Chapter Text
Tonight’s attempt at stress relief baking hasn’t helped. No matter how many chocolate chips Annie folds into the dough, her thoughts won't stop spinning. Back when she was living with her mom, food was all she thought about. She couldn’t eat whatever she'd baked without hell to pay, but she could appreciate the aroma wafting from the oven, and steal a few licks from the spoon. In those moments, her mind went blank. It was a meditative exercise in temptation and torture.
On her own with a new blonde control freak breathing down her neck who thankfully doesn't care what she eats, the ritual has fallen flat.
And if she's really honest, she doesn’t trust herself around them anymore. After eating three, that familiar awful urge bubbled up inside her belly. It made her teeth buzz, and all the sugar sat like lead in her stomach.
So, as they cool on the counter, she sits down with a beer to try to get her mind off of it. Cheap PBR from a can that tastes like rebellion and pennies. Drinking alone is never a great idea, but here she is. Stress relief Plan B.
She'll hand off the cookies to someone else. The only problem is, she can’t figure out who.
Hughie? No, talking to him won’t make her feel any better. It’s doubtful he’s within convenient cookie delivering distance, and even less likely it wouldn’t somehow become another fight. Things are too rocky between them. For a whole year, he begged her to stay and collect secrets like a goddamn spy. Now that she’s actually benefitting from the situation, he’s acting like she’s betraying the cause. Last they spoke … It didn't go well. They hurled words at each other neither of them can really take back — greedy, naive; cowardly, fixated.
Maybe Maeve? But they’re not close like that. Friendly, yes, and trauma bonded — frankly — but Maeve can’t help but be prickly in a way that makes her nervous. Annie can’t help but be overly sincere in a way she finds grating. Dropping off freshly baked cookies would fall under that.
Cracking open her third beer, Annie realizes that leaves her with only one neighbor who she knows is both home and in need of a pick-me-up. Somehow, Homelander has slipped lower on her list of least favorite men than she ever thought possible while she wasn’t looking. That wouldn’t end well, either, though. Obviously.
She peels herself off the couch and goes back to the kitchen.
Brushing crumbs from the countertop, she traces a thick grey vein in the marble with her fingertip. Her mom wrapped their old linoleum one from the 80s with a sheet of vinyl mock marble after an HGTV binge. Using the same hot pink hair dryer that was somehow always set just high enough to make her scalp burn, Mom bent over the kitchen for an entire weekend, smoothing out the bubbles with a maxed-out credit card. Over the next two years, every corner peeled up, revealing the dingy brown underneath. Mom said that someday, it would be the real thing all thanks to her.
Now, she’s surrounded by the real thing.
It’s everywhere — marble walls, marble framing of the fireplace that doesn’t spit out anything but electric flames, the floors, the AD worthy stone-coated kitchen. Annie imagines a giant crater somewhere in Italy she’ll never be able to make up for, ten million years in the making, decimated for the decor and her ten minutes of fame.
The first time Mom saw the place, she all but dropped to her knees like she was having a holy experience. If her dad were still around, he wouldn’t be as impressed. Her memories of him are few and foggy, but she'll never forget how faithful he was to real fire. It’s why her parents bought that little house outside of the suburbs of Des Moines, deeper into the countryside than Mom wanted to ever be. They fell in love with the brick fireplace built into the foundation. All winter, Dad kept a fire burning low. As the flames licked the metal grating, she'd sit at his feet in the evenings, legs crossed on the rug, whitening strips singeing into her gums. When he left, the fireplace went dark forever. Mom crawled in the damn thing and scrubbed away every last fleck of soot with a Clorox-dipped toothbrush until the whole house smelled like ashes and disappointment.
She stares at her own reflection in the black, glass screen of the fire place. Grimacing, she downs another swig of beer, and lets the empty carbs fizzle on her tongue. She’s come a long way from her roots, but she can't stop feeling that distant tug somewhere, wrapped around a rib.
She thought she’d forgiven her dad ages ago, but finding out about V brought it all up again. It seemed unfair to blame her mom for him leaving since she’s the one who stayed, but now, it all feels upside down. If he left because he couldn’t stomach his wife turning their kid into a medically enhanced meal ticket — couldn’t live with the lie, couldn’t do it to her — is it her moms fault?
Except, that doesn’t feel entirely right. He just turned his back on the situation. Washing your hands of it and ditching isn’t the fatherly thing to do, right?
He could’ve tossed her tap shoes in the garbage, and told her to hop into his truck. He could’ve stood up for her or told her the truth. He didn’t even have the courage to leave a note for her when she turned 18, tucked up in an air vent or something, explaining everything. He didn’t do anything but leave quietly, one afternoon while she was at school, like he couldn’t even face her. And then he just faded away. Became a footnote, a Facebook profile set on private. Watched her meteoric rise to fame from wherever-the-fuck.
Annie squishes the empty can in her hands flat, like a hockey puck, then yanks another from the fridge.
Normally when her thoughts spiral like this, she calls Hughie. He’d reassure her, crack a few lame jokes, and ramble on about some nerdy thing she doesn’t really care about to distract her. She doesn’t have any friends in the city now that he’s God knows where. The only other person here she knows and trusts is Alex but … If she called Alex drunk, then it really would be the end for her and Hughie. For forever, maybe. Even if she didn’t and wouldn’t do anything with him, it would be crossing a line.
She could call her mom. She won’t, but she could. Donna’s always right there, at her fingertips, whether she likes it or not. They haven’t properly talked in months. Annie hoped severing the literal debt would ease the sense of obligation, but some things you can't shake as easily as sending an automatic monthly wire transfer.
Steeling herself before checking her messages, Annie chugs the last of her fifth — sixth? — beer down, wiping the foam from her lips with the back of her hand. The world feels fuzzy now. The lights: brighter. Everything is … smooth.
Mom, yesterday: Touch base?
Mom, friday: Touch base? Saw the broadcast. BIG DEAL! Starlight House … WOW! Only the beginning! So nice of Mr. Homelander to donate so much! Be sure to thank him!
How Mom managed to watch Homelander’s birthday bitch fit and got only that, she has no idea. Rose colored glasses, perhaps. Or she’s sewn big, cartoon dollar signs into her eyes, and can’t see past them anymore at all. All she heard was ten million, and she tuned out the rest.
She cracks another. "Thank him," Annie sighs out against the rim, tossing her phone on the counter carelessly. "Yeah fuckin’ right."
Homelander doesn’t give a shit about the money. It’s pocket change to him. Just another attempt at throwing a little more dirt into the PR hole he’s dug himself to bury everything awful he's ever done.
Her fingers graze the edge of the plate, and wipes up a smeared streak of chocolate. Swaying, she brings it to her lips — bitter as it is sweet.
Still, ten million is a lot … A thank you really is in order, isn’t it? The cash is meaningless to him, but it'll change so many kid's lives.
Well, and she has to get rid of these somehow, doesn’t she?
Depending on how you look at it, giving him the cookies is just using him as a human trash can to dispose of them. Hughie would be furious if he found out, but gifting Homelander cookies she doesn’t even want isn’t really a favor. Besides, Hughie isn’t here, is he? No, he’s disappeared with Butcher again. So who cares what he'd think?
Annie puts cling wrap over the plate, and smooths down the edges, decision made. She slips on a pair of shoes, and makes a break for it before her conscience can catch up.
The cellophane reflects the hallway's fluorescent bulbs back in her eyes.
It's almost funny doing this now. When she realized they’d all be neighbors, she planned on dropping baked goods off at everyone’s door — a Midwestern instinct the whole Seven would’ve made fun of her for. She prepped a few dozen worth of chocolate chip, but after The Deep coerced her into getting on her knees, she let the dough go stale in the fridge along with her dreams.
Having Homelander a few doors down was embarrassingly exhilarating, too. Like being neighbors with Elvis or Jesus. He was the pinnacle of everything she wanted to be. Or so she thought. Once she learned what he really was, it kept her up at night, crept into her imagination.
Walking in a direction she’s never dared to go, his penthouse somehow feels both lightyears away and as close as her next breath.
His doorstep doesn't look any different from her own, but there may as well be bats circling overhead and gargoyles staring her down with stone scowls. An "Un-Welcome” mat. Annie knocks, hoping it doesn’t grow teeth as white as his, and snap off her wrist in its jaws for daring to encroach.
She waits a minute.
He doesn’t answer.
Two minutes. Three. He still doesn’t come.
The buzz starts to wear off. She rocks from heel to toe in her sneakers, considering her options, heart pounding in her ears. She could just leave them. No. Creepy. She could—
The mechanisms in the lock beep and click, unlacing, and there he is. Still in his suit despite the late hour. Perfectly put together. Homelander stares down at her with a bewildered expression. His gaze drops to the cookies, then up at her face, and back again.
Why wouldn’t he be confused? They’re adversaries. He’s tried to kill her. She’s undermined his authority and eclipsed his popularity. He considers her ex boyfriend (Is that what Hughie is right now? Can she admit that to herself?) a terrorist. Herself, by proxy. And now, she’s standing on his doorstep with a wobbly smile and a plate of home baked cookies.
She swallows. “They’re not poisoned. I just— All the good recipes make two dozen and I’m not going to eat them all. I figured since it was your birthday the other day, you know, I might as well offer. As a thank you for donating to Starlight House.”
Homelander blinks slowly like he’s still processing. He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, looking down at her with those icy steel blue eyes. “Are you any good at baking?”
“I’m … not bad.”
“Wow,” he scoffs. “Not poisoned and not bad. Really selling it, Starlight,” he says flatly.
“I’m not selling anything. I’m offering. This isn’t— I’m not a Girl Scout. I’m trying to be nice.”
“No, you’re not a Girl Scout. Those kids know how to sell it. You wouldn’t make the cut.” He clacks the T against his teeth.
The plate feels too heavy in her hands. What did she expect? For him to accept them with an unquestioning smile and apologize for everything? This was a mistake. A stupid, drunken, misstep.
Annie’s fake smile aches at the edges. “Do you want them or not? They’re just cookies. I don’t need to give them to you.”
Frowning, he shrugs one shoulder, and holds his arm out to the side, pushing the door open behind himself. “Come on in.”
“Oh, I don’t need to come in. That’s not necessary. I can just” — she thrusts the plate forward — “pass them off. It’s no big deal, really.”
“No, come in. I insist.” He says with that menacing false friendliness that comes right before he strikes, voice dipping low, “What kind of neighbor would I be if I turned ya away at the door, huh?”
Her knees lock in protest, but she nods. Annie can feel his eyes on her as she steps inside. It’s freezing cold. A few degrees lower, and she’d be able to see her breath. The AC bill must be astronomical. Not that it matters. Old habit. Most summers, they wouldn’t turn on their little window unit because Mom blew all their cash on gas to shuttle her from sea to shining sea for the summer circuit.
His smile turns wolfish, all white teeth and fangs dripping with venom. “Just like home, huh? Bet it reminds you of Iowa. I like to keep it frosty. It’s good for the brain, you know.” Homelander taps his temple. “Helps with clarity and focus.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m used to the cold,” she mutters. “So, where do you want me to put these?”
He waves a dismissive red hand. “Oh, the kitchen is fine.”
The only time she’s been in his penthouse, it was because he was sulking so hard, he refused to hold the day’s debriefing anywhere but in bed. The whole team anxiously hovered around like they were at the edge of a child’s sickbed, while he sat with his arms folded under the covers looking entirely disinterested. The weirdest part was that his hair was slicked back with gel and he was fully suited up, so he had actually been up and gotten ready. Subjecting everyone to staring down George Washington for his hissy fit was a power play. At least he didn’t take a page from Johnson’s book and make them huddle around the urinal with him, and he’s too ardently American to emulate Winston Churchill’s bathtub meetings.
It’s not like Annie knows her way around, though. She just knows where not to look to avoid making eye contact with the statues with semi-accuracy.
She jumps as the door clicks shut, and curses herself for flinching. He likes that too much. “I-I don’t know where that is. Sorry.”
He folds his hands behind his cape, making a point of bumping into her as he walks past. “Follow me.”
His kitchen is spotless like it’s never been used. It’s all hard lines and edges. The counters are onyx black. A smattering of thin, white veins travel through it like spider webs. Dull automatic white light illuminates the underside of the cabinets. Only a massive vase sits atop the island, filled with thorny branches. Selected by an interior designer with a sense of humor, perhaps.
The dish clinks against the stone as she sets it down. Annie tries to keep her voice from shaking, but fails. “Welp, I’ll be on my way, then. Thanks again for donating.”
He doesn’t respond. Homelander rakes his eyes up and down her figure, lips downturned. It doesn’t feel like how it does when other men do it — creepy, hungry — or even how the pageant judges would — creepy, hungry, but in a different way she never wanted to dwell on — but like the other contestants sizing her up. “You look like shit.”
Annie looks down at herself, frowning. She’s dressed pretty normally. Yeah, flour streaks her tank top, and her grey sweat pants could be more flattering, but it’s not awful. If she ran to the bodega and got caught by paparazzi, it wouldn’t be the worst she’s looked.
“I’ve been doing things. I don’t lounge around in my costume.” Like you. You fucking weirdo.
Before she can react, Homelander leans forward and blows a lungful of air against her chest. Hot and forceful, the stream sends a tiny cloud of flour off of her, and onto the countertop, white like snow.
“Great,” he grunts. “Now you’ve made a mess in my house, Starlight.”
Her throat constricts. “I can fix it. I can clean it up.”
“No,” Homelander sighs, tracing a frowny face in the flour with a finger. “Don’t. It doesn’t matter,” he says, like it’s a great, cosmic declaration on the pointlessness of life itself.
She braces herself for him to launch into a melodramatic monologue, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, hand flat against the counter, frowny face between them, towering over her.
Unsure what else to do, Annie peels off the cling wrap and wads it up in her hand. “Trash?”
Wordlessly, he pulls open a drawer. Withering roses — red petals curled up and wrinkled at the edges — stare up at her from inside the bin. The wad of plastic floats down slowly as she drops it in. Too slowly. Roses and rot and sugar swirl in her nose, and Homelander just watches her, jaw cemented.
He says, “It’s from the funeral.”
She almost asks what funeral, before it hits her. Stormfront. Her dismembered Nazi neighbor, now dead. Of course there was a funeral, even if Vought didn’t publicize it. Before the news of her suicide aired, Annie mostly forgot Stormfront was still alive. Besides the odd nurse coming and going, there wasn’t any proof he’d kept her in here. Rumor has it she was barely lucid or coherent. On some level, she can almost respect Homelander’s devotion, in that, it goes way beyond what most men would do if their partner were so gravely injured. Shockingly unshallow of him. Especially because from what she could tell, it was more physical than emotional. Of course, that’s undercut by who Stormfront was, and the terrifying limbo he kept her suspended in — blind, half brain-dead, limbless. She supposes that was a fair fate for Stormfront, though. Fading away, impotent and shackled to a body that couldn’t do more than breathe, much less spread hateful rhetoric about superiority. Gnawing off and choking on the same tongue she’d used to spout bigotry for a century.
Annie nods carefully.
“Well, I say ‘funeral,’ but it was more of a ‘throwing the ashes in the Hudson, and try to forget it ever happened,’ thing."
“I’m sorry for your loss.” The words are automatic. It’s just what you say, isn’t it?
He chuckles, low, biting, as he slides the drawer closed again. He wags his finger, but it lacks its usual punch. “No, you aren’t. You don’t have to lie. You wanted her dead.”
She pushes away the memory of Stormfront’s sternum cracking against her shoe, the smell of her blood on the gravel, like iron and wet pavement. It felt good. Righteous violence. Cathartic. She liked it so much it scared her.
“I did. She was a horrible, hateful person. I don’t think it’s a loss for the world. That doesn’t mean I can’t extend my apologies that you lost someone you cared about.”
His expression twists in anger, then sags in sadness. She’s surprised he’s comfortable enough around her to even show it. But maybe he’s simply so alone in his grief that that’s the closest he’s gotten to a shared sentiment.
And then, he surprises her again.
“She was horrible,” Homelander murmurs quietly like it’s a confession. “She only liked the idea of me.” He shrugs lightly, lifting his head, blue eyes searing into her. “I only like who I pretended she was, to be fair.”
“That … happens to the best of us.”
She intended it to be as hollow as her condolences, but it scratches something honest in her chest on its way out.
Who did she pretend Hughie was?
Not a liar. Not afraid of her. Not too insecure to accept her without her having to shrink herself down smaller. And yet, that was the foundation of their relationship, really. Sure, on their first few dates he encouraged her to not hold back and that felt dangerously close to acceptance, but that was just bowling with a version of him that didn’t exist. He was trying to keep her happy to collect information for Butcher. Once she started to get to know the real Hughie Campbell? She was right back on the scale, measuring out herself, calculating what was too much.
When she tried to map the betrayal, Annie wasn’t sure where its borders lie, but she gave up on that a long time ago. He lied about his identity. His intentions. He just … lied. Again and again. Her forgiveness for it wasn’t a feeling, but a decision — a virtue so deeply ingrained, she couldn’t deny him, no matter how much she wanted to. And, in a small way, it was a part of herself she could recognize despite her world caving around her.
Hughie was repentant enough. His motives made sense. He was only doing what he thought was right. Hughie was trying his best. He always is.
But then, she met Butcher: the man Hughie insists on letting drag him to lower and lower depths. Butcher knew about Compound V before anyone else. He knew Vought drugged babies to make them into commodities, but still, he categorically despises supes. They’re all colored the same bloody shade of bad in his eyes, like the V in their veins is an original sin they can’t scrub off.
Hughie might object and mumble a few words in her defense, but he permits it. And sometimes, when he'd suck in a breath before touching her and tremble beneath her, she thought he might believe it, too, deep down.
She’s figured she has to forgive that, too. Supes have caused so much pain, she can empathize enough to swallow it, even if it goes down like bile; it’s not like she’s so innocent herself.
Except, right now, it stings like a cut re-opening she didn't know existed to begin with.
Homelander stares off into the near distance over her shoulder, continuing, “I really couldn’t tell you what I saw in her. Really, I don’t know. I hated her at first.” He smiles faintly, eyes flicking to hers, then away again. “I hated her more than I’ve ever hated you. I think I just wanted to be seen. For who I really am.” His eyes shine, glassy with unshed tears in the low light. “Someone better.” It doesn’t have the umph he delivered his televised tirade with. It sounds more like bargaining.
“... Well, everyone wants to be seen,” she says.
“Enough about my romantic folly,” he says, clapping his hands together, cruel smile back in full force, though strained at the edges. “How is it going with you and your little human boy toy?”
Does he seriously expect her to gab with him about her love life right now?
“Hughie has a name and—” Something twists under her rib. “We’re on a break. It’s. You know. Up in the air.”
“Ah. Right after going public. Y-ouch. I bet that hurts. Is that what the cookies are? Letting yourself go now that you don’t have that twerp to impress?”
Homelander always knows how to twist the knife for maximum effect. Crying in front of him is the last thing she ever wants to do, but tears burn in the back of her throat along with the scrape of sugar begging her to do something about it. Emotions shaken loose by the alcohol, that’s all. She stares down at a single dry petal kicked under the baseboard. Dark red, shriveled vaguely in the shape of a heart.
His smile falters. His eyes soften a touch, or maybe she just imagines it. “I didn’t mean that. You look … fine,” Homelander says reluctantly. “You could honestly stand to gain a little weight. You’d have been able to fill out the other suit without that push-up bra if you had.”
A startled laugh crawls its way out of her. Was that his attempt at being nice? What a backhanded compliment. Humiliating, too, that he noticed something like that.
Homelander shrugs. “Just saying.” He points a finger between a cabinet overhead and the fridge. “Grab me a glass of milk. Let’s try ‘em.”
Refusal springs to the tip of her tongue, but the path of least resistance is the quickest way out of this. He probably just wants to take a bite, spit it out into the trash, and make fun of her. Then, she’s free to go home and kick herself for being dumb enough to come here. Annie grits her teeth and fetches a glass, forced to reach up on her tiptoes. Homelander snorts at her expense. It takes everything in her not to shoot him a glare.
His fridge is as impersonal as the rest of his kitchen. No magnets, not a child’s drawing, or a report card. You wouldn’t even know he has a kid — America’s hero, an absent father like the rest of them. Though, that’s for the best. Poor Ryan doesn’t deserve a dad like him. She only met the kid for a few minutes in between that awful trudge out of the forest, and him being shuttled into a black SUV by the CIA to hopefully never be seen again, but even then, he seemed sweet. Shy. Nothing like Homelander. Or Butcher, for that matter.
A single glass bottle of raw milk (because of course) with a red cap sits on the middle shelf of his fridge. Otherwise, it’s immaculately clean and utterly empty. She gives it a generous shake, dispersing the fat white head of cream at the top, and pours the glass half-full.
He shakes his head. “To the top.”
“I’m not a waitress,” she hisses, topping it off anyway. “Here. There you go.” She slides it across the counter, unwilling to get close enough to hand it to him. “I’ll see you tomorrow for filming.”
He cocks his head to the side, and looks at her with that curious, condescending expression like she’s forgotten the rules to the game they’re playing. “Stay a little while. Let’s shoot the breeze. You say you want to get along, but you won't spend time with me. How are we supposed to cooperate if there’s no camaraderie, huh, Starlight?”
She hugs herself, rubbing her thumb against the raised goosebumps on her arm. "Fine. I can stay for a few minutes.”
“Cold?”
“No,” Annie lies.
“You’ll get used to it. It’s good for you.” He submerges a cookie in the glass, and holds it there, gloved fingers dipped in milk along with it. “You were too good for him, anyway,” he says, like it’s merely a fact he doesn’t find particularly interesting. “Bean poll boy never could’ve kept up with you. ”
A numb acknowledgment settles in where she wishes defensiveness of their relationship or offense on Hughie’s behalf would surge. And then — warmth, reassurance. Which is a betrayal on so, so many levels. However, it’s shattered immediately by the downright pornographic moan coming out of Homelander as he sinks his teeth into the cookie.
She gawks at him, horrified, unable to stop herself.
He offers a sheepish smile, covering his mouth with a hand while swallowing. “They aren’t bad.”
“Or poisoned.” She can’t help but laugh. As it hits her ears, it’s so much lighter than she ever thought possible in his presence, it startles her.
“Accurate advertising. I won’t report you to the better business bureau.”
“Thank God. I'd be ruined.”
“I gotta say, I’m surprised you didn’t snap him like a twig. And, God, what a wet little man. You’re better off without him. Dead weight. Have a few more cookies. You’ve lost, what, 130lbs? 120? Kid couldn’t’ve been pushing 140 max.”
Now, she feels the defensiveness — along with it, a wave of relief at its arrival. “He’s 6’3, so I think he’d be, like, in the hospital.”
His lips twitch up, revealing a flash of teeth, as if the reminder he’s shorter than a mere mortal man makes something insecure flair. “160 or 170, then.” He pushes the plate her way. It scrapes against the stone. “Even better. Knock yourself out.”
“I’m good. I’ve already had a few. And beer. It’s not a great combo.”
His eyes sweep over her as he sucks a bit of chocolate from his thumb. He seems like he’s deciding on saying something or not, brows knitted, but he just takes another bite. “More for me. Good choice on the dark chocolate. I figured they’d be inedible, I’ll admit. You give a … Too sweet vibe.”
“Nope. More into the, uh, savory balance thing, I guess. Sometimes I put pistachios in them.”
“Well,” he drawls, “next time you do, if you need to get rid of extras, you know where to find me. I’m always, oh, just down the hall.”
She can’t tell if it’s another thinly veiled threat, or a neutral acknowledgment of their proximity. Is there menace in his tone, or is she filling it in because she’s so used to it, like white noise? “I’ll keep that in mind.”
His lips purse as he reaches for another cookie, snapping it in two. “I made you feel welcome when you first came, didn’t I?”
Homelander, striped cape hanging behind him in front of the windows in The Seven meeting room, flashes through her mind. She thought it was the most important moment of her life, so she committed every detail to memory. The way his smile curved the same as in the movies, the presence he carried like a god inviting her into Olympus. She can recall the excitement, but she can’t remember how it felt anymore.
“I guess,” Annie mumbles. “You didn’t make me feel unwelcome, no.”
“No, I didn’t,” he mutters into his milk. “The fish fucker took that liberty. I don’t know why you let him do that to you.”
Her heart drops into her stomach, splashing into the pit of beer and chocolate. “Let him?”
“You’re stronger than him. You could’ve blinded the guy.” His nose crinkles. “Instead, you just took it.”
“I-I was scared.”
“And what did that get you? Fear won’t get you anywhere in life, Starlight. You should know that by now.”
She scoffs, “Wow, thanks for the advice. It’s a little late.”
“It’s not advice. It’s honesty.”
“You know, it’s really not PC to blame the victim. It’s, like, super wrong.”
“You’re not a victim. I didn’t pick you because you were weak and easy to walk all over. I picked you because you’re tough. You’ve got it. Grit, starpower, what have you.” He’s held the cookie under so long, it’s become waterlogged and soggy, all but disintegrated. He doesn’t even need to chew, just wraps his jaw around it once, and swallows. “Clearly. Since you’re soooo popular.”
The words burst out without her permission. “I don’t know if you can call me a doormat after your big birthday blow up. You said it yourself. You’ve let people control you. Not too different, is it?”
Homelander stills. “You weren’t paying attention to the second part, then. It worked because I allowed it to. Personal accountability. Ever heard of it? Or are you going to keep skulking around here like you aren’t one of the chosen ones?” He leans forward, voice becoming a harsh whisper, “Because let me tell you, nobody feels sympathy for people like us. Not really. They don’t want to hear it. Not when you’re better than them. Co-captain to co-captain. That’s my advice for you.”
Annie wants to rebuff him, but there’s truth in it, if you look past the egomania and the glaring hypocrisy of it being delivered from a man incapable of taking accountability himself. But that’s the thing about Homelander. He’s a pompous ass, but he’s rarely wrong. Not entirely, at least.
She can hear her mother’s voice in her ear, whispering biting pep talks backstage. You’re better — you need the stage, and a costume a half-size too tight eating into your sides to remind you what’s at stake. You’re better — get on your knees and pray they’ll pick you every night before bed, but keep your prayers unselfish, or God will smite you. You’re better — win at any cost, knock ‘em dead, but never sin against another.
It doesn’t matter how high the pedestal you’ve been placed on is. It doesn’t matter if you can’t see the ground anymore, and the only way down is to plummet. Nobody does really care. They’ll pretend to. They’ll wave from down there with one hand, hiding a rock behind their back with the other, waiting for your inevitable tumble from grace. They can’t save you, and they won’t even try to. Why would they when you can crush their skull with impunity? When the price of their life to you is a Notes App apology, and maybe a small settlement? It doesn't matter that you didn't ask to be genetically modified, you're not one of them anymore. And people only protect their own.
They sure as hell don't feel bad for someone who is supposed to defend others, but can’t even defend themselves. The endless comment sections asking why she didn’t stop Deep herself proved that. Even Hughie, though he wouldn’t say it outloud, she could tell he thought it. Though, his anger that he couldn’t stop it himself, and that even if he’d been there, he wouldn’t have been strong enough to do anything clouded the whole thing. Somehow, she ended up comforting him about it.
Annie sticks her tongue in her cheek, and squints at him. Poking at his wounded pride is a risky game, but it’s an easy, cheap shot. “Thank you, co-captain, for the words of advice.”
Homelander’s smile broadens, but it’s thin and brittle. “Happy to.” He picks up the plate in one hand, and the milk in the other. “Why don’t we stop standing around in the kitchen, huh? Let’s get comfy. Let’s watch a movie.”
“That’s-that’s a nice offer, Homelander, but I really should be going. I should get to bed. I only meant to pop by. Filming is going to go late tomorrow and—”
“Shouldn’t’ve brought snacks, then,” he sing-songs.
She considers bolting. Would he chase her? Probably not. But he could laser her ankles off, and send her flopping to the floor. It’s unlikely he’d risk Edgar’s wrath, but can she be sure? He’s more unhinged than ever in grief, and that’s saying something. He doesn't have much to lose, anymore.
Showing up on his doorstep tipsy and pissing him off in his own home was unbelievably stupid. She’s read If You Give A Mouse A Cookie. If you give Homelander anything, he’ll find a way to torment you with it.
“Fine,” she says. “Not a whole movie, though.”
Moving deeper into his home, rubbing alcohol and salty saline drip burns in her nostrils. It must be what’s left of Stormfront’s presence, lingering like a ghost. Or, possibly, his attempt to erase it. The sense of just how deep she’s gotten herself into enemy territory prickles under her skin.
Homelander gestures over to the sofa, grinning like a maniac. “Take a seat.” He places the cookies down on the coffee table. “Make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa.”
As she eases into the couch, the leather instantly saps what’s left of her heat. She doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of asking for anything, but chattering teeth is a weaker look. “Do you— Do you have a blanket I could borrow?”
Homelander grabs a cream colored throw blanket, and tosses it at her carelessly over his shoulder without turning her way. Not hard, but not gently, either. “Here.”
“Thanks.”
Still standing, remote in hand, he flicks through VoughtPlus, ignoring her.
Annie wraps the blanket around herself like a shield, bringing it all the way to her chin. It’s soft, at least. Really soft, actually. Probably knitted with wool from sheep who only eat the finest green grass on the sprawlingest hills in Scotland, and filthy expensive. Pricy enough to keep her and her mom afloat for months.
Oh, if Donna January could see her now … She’d be squealing in the corner, clapping along like Regina George’s mom, tracing invisible dollar signs and hearts with her fingers in the air, too blinded by her own ambition to see the danger. Eyes on the prize, Annie!
Mom always asks about him. She still has no idea how Homelander truly is. She’d like to think her mother wouldn’t cheer her on into a sugar daddy relationship with a man fifteen years her senior, but deep down, she knows better than that. Mom’s piety ends where power couple prospects begin. She would tell her to put a hand on his thigh, pucker up, and squeeze her arms together to make her tits pop. Just like she did when Alex's boyband blew up. Annie didn’t mind being encouraged, then, because she thought Alex was cute, anyway, with his boyish curls and big brown sparkling eyes. He was nice. Sweet. Good natured. Charming. Funny. Every girl wanted him. Even now, she can’t help but see what she’s always seen in him. Hughie isn’t wrong — jealous, delusional if he really thinks she’d cheat, but not incorrect about that.
Homelander, on the other hand …
Mom made comments after he and Maeve broke up before she even auditioned for The Seven. One night, clunky desktop screen from the 2000s lit up with a picture of Homelander, she called her into her room, holding up her headshot as a side by side. Mom asked if she thought they’d look cute together, and tsked when Annie turned beet red. Told her not to be stiff. She tried to pass it off as a joke, but Annie could hear the wheels turning in her head. Before she told her to back off because she was dating Hughie, she felt like her mom was jamming two barbie dolls together every time she nudged her with her elbow, insinuating about becoming Number 2.
Well, she’s tied for Number 1 now, and she didn’t even need to throw herself at him. So, take that. Co-captain of The Seven. And Hero of The Year.
“Ah, whatever,” Homelander grumbles. “We’ll just watch Dawn of The Seven.”
“What?” Her eyes snap up. “We just saw it at the premiere a month ago.”
“And? It’s timeless.”
It's bad. They both know it. The hasty rewrites to address Stormfront’s true identity were shoddy. Charlize Theron did her best, but they didn’t give her much to work with, and it felt too much like they’d given Stormfront what she really wanted by making her a blonde bombshell. An inadvertent homage, even if they kicked the CGI shit out of her. Critics rightfully tore it to shreds.
Homelander sits, throwing one arm across the back of the couch, his heat bleeding into the cushion behind her. The walls feel like they’re closing in on her as he shifts closer until their thighs touch, encroaching on her space. His space. It’s his house, his couch. Without the blanket, there’d be no buffer.
“You cozy?” He leans in, breath — hot and sweet — tickling her ear. “You look cozy.”
Her heart skips a beat. “I’ll blind you. If you try anything. I’ll do it this time.”
He throws his head back and laughs, looking at her sideways. “I wouldn’t, but good to know. Doubt you could, though. That’s not a challenge — don’t bust the power grid tonight. I wonder how your supporters rationalize the climate impact. They care about that, right? Your carbon footprint must put Bezos to shame.”
“... I try not to think about it,” Annie murmurs, muffled by the blanket.
“Say what you will about me, but I am zero emissions. I’m my own private jet. Maybe that’s what I’ll do. Get Greenpeace on your ass. See your approval points, then, People’s Princess.”
“Your AC habit might disagree. And I think they’d be more interested in The Deep, honestly.”
“Yeah, talk about a crime against whales. Lots of loose blowholes in the Atlantic these days.”
A small smile tugs at her lips. “He isn’t big enough to stretch anything out. Don’t flatter him.”
Homelander’s mouth falls open, and he lets out a sharp laugh. “Christ, Starlight.”
“It’s true.”
“Oh, no, I believe you. I just didn’t think you had it in you. Coming for his manhood.” He smirks, eyes twinkling, or maybe just reflecting the light of the TV as the intro plays. “Low blow.”
“Yeah, well, his manhood came for me. Womp womp.”
He lazily reaches for another cookie. “Does it have gills, too?”
“No but,” she can’t suppress a giggle, “he’s completely shaved. I think he thinks it creates less drag in the water.”
She hates that it feels good to joke about it like this instead of dancing around it. With Homelander of all people, right after he blamed her for it. Hughie would freeze up, turn pink, and look like he was about to puke or pass out. It was just too weird to talk about, let alone joke about. The only way he acknowledged it was by never asking for a blowjob, and refusing whenever she’d try to give him one like it was morally off limits. It didn’t make her feel any better — broken, honestly — but she’d never been much of a fan of a sore jaw, anyway.
“Like Mr. Clean?” he asks.
“Ugh, you’d wish.”
“See?” Something passes over his eyes resembling respect or pride, and then a muscle in the corner of his eye twitches like his body is physically rejecting the possibility of looking at her with anything but resentment or disdain. “You’re tough. Be more this and less knees knocking together. Then, you’ll get somewhere in life.” He pats her shoulder, but draws his hand away quickly.
She wants to remind him he’s the one who could use a poll boost right now, but she doesn’t. He already knows that. He’s only trying to cut her down to make himself feel better. Punching down. Or, is it up now that she’s on top? It still feels like being pummeled, either way.
His eyes dart back and forth between the movie and her face, trying to read her reactions like an equation. The only time his focus breaks long enough to let her breathe is when he comes on screen. Homelander leans forward to watch himself intently, elbows on his knees. The second it cuts away from him, though, his eyes go back to her.
His giant wall of TVs is dizzying. Excessive. Like everything else. She bets he opted for a dozen monitors instead of one big screen to watch every channel playing something about him at once, and drown himself in the sound of his name in other people’s mouths. The edges of the screens dice up the picture, splitting them into sections. Annie tries to dissociate enough to pretend it’s someone else during every tight shot of her. Just a doll that looks like her in a costume that resembles one she wore once.
“Relax,” Homelander says, breaking the silence, voice smooth and performative. “You’re acting like I’m going to bite. So tense, Starlight.”
“I don’t know about bite, but you are one to dismember.”
“Lucky for you, I don’t feel like destroying my own home. Believe it or not.”
“Yeah, is that why you keep it like a freezer? Trying to slow down the rate of decay to keep the museum intact? I think Ben Franklin could survive room temp.”
The screen lights up his face. “Something like that.”