Chapter Text
Hughie was wearing a green undershirt today. This was only somewhat unusual if you spent enough time around the American High Consort, something that his husband had commented on but Hughie easily waved away with “wanting a change of scenery”. This was followed by a promise to take him on a celebratory second honeymoon in Venice as soon as they finished conquering Italy. Hughie just smiled and hid his feelings of horror behind it, thankful that the Emperor had yet to employ a mind reader or empath in his staff.
Not that Homelander was truly oblivious to Hughie’s real feelings. But sometimes, a veneer of ignorance and sweet words was what was needed to keep up appearances and placate the most powerful being in the world. They both knew that Hughie would run if he had a choice but they both chose to ignore that fact. That was only something to ponder upon during quiet lonesome nights when they were just John and Hughie, when Homelander allowed himself to be open and vulnerable and hold onto the one semblance of comfort he had left in this world, their naked bodies tangled beneath the sheets. And Hughie allowed him, because the alternative was allowing the monster within the dictator to come loose.
Anyways, Hughie specifically chose to wear green to the gala this evening and not for the dismissive reason (lie) he gave to the Emperor. He received a multitude of complements as he milled around the ballroom, as he normally did. To the public, he was Homelander’s empty headed arm candy, easy to manipulate and use to gain political favors. Hughie never bothered to correct them that Homelander didn’t take opinion or advice from anyone, not even his husband (he had learned that lesson long ago with a long-dead woman named Madelyn). People felt more free to flap their lips and spill their secrets when they believed you to be nothing more than a pretty trophy to be waltzed around.
But the green shirt wasn’t for them either.
Hughie spotted his target across the hall around a quarter to midnight, when the fireworks show would be put on. He smiled demurely at the older business man who had been attempting to butter him up and use this as an excuse to leave the conversation. “My husband will be missing me,” he said as he began to take his leave.
“Of course,” the business man, some guy who worked in the production of firearms, said hastily, dabbing at some sweat that had formed on his forehead. This was often the reaction casual mentions of their dear Emperor garnered. Afterall, Homelander was very enthusiastic about public executions of known traitors to the American cause, and often even more so when it came to people who took too many liberties with Hughie. “Off you go then, consort Hughie. Best not keep his liege waiting. God bless you and America.”
Hughie politely repeated the sentiment (despite the patronizing tone of “off you go then”) and made his way back into the crowd which was now starting to slowly but surely migrate towards the balconies. His target was standing near the refreshments table, laughing and easily chatting up some aristocrats. Hughie felt a small pang of jealousy, wishing for a moment the much-needed people skills of this life Homelander had forced him into came as easily to him. But he pushed it down in favor of focusing on his important job.
He let himself begin to walk a little more clumsy, faking tipsiness as he feigned interest in the tiny square mango cakes that were on the table right besides the other man. It was easy enough to pick one up and then pretend to trip, knocking into him. The group of aristocrats, who had been amicably speaking to his target, all gasped when they recognized who he was. They likely feared that Hughie would blame the man and bring down the Emperor’s wrath onto him. They all quickly made half-assed explanations and excused themselves, hastily making their way towards the balcony as well.
The man though, quickly caught Hughie and steadied him, giving him a charismatic grin that didn’t reach his eyes, and stepping away a respectable distance. “Mon chéri, you must tread more carefully. What shall we do if you deprive this great country of it’s beloved consort?” His accent was thick. Usually, accents would be virtually absent from the great halls of the American elites, save for the French of course, who had been smart enough to concede to America’s growing might while they still could. They certainly fared better than many of their neighbors, trading in morality for fair treatment of their people. One such boon they received was free mingling with the American people. They were not citizens, but still treated more as an international ally than a colony.
Hughie giggled ditzily, playing up his public persona. “My bad! I’m just… These cakes are sooo delicious? Have you tried one yet?”
“I cannot say I have, your grace.”
They both knew the Emperor was listening in. He was always listening in when it came to Hughie.
“Well, my compliments to the chef!” Hughie declared, raising the cake he had snatched up into the air as if proposing a toast, and then shoving the entire square into his mouth. The man chuckled indulgently, but his eyes were intent as Hughie said the key phrase. They darted quickly to the splash of green color in his outfit before looking away.
“I am afraid I do not know the chef personally, cheri-”
A whooshing sound cut him off. Hughie looked up and saw that Homelander had appeared behind them. He was dressed regally, reminiscent of a European king, with a scarlet fur lined cape to match. He stood a full head taller than Hughie (who’s height was nothing to scoff at either) with a full head of beautifully coiffed blonde hair and piercing blue eyes that looked down at Hughie with his typical intensity.
“I think you have had too much to drink tonight, love,” he said drying, coming up behind Hughie and grasping him around the waist with a possessive grip.
“I was having cake actually,” Hughie replied snidely but leaned into the embrace. He felt the tenseness in Homelander leak out just a bit at the motion.
The Emperor chuckled, “Nevertheless.” Now he turned his gaze onto the other man, and Hughie wondered if he imagined the tinge of red that seeped into his eyes for a split second. “And you are?” His grip on Hughie tightened.
“Ambassador Serge Martin,” the man answered. “Of French Algeria. It is an honor to meet his grace the Emperor and his cherished consort.” He finished this with a heavy bow, bending nearly 90 degrees at the waist.
Hughie felt his heartbeat pick up at the tense interaction and knew that his husband could hear it. He just hoped that the same was not the case for the Algerian man. Though, if he was trusted with such a critical mission they must have ways to prevent being found out by Homelander’s exceptional hearing and senses. Anything else would be foolhardy and Hughie doubted the rebels were quite so quick to beg for defeat and death.
“Ah yes,” Homelander said. “About the deal and transport of Moroccan slaves I presume?”
“Yes, your grace.”
Hughie felt sick to his stomach at the topic. To think that, only a few decades ago America had managed to pass the civil rights act, and now look where they were. Back to square one. Where had it all gone wrong?
“You may relax,” Homelander commanded, and the Algerian Ambassador lifted his head. “Anyways, my husband and I will be taking our leave now. The show is about to begin.” And just as he said this the first telltale sound of a firecracker whirling into the air echoed through the ballroom hall, followed by a loud bang and crackle and the sound of oo’s and ah’s from the gathered crowd.
“Of course. God bless America,” Serge said bowing quickly again.
Without so much as a reply, Homelander started corralling Hughie away. When they were mostly alone, or at least out of earshot of anyone nearby, he leaned down next to Hughie’s ear, hot breath tickling, and whispered, “You tryna make me feel jealous, pet?”
Hughie let out a strangled sound as his husband's hand traveled down from his waist lower.
“Bumping into a handsome foreigner, acting more so air headed than you usually do in public,” Homelander continued to whisper to him as he cupped his ass. If anyone saw, they knew better than to say anything. “Tripping and letting him sweep you off your feet.”
“Darling… We’re in public,” Hughie tried pathetically but Homelander only chuckled deeply into his ear. The vibrations sending shivers down his spine as that large hot hand continued to grope at him through his clothes, playing and tugging at his belt loops.
“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before putting on a show like that for me,” John hummed with a pleased voice as he managed to wrangle another choked moan from Hughie’s lips. “If you want someone to manhandle you, you need only ask me, my love.”
“ John ,” Hughie whined. And though their relationship was frought with issues and wrongness and Hughie should hate him , nothing could change how thoroughly enraptured they were by each other. Hughie did hate the Emperor but he loved John. And he was as utterly attracted to him as Homelander was of him. Having his husband whisper dirty things into his ear in a room filled with hundreds of people was making him feel things he should not feel.
It made him feel guilty but it was also a hell of a turn on.
“Oh? Do you want to leave?”
“John.”
“But we’ll miss the fireworks show.”
Hughie glared up at his husband and punched him lightly in the arm, not that it did anything. Homelander was basically indestructible. The Emperor stood back up straight and moved his arm back to around Hughie’s waist and laughed.
“Alright, alright,” Homelander said indulgently. “I could never deny you anything. Let’s leave.” And with that, he swooped Hughie up into his arms as he had promised. Hughie’s shout of surprise drew many faces who all quickly looked away when they saw who it was. But this was also part of the show. As much as a monster Homelander was, the propaganda all honed in on his loving relationship with his husband. Nothing said “humanizing” as a husband who could not resist showering his spouse with affection, afterall.
Still, it was only partially a show. Hughie was sure the gossip would be big by the end of the evening after the Emperor had picked up his consort and left the part early that night. But for now, he spent the remainder of the evening being reminded of exactly how much the Emperor of their nation cherished him. Exactly why Homelander would never ever let him get away.
.
.
.
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The next day, Hughie was still feeling sore after his husband’s loving and possessive jealousy-fueled attention. They had been lounging in bed that morning, that green shirt and the rest of Hughie’s suit in tatters on the floor, John tracing circles into his bare back, when suddenly his husband was up and out of their bedroom where Hughie did not see him for the rest of the day.
It was only later, while he was having some tea and doing a crossword, that news reached him from an attendant about a break in at the Ruby ward of the capitol palace, where very sensitive information had been pilfered. Hughie was placed into protective lockdown as they tried to find out who the thief was, how they broke in, and who had leaked the information about the location of these papers.
Hughie just sipped his tea and said nothing.