laughs, wraps one of her hands around Billy's and fixes the fake flower accessory in her hair with the other. "My pretty girl," Billy whispers and kisses her cheekbone. They both watch as Homelander gathers his wits, adjusts his sensibly stylish shorts a little and follows them.

Billy has to remind him to lock the door.

Dinner is a relaxed affair. They have a physical map laid out on their table while they wait for their food because Becca thinks it's quite romantic to stick colored pins into destinations, and they need to make plans. "Prettiest reef here, definitely. This is the best beach! And right here? I think we'll get a hell of a sunset view out of this." Billy's green pins are scattered all across the beach areas. He's looking for places to lounge and stare out at the waves, maybe go for a swim. Easily satisfied. Becca's yellow pins are well-researched and strategic. Homelander's blue pins are very few, and almost all in the ocean. The ones that aren't are usually put next to either one of the green or one of the yellow pins. By the time their dinner arrives, they have a half-assed plan for their stay.

Dinner itself is amazing. The taste of fresh fruit bursts in Becca's mouth. The heat leaves her little in terms of appetite, but she clears her plate in record time anyway. Billy eats his steak quietly. He isn't an elegant eater at all, wolfing down whatever is on his plate, never picking at his food, just loading the entire fork and then shoveling it in. Becca really loves watching him eat. Homelander takes his time, mostly because he's busy taking pictures with his plate of seafood, cackling all the while. It seems unnecessarily cruel towards The Deep, but Becca isn't going to ask why he doesn't like his teammate. The man is known to go on a rant or two on a whim. When he's satisfied with his exploits, Homelander puts the cap back onto his head, hiding his hair from the public again, transforming from someone who looks eerily like Homelander to John Gillman, thirty years old and average dude on vacation with his friends. He savors his food, sometimes closing his eyes as he chews. He did tell them his tastebuds were as developed as his olfactory sense, the two intrinsically connected. He can probably pick out tastes that Becca - not necessarily a foodie, but not one to turn down a good dish - can only dream of.

A noise catches his attention, and he turns around in his chair. Becca already knows what he's looking at. She's noticed it, too. There's a family with a small child at a table close to them. A little girl is swinging her legs in the chair, her feet not touching the floor. She's impatiently waiting for her father to cut up her food for her, babbling all the while in a language Becca can't understand but that she thinks sounds vaguely Scandinavian. She's loud. Some other guests look annoyed by her. Not Homelander. Despite being the one person here who likely experiences her incessant talking like a hammer to his temples in terms of violent volume, his eyes are soft and maybe a little wistful. The father of the girl is a tall man, hair so blonde it almost looks white in the setting sun. The mother is ginger. The little girl inherited all of their features to varying degrees. Becca doesn't have to ask to know what it is he is seeing.

Homelander notices that she's looking at him, and the wistfulness leaves his eyes. It's replaced by a pleasant expression that nevertheless looks a bit empty. His actor face Becca has become well-acquainted with. "Loud," he says, playfully rubbing his ear. "I hope she quiets down when she eats."

"She's cute," Becca says, knowing it'll break through the barrier. He shoots the little family one more look and nods in agreement.

Billy doesn't take any notice of the people around them, it seems. He's staring out over the waves, one hand holding his ice-cold bottle of beer in a relaxed grip. He's living on island time already, and nothing can break his cool. He looks like he belongs here, already tan in general and only promising to become more so as island time stretches on, his shirt half-unbuttoned, sunglasses making him seem just mysterious enough without it being ridiculously edgy. It's moments like these when Becca considers herself the luckiest woman alive. He's hers, looking like this and also when he's softer. This Billy, she gets to show off. Soft-around-the-edges Billy, she keeps to herself. A little secret, like the St. Christopher medal that's on display today, but usually hidden behind Hawaiian-print shirts. Something only she gets to see.

She orders another fruity cocktail, Billy orders another beer, and Homelander - begrudgingly - orders something with coconut milk. Becca doesn't know why he keeps drinking it if he doesn't like the taste of either coconut milk or alcohol, but he's on his third glass, and she's not about to ask when he gulps it down with such determination. "To a great vacation!" she says and lifts her drink. The guys clink theirs against it, and they're all buzzed enough to take a photo, showing off. It doesn't seem a monumental thing in the moment, but this is the first little piece of physical evidence of their friendship. It wouldn't be the last.

Not by a long shot.

They take a detour down to one of the beaches before heading home. Time flows like honey, thick and sweet around the edges. There's nothing to do. They kick up sand with their naked feet. Homelander looks deeply unhappy about getting it between his toes. Butcher laughs about him, and - in a show of maturity and poise - Homelander kicks sand all over Butcher's feet for a change. "I don't mind it, mate," Butcher says and wiggles his toes demonstratively. "I'd never leave here if I had any say in it."

"Why do you like it so much?" the supe inquires. "I mean, it's fun, I agree, but why do you live in New York of all places if you love... this?" He gestures around at the palm trees and the coast. And at Becca who has wandered off towards the waterline and bends down intermittently to collect what Butcher thinks are probably shells she finds pretty. He doesn't deserve her. He thinks that at least twice a day, and it's always true and never gets old. He does good reminding himself of it.

"Becca's bound to Vought Tower," Butcher says easily. "And me work gets me around anyway. I've seen sand all over the world. Nothin' beats this."

"You're a soldier, right?"

"SAS, mate. Ex-SAS, anyway. Goin' where the government wants me. A true patriot like you should appreciate that." He never knows where this openness between them is coming from. Becca doesn't know about it. They only talk like this when she's off somewhere, being happy. Then, it seems like a mask drops, and Homelander's face suddenly seems a little colder, and Butcher can only guess that he himself reflects that.

There's a smirk on Homelander's face now. "No need to play coy with me. I know the look of a man who's done shit he wouldn't want to talk to his wife about."

"Takes one to know one."

"I won't deny the truth. As a hero, sometimes, you do things you're not necessarily proud of. Let's just say, the saves that don't have a one-hundred-percent success rate rarely make the 6PM news. Vought wants perfection, and if it isn't perfect, they either won't report on it, or they lie."

"Becca thinks Vought's not all they're pretending to be, ya know?"

"Does she now? She should stop. Asking questions gets people in trouble easy, and I don't want Rebecca to be caught up in it."

"She has a tendency to want to help people. And she thinks you're in need of it."

That does give Homelander pause. He turns his head to where Becca is awkwardly lifting her dress up a bit and walking into the water a few steps. The setting sun looks like a halo around her head. Fucking laughable, if you ask Butcher, like they're in some kind of Hallmark movie. But that's why he goes on vacation. To experience a bit of this weightless feeling and mind-numbing happiness. He pays good money just for this. "Did I give off that impression?"

"If you ask me, you did. You always do. Takes one to know one, and I seen plenty of blokes who come back from war looking like they been through hell. Gives them an emptiness behind the eyes. Something feral. Something that won't go away, no matter how far in the past it is. You got that look. Shit happened to ya. I won't ask because I ain't gonna open up to you, either, but workin' for that company does something, doesn't it? More than just the hero bollocks."

Homelander's shoulders lift and fall on a sigh. "I don't need to be saved," he says and - choosing deflection, the way he usually does - turns his head to capture Butcher's lips with his own. It's a quick kiss, not because Homelander doesn't try to deepen it immediately, but because Butcher pushes him off. Homelander makes a questioning noise, no doubt pissed off at being rejected when he clearly needed the distraction.

"Not the kind of country where this thing flies," Butcher explains.

"Not like I can do it anywhere else, being who I am. You say you don't keep up with the superhero business, so you probably missed out on the tabloid headlines when the paps first got a picture of me and Maeve making out. Aaah, good old days. Lots of lawsuits. That we all won, by the way. Vought's got lawyers for years. Anyway. There's no one around. I'd be able to hear their little heartbeats. This beach continues past that patch of trees over there. Bit of privacy. We could all... go there."

"Already got sand on our feet, may as well get it in our cracks?"

"I wouldn't even mind it, I think." It's gotten dark rapidly, and Butcher mentally kicks himself for missing out on one sunset of fourteen he's going to get on the beach by lamenting their fates of being men hounded by life. He can barely make out Homelander's face, save for a strange glow somewhere in his eyes that looks faintly like a less creepy version of the red eyes people get in photographs. Becca sees a man in need of saving when she looks at him. Butcher sees someone who's dangerous. They both agree he's a stray, in a sense, just aren't sure whether he's the kind who'll lick the offered hand or bite it.

"Are your lasers on?"

"Yes," Homelander says, like Butcher missed something obvious. "It's how I see in the dark. It's not some secret ability I have. I just light it all up a bit. Why did your heartrate jump? You scared of my eyes all of a sudden?"

"Window to the soul and all, ain't they?"

He can only make out the wink because one of the strangely glowing eyes briefly blinks shut. Then, a hand pushes against his back with more force than is normal, leading him down the beach, to Becca who is all too eager to show them the bounty of the ocean she gathered up. "Don't ask questions," Homelander whispers in his ear. "You call us workaholics for bringing Vought up during island time, so stop asking questions. And stop analyzing what you see in my eyes." Then, in a voice so pleasant that Butcher gets whiplash: "Can I fuck you for a change?"

It's a good change, Butcher decides, as he finds himself with one heel digging into Homelander's back, egging him on to fuck him harder, his tongue buried in Becca's heavenly cunt as she's sitting on his face. He's going to be sore, alright, and still he asks for more, wanting to see how far the hero is willing to go. If there's a point at which he'll stop for Butcher's safety, unwilling to hurt him, or if he'll jackhammer him hard enough to shatter his pelvis if needs must. If that point exists, they don't arrive there because orgasm finds them quicker than the consequences of Butcher's bad ideas, and afterwards, they're too tired to do much but wash off a lot of fluids in the shallows. Homelander is pliant again, whatever edge Butcher uncovered earlier sanded down by Becca's presence and post-coital haziness. They say their goodnights, but it takes Butcher a while to fall asleep.

The feeling that something isn't quite right continues on the next morning. Breakfast at a high-end resort is ironic, Butcher thinks. The plates are nicer, square instead of round, but the orange juice is the same as at every other buffet on the planet, and so is the jam, so is the bread, so is the coffee. The only actual surprise is Homelander already seated at a table when Becca and Butcher walk in after they had little success knocking on the door to his bungalow. The buffet has barely opened up, and there he is, sitting alone with nothing but one slice of toast on his plate and a tall glass of... whole milk. No latte, no coffee at all. Just plain milk.

"They opened the buffet early for you?" Butcher asks as they both sit down with him. He tries to contain his wince as his ass makes contact with the seat. Homelander snorts into his glass of milk anyway and shoots him a knowing look. Cunt can apparently tell everything, even how sore Butcher's arse is, by the power of the chemical composition of his hormones or however a supe can tell these things. "Someone recognize that there's a celebrity among the bunch?"

"Nope," Homelander negates, gulping down half the glass before properly speaking. "I simply asked them if I could already watch the sunrise from here, and they were kind enough to offer me an early breakfast, that's all. I'm an early bird. Always have been. Strict parents with a schedule will do that to you."

"I leave military time behind off the clock," Butcher says.

"Takes me at least a week to fully realize I can sleep in, and by then I usually already gotta go back to the office," Becca adds, impaling a grape from her fruit salad with her fork and eating it with a look of bliss. "This is amazing. Oh hey!" She looks over to one of the tables farthest away from the buffet. "We're not even the earliest birds here. These two got us beat. Or, well, not you, I guess... John."

It takes Butcher's trained eye exactly five seconds to realize Homelander is positioned perfectly to observe that particular table. And the two men sitting there. One of them is typing on his phone, one arm across the backrest of his bench; the other is nonchalantly drinking coffee. Secret agents dressed as vacationers if he's ever seen any, and they're not good at hiding it, either. Butcher doesn't believe in coincidences. 

He shoots Homelander a glance. The supe meets his eyes, and there it is again, that coldness. Fury, this time. 'Here for me,' Homelander mouths and bites off a piece of toast. 'Vought,' is the final thing he says with lips only before using his voice, accidentally spitting a few crumbs across the table and apologizing profusely. "How about," he says on second attempt, "we go do that scuba diving today that you promised me, Rebecca? Let's see some fish!"

The water is warm and perfect, but still cooler than the land, and Becca wants to float forever, lazily paddling with her feet. The underwater world passes her by in hues of blue and green and white-hot sun beams, vibrantly-colored fish that flee from her as she swims past. When she was a little girl, she used to pretend to be a mermaid. Most often, it was just in their bathtub at home. Well, not the bathtub. It was her and Rachel's mermaid tank where evil scientists (their parents) kept them locked up, and they had to find ways to escape back to the deep blue sea, their real home. They got in trouble for soaking the entire floor by thrashing around in the tub. Then, when she was old enough to swim in lakes, she pretended to be a selkie because she loved reading about their mythology. Rachel would hide her clothes (or, you know, the pelt), and then she had to find it in order to turn back into her true form. She is long past playing like that, but she does still love water, and feeling weightless.

Billy hasn't gone diving with them. He's just letting the water carry him, floating on his back, eyes closed and dozing until Becca decides to strike from the depths and grab him by the ankle to drag him below the surface. When she laughs around the mouthpiece of her diving gear at the face he makes, little bubbles float all around her. They briefly hug, and then Billy swims back up and continues doing absolutely nothing, just the way he wanted. He looked contemplative when they came out here. So did Homelander.

Homelander has gone... somewhere. Becca doesn't know where he is right now. Him and her are technically in a group with other divers and an instructor, but somehow, Homelander managed to sneak off, and Becca found goggles and the rest of his gear neatly tucked away under some big coral. She swam towards the instructor and gestured at him to join her above the surface to ask a question, distracting him from the spot. The instructor warned them all off from swimming too far out, to where the waters get deep. That they shouldn't go too far down, or else the pressure would cause injuries and sickness. Becca would bet all her money that somewhere down there, where the pressure would burst her eardrums and make her lungs implode like empty Capri Suns, a hero is having the time of his life.

And just like that, as their hour underwater is coming to an end, right on time as though in possession of some supernatural inner clock, there he is, gear and all, pretend-clumsily swimming around, blond hair afloat. When Becca touches his shoulder, his skin is ice-cold, still not having warmed up from the deep-sea trenches.

They spend the rest of the day in the water, the three of them, because it's too warm to stay on land for long. Eventually, Becca and Billy give up when their fingers and toes look like prunes. Homelander's skin is still perfectly smooth, of course, and he half the walk home consists of the hero making fun of them. And still, intermittently, intertwining his fingers with hers - probably, she believes, for reasons other than showing off how otherworldly perfect he is.

The next day, the Butchers do dutifully not get up at the asscrack of dawn, and Homelander is very glad for it. He ponders over his plans while shaving, meets his eyes in the mirror, and decides on a whim. He's done this kind of thing for Vought before, once or twice. It shouldn't be so difficult to do it here. What will the people at home think? his own voice asks, and when he looks at his reflection, the other Homelander seems truly concerned. You can't go against your family.

He can feel his face twitch, even if the mirror doesn't reflect it. "They're going against me," he hisses. "They don't trust me, even with this."

Very confident of you, John. The reflection changes, worry-laced eyebrows drawing up and mouth sneering. Where's all of that coming from, tiger? You finally ready to admit the Butchers are having an effect on you, big guy?

"Fuck you," he says and only just resists the instinct to smash the mirror.

The Vought agents sit at a different table, still looking ridiculously fake despite being dressed like any other tourist. They're not Vought's most talented. Does he look this ridiculous out of costume, too? Like he just doesn't belong? Is everyone just too polite to tell him? He shakes the thought off and walks over to their chairs. They aren't facing the correct door, apparently expecting him to come in through the other entrance - accompanied by William and Rebecca. It makes it a bit too easy to lean over them suddenly, one hand on each chair and say: "Gooood morning, gentlemen!"

They nearly jump up from their chairs, their heartrates racing to an impressive 180 within a second. It's an admission of guilt if he's ever seen one, but it isn't enough.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, hm?" He decides to sit down at the table with them. "Is there some emergency at home? Some catastrophe I need to save the good people of New York from?"

"Homelander, sir," one of the men - the sweatier one - says. Oh, they're not even trying to keep up the pretense by using a fake name. He's got them too stressed. This is too easy. It almost takes out all the fun. "We are so very sorry."

He waves them off. "Eh, you haven't done anything wrong, right? Just making sure I have everything I need, I hope."

The two share a look. The less sweaty one finally chimes in. "It's protocol to take bodyguards for all Vought employees above Tier 6, sir. You must have forgotten to request some before you left, so we jumped in and-"

"Bodyguards?" Homelander asks, barely suppressing a grin. "In all my years, I have never seen a bodyguard as fat as you, buddy. And I can't remember ever having needed one, either. Funny that. What do you think you can protect me from? Mold in the orange juice? Oh, there is some. I wouldn't drink that shit." He looks at the phone that the sweatier one of the two is practically guarding with his life by pressing it close to himself. "If I take this phone right now, whose number is top spot in the contacts? And how many pictures of William and Rebecca Butcher will I find on there?"

The sweatier one is close to tears. "Sir-"

"It's two simple questions." There's anger rising in him, but he keeps his voice even. There's employees starting to flit around, preparing breakfast for the guests who like to sleep a bit longer. It's no good, upsetting the upstanding people that work here by making a mess of the place and lasering these imbeciles in half. "A name. And the number of pictures. Or I'll check for myself, and how fast you answer me right now can determine how many fingers I break when I take it from you."

"Madelyn Stillwell." It is, surprisingly, the less sweaty one who breaks. "We're in contact with Madelyn Stillwell. And I can't tell you the number of pictures, but they exist. And we will delete them. Immediately."

"I will do that, thank you very much." He opens his hand. The phone gets handed over without a fight. Smart. He opens the gallery. Obviously, he was prepared for there to be a myriad of photos, but his breath hitches anyway as he actually sees them. He expected evidence. Good quality, taken in the light of day. What he sees, instead, is Rebecca taking a walk on the beach at sunset. It's a beautiful picture, and he has the need to keep it somewhere and show it to her. The next picture is of him and William. He remembers this conversation. He remembers what happened after. So do the Vought agents. They took some mementos. "This phone's got some daaamn good zoom function, doesn't it?" He whistles through his teeth. "I didn't even hear your heartbeats. You were not that close, and still. Incredible. Now, are those the photos Madelyn asked for? I know her well. I know she prefers black-and-white photography over erotic. So it is a little interesting to me that she or anyone else at Vought requests a picture of me fucking William Butcher. And twenty-six of them, too." He closes the gallery, checks the messages again. These photos haven't been sent to anyone yet, at least not from this device. He doesn't know if there are copies. It becomes impossibly hard not to break the phone. He fidgets with it to calm himself down. Under the table, his foot has started bouncing. He can't keep sitting here, or he's going to vibrate out of his skin with fury. "Let's take a walk," he suggests.

Vought's best and brightest aren't keen on the suggestion, it seems, but they do follow him as he stalks out of the breakfast hall and onto the pier. He sets a quick pace, trying to put distance between the resort and their little Vought employee reunion Maldives edition. Several times, he opens up the contacts on the phone, but he never goes through with pressing the call button. He doesn't want to count the hours, doesn't want to know what time it is back home, doesn't give a fuck about the timezone or whether Madelyn is asleep or not. He wants answers, but he's scared of them. Finally, his anger wins out over his fear, and he starts the call, lifts the phone to his ear, playfully puts his finger to his lips to tell his companions to stay quiet, despite them not making a single sound.

It takes her only four rings to pick up. "Yes?" He closes his eyes at her voice, his heart constricting. Somehow, against hope, he hoped it wouldn't be her who takes the call.

"I just thought I'd check in with you, Madelyn." He looks out over the deep blue of the ocean, in the general direction of New York. He's always had an impeccable sense of orientation. There were a lot of words he wanted to hurl at her, full force, no mercy. Allow his anger to carry him through, like it did so many times. But against her, he's powerless. His tongue is tied. "I got your two gifts," he says, meekly. Hates himself.

"Homelander..." She sounds scared. Shit, she sounds scared of him. He didn't mean to scare her. Unless there's a reason that she is scared. Does she know more than she's letting on? Clearly, she is behind all of this. Then again, Vought doesn't always heed her wishes, even if she makes them clear.

"Did you know, what they were up to? That they were trying to blackmail me? They took pictures, Madelyn. Do you know what's on those pictures?" He sounds so hurt. His voice shows it more than he can consciously feel it. She tells him he can always lay his pain on her. She would carry it with him. He would never be on his own.

"No," she says, no hesitation. Oh, he wishes he could hear her heart, could scan it for treason. But he can't. She's far away from him. "I only told them to look out for you. I worry about you. I worry that Rebecca Butcher's intentions aren't what you think they are, and that eventually, William Butcher and her will use you for personal gain. My only desire is to keep you safe. I love you, you know that."

It makes sense. It makes so much sense, and her voice is soft. She isn't lying. She can't lie to him. "You're wrong about Rebecca. She's not after money. There's no need to worry. And, if it's any consolation, I promised Maeve this would end."

He can hear Madelyn swallow on the other end of the line. "The men we sent to look out for you, I can get rid-"

"I'll take care of it. I'm sorry I bothered you." He ends the call. Finally allows himself to crush the phone, enjoying the way the plastic shards fall through his fingers. Looks up at the sweaty and the less sweaty man. "Time to go home, gentlemen. Your mission's all done, Madelyn says. No need for you to stick around."

Homelander is in high spirits. The word 'mania' lies on the tip of Butcher's proverbial tongue. The supe's eyes are huge and exaggeratedly joyful. He's tapping his foot to the tasteful music that floats through the breakfast hall and mixes with the conversations of the other guests. The Vought agents aren't here. Butcher wonders if there's a correlation between their absence and Homelander's mood.

"Mornin'," Butcher says, joining Homelander with Becca and a cup of coffee in tow. 

Homelander looks at him across his cold glass of milk, his eyes twinkling with something that comes very close to madness. He doesn't look like he slept. "I take it you both got some good shut-eye. I've been waiting all this time."

Becca nods. If she notices that anything is off about Homelander, she doesn't show it. "Sorry for only coming now. I might return from this here well-rested and actually feeling ready for work if I keep sleeping like that. I think I'm getting into the flow."

"So am I," Homelander agrees. "I had a wonderful morning. I met two other tourists. I was all in this get-up, so I was being careful about my identity. But I met them, and we had wonderful smalltalk." He shoots Butcher a look. "They showed me all the pictures they took during their stay, all proud, and we chit-chatted. I asked them when they'll leave, and they said today, and then I asked if they were traveling by plane or by boat. And they told me they were scared of flying." He smiles at Becca. "It just sounded so strange to me, being scared of flying. I told them I, myself, was always more scared of drowning. But they said they'd rather take their chance with the water. Which makes sense. Humans can swim, after all, so I get where they're coming from. Well, it's impressive how far they can swim, really, in an emergency. But I guess, they can't swim forever, either, if there's no land in sight. That's why it's good that there's heroes."

Becca frowns a little, losing the rest of her sleepiness as her mind tunes into the strange headspace Homelander is in. "Have you had too much coffee today?" she jokes, trying to make sense of it.

Butcher instinctively puts an arm around her, pulls her in a little. Shoots Homelander a warning glance to tell him to stand down. He doesn't know how to feel about what he strongly suspects is an admission of outright murder. Vindication, perhaps. At having been right about the pit of darkness somewhere behind this perfectly polished image. Vought's heroes are supposed to be humanity's guard dogs, and this particular one apparently thought it wise to defend Becca and him from Vought. He hopes Becca will feel equally vindicated, if she finds out that there's more to the company than she suspected.

Homelander shrugs off her worries, back to being pleasant. "No. Just... had a good morning. That's all. I'm starting to really get into this whole vacation thing. And I think it's going to be a lot more relaxing, now that I've shaken off some of the work stress."

"That's good," Becca says, still skeptical, but willing to let the matter rest, and pulls their map of destinations out of her handbag. "We have a whole lot on our plate for today. So, I was thinking that, maybe, we could start here and then make our way over here with the ferry later on to-"

The spa is perhaps Homelander's favorite stop, despite how utterly grating he finds everything about it at first. As they enter, the scented candles, massage oils, and human body odor create a thick fog of migraine-inducing unpleasantness that makes him stop in his tracks. But Rebecca and William are thoroughly happy about being here, and their mood catches up with Homelander, so by the time he is at the point where he's lying almost naked, skilled human hands massaging tension out of his muscles he hasn't even been aware of, he finds he is past caring.

It is difficult for him to let his mind wander. There's music, scent, touch, the sound of the waves in the backdrop, and it's a cocktail designed specifically to empty the trashcan that is the human mind. But it doesn't work on him. For several reasons. Reason one: if he relaxes too much, his senses start slipping, and instead of pleasant nothingness, he starts experiencing the intimate sounds of the human digestive tract as it transports food from the stomach to the intestine without meaning to. Reason two: the flashes of barely-there memories dragging at the corners of his mind.

He starts getting sleepy as the masseuse drags her fingers down the side of his spine, feeling hazy and hypnotized for a moment, almost getting to a point where he is beginning to understand the merit of whole-body relaxation, and the next moment, the calloused fingers doused in patchouli-scented oil turn into an ice-cold scalpel cutting into his back so it would be easier for the doctors to take samples of spinal fluid, and he startles upwards. Heat is exploding behind his pupils, and he barely manages to clench them shut before anyone notices. 

There's the clatter of a bowl of oil on the floor, and the immediate apologies from the staff members, and the worried gazes coming from Rebecca and William, who are both to his left, receiving the same kind of treatment with none of the trouble he is going through. He makes an effort to count to five internally, becoming more aware of his surroundings again. He's on an island, with friends, on vacation. And safe. Perfectly safe. He killed Vought agents this very morning, watching them paddle helplessly. Madelyn will be furious. He's fucked up, probably. He's fucked up for some humans. Vought would have disposed of Rebecca and William. They've done it before. They've done it when he got too close to staff members in the lab. Some of the women who were his tutors, he killed. Others were kind to him. Those were the ones Vought discreetly disappeared. Rebecca and William are being kind to him, and right enough, Vought comes sniffing. Spying after him. Getting into his business like he's still a kid. No! No. He can't be getting angry now. He'll never be able to turn off the lasers if he gets angry again.

"Did I hurt you, sir?" the masseuse asks in accented English.

Homelander swallows. Blinks. Tests his eyes. No heat, no glow. "Just ticklish," he says sheepishly. "Sorry about your... oil." He settles back down.

Turning his head to the side, he catches Rebbeca's eyes. They're still worried, but now the worry mixes with amusement at what he said. The joke landed, and maybe she even believes it. She has her hands tucked under herself, like she's a little girl huddling into a comfortable blanket, but when she catches him looking, she pulls one of them out from under her body and extends it to reassuringly touch his shoulder. It's so easy for her to give affection. It never seems to cost anything.

The massage continues, and it feels nice enough, as does everything on this vacation, but Homelander knows better now than to let his mind wander, so he focuses on the sound of the waves entirely and imagines the bloated bodies of the Vought agents floating through the dark trenches he discovered during his subca diving lesson. Maybe all those pretty tiny fish are eating at them now. He smiles and rubs his cheek against the soft material of the bench he's on.

The day drag on. Becca and Homelander have long since joined Billy in counting the time only by the number of sunsets they get to experience, and there's only five left, Becca thinks wistfully. This one, the guys miss out on, too busy with eating her out and getting each other worked up enough to fuck her later. But Becca can see it through the small gap between the curtains on the large window of their bungalow that they've drawn closed to have some privacy.

She enjoys the gentle reds and yellows and violets, even though she has to fight to keep her eyes open against the instinct to let them flutter shut as Homelander's tongue is circling her clit. He's eager about oral, and extremely good at it, and smug bastard that he is, he's well-aware of his talents.

"Just like that," she encourages and grabs the perfectly bleached longer strands on top of his head. The resulting moan vibrates against her sopping pussy. The sun disappears behind the horizon line, and Becca watches it, breathing heavily in the aftershocks of an orgasm. That sex still feels this intense every time despite them having fucked nearly every day since they've come here should be a mystery, but it isn't one she's particularly keen on solving.

Her attention is drawn back to the room as she hears Homelander hiss. Billy has sunk his teeth into the hero's shoulder, and though Becca can't see from this angle, she would assume from the movement of Billy's right arm that he's got some fingers up the man's hole. She pulls her legs close and enjoys the show. Since she can only see what's happening from Homelander's reactions to it, she tries to divide her focus between his blissed-out face and drooling cock, resisting the urge to interact with either - kissing him or jerking him off. She wants to know if Billy's fingers alone are enough.

They may well have been, with how Homelander's dick is bobbing and dirtying their sheets with sticky string of clear pre-cum, but they don't find out because Homelander's and Becca's eyes meet, and the hero lurches forward, parched, kisses her and begs to fuck her, and she is not going to say 'no' to that. His erotic desperation will never not serve as an aphrodisiac and despite Becca's pussy being still sensitive from her last climax, she wants another one. Island time makes her greedy.

She stretches over to the small bag of supplies she's keeping on her nightstand for a condom, but Homelander's hand catches her wrist before she can reach it. He's always controlling his powers impeccably well, but she can still feel the raw strength in his fingers as they wrap around her arm. It will never not be distinctly startling, no matter how hot it can be. It's like some human instinct just takes over and makes her worry.

"I wanna come inside you," he mumbles, voice hitched, breaking in perfect rhythm with Billy's fingers still inside of him. Billy, who's watching them, tilting his head at Homelander's words.

"Not a good idea," Becca says. "I don't wanna risk it..."

"Not... risking anything." Homelander's voice cuts off, devolves into a moan that he muffles against Becca's right breast as he leans down. The hand that was holding onto her arm now travels down to her thigh, pulling her down, so he can slot himself in-between her legs. "I'm... shooting blanks... anyway. Fuck, William, why did you stop?!"

"Well, you kinda just dropped a bombshell, luv."

"Really?" Becca asks, pushing Homelander's face upwards with a hand to look at him.

"Uh-huh." His eyes are half-lidded with lust still, like he's only dimly aware that he's said something sad. She can't blame him. Despite feeling a pang of pain at a lot of what he told her about him and Maeve now making more sense, the very idea of letting him fuck her raw again more than makes up for that pain. They can talk about it afterwards. Confessions in the dark, like they always do.

"You're sure about it?"

"Very." Billy apparently started up a rhythm again because Homelander's back to stuttering out his words. "It's the... V. The V. It made me... infertile." Becca has absolutely no clue what he's talking about, and neither does he, apparently, because she can see his brows furrow and eyes - ever expressive, even when he wants them to not be - grow fearful all of a sudden, but he shakes his head and is back to kissing her. "Don't worry about it," he mumbles against her lips. "It's been tested extensively."

Becca considers that. He has no reason to lie. A man as proud as him wouldn't give up such a weakness just to be allowed the pleasure of creampieing her. It must be true. She knows it is. She saw him look at the little girl during dinner, with all the sad awareness of a man who knows he can't have anything like that, ever.

"Nothin' to get us goin' like telling us about your sperm count tests, is there, luv?" There's a slap, and Homelander jostles with a groan at being spanked by Billy, who's apparently had enough of the sad talk and lines himself up behind Homelander, foregoing the condom in what appears to be solidarity. Homelander doesn't mind. His entire body goes rigid, then immediately pliant when Billy bottoms out.

Becca feels reminded of their first time. The exact same position, she thinks, as she wraps her legs around Homelander and draws him in.

There are no confessions in the dark. There's nothing but a quiet afterglow. Crumpled sheets and sticky skin, Homelander somehow having ended up in the middle of their pile of post-sex chilling again, which does seem to be his favorite place.

They fall asleep with not even a bit of clean-up, knowing they'll regret it in the morning, although right now, Becca still enjoys the feeling of Homelander's cum dripping out of her. He's holding onto her in sleep. Billy's already snoring, one arm wrapped around Homelander's middle, spooning America's hero like it means nothing. Becca is close to joining them, but then she notices a dim source of crimson light and looks over to her right. Homelander's lasers must have turned on during REM sleep, eyes visibly moving underneath his lids.

She chuckles. Wonders if he is aware of this. Wonders if anyone has ever told him he can do this. And wonders especially if it's weird she finds this inhuman quirk oddly endearing.