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Butcher pushes him down the hallway. The squeak of the wheelchair would have irritated the shit out of him a year ago, but as it was, his puny human ears don't mind the sound as much. He keeps his arms folded, muttering angrily under his breath.
The doctor said he'd need crutches for at least seven weeks.
It was utterly ridiculous! Him! A cripple! He's never hated this stupid, weak body more than he does in this moment.
It'd been an accident. It's not that he forgot he wasn't steel anymore. Not like that first month when John would constantly try to pick things up much heavier than him and throw out his back, or mishandle knives and scissors and cut his delicate skin. No. A stupid fucking car had been racing through the parking lot of the local grocery store.
Butcher's attention had been entirely on John. Which is the way he liked it. But this time it meant Butcher did not see the car suddenly veer and head towards him. John pushed him out of the way. He'd gotten a broken leg and skinned palms for his troubles.
He'd tried using the crutches they gave him earlier and promptly decided they were the worst thing ever invented. He asked Butcher why the man couldn't just wheel him around for the foreseeable future. Butcher had rudely laughed in his face and refused. Ungrateful prick.
Though it did help a lot that Butcher was angry about the fact that John nearly died a hero. It had been a nurse who made the initial comment. When she'd learned that John had pushed Butcher to safety, she looked at him with a kind expression and said, “That was very brave of you! What a hero!”
A smile graces John's lips at the memory. He finally did it. He saved someone for real. Not orchestrated. Not fake. Not because he was told to. He did it because wanted to.
Butcher had nearly lost his shit getting him to the hospital. He wasn't used to the other man being so openly concerned for him. Ryan even stopped by to see how he was doing. And even though it was bit humiliating to be seen like that, he was always happy to see his son. Having people worry over him wasn't so bad. He found he kind of liked the experience. It felt like such a novelty.
Butcher had sat by his bedside muttering murder plans under his breath for the cunt who hit him. John chuckled warmly at that. He could just picture the alpha hunting the fucker down and gutting him in the street. Served him right. John may not be a god anymore, but he was still elevated. To be taken out in such a way would have been degrading.
They reach the end of the hall in the front lobby. “All right, princess, time to get out.”
John sighs heavily. He takes the crutches across his lap and makes to stand up. God, these things sucked. Why hasn't anyone invented a hover chair yet?
He hobbles down the ramp to the sidewalk. Butcher distinctly does not open the door for him when they reach the truck. He swears Butcher liked watching him struggle just for the hell of it. He wrestles the crutches into the back, and with great effort, he climbs into his seat. Butcher smirks at him from the driver's seat. John imagines what it would have been like if he had let that car hit the man.
“Seatbelt.”
John groans loudly. Seatbelts were also stupid. Cars in general were stupid. Horrible transportation method really. Not to mention they were contributing to killing the planet.
Christ, he can't wait to get home. After this experience, he never wants to stay in another hospital ever again. The food was horrendous, the turndown service was lacking, and the food was barely passable. It'd only been two days but he's starving for some good food.
The truck revs, radio coming on. The Spice Girls blast through the speakers. John gives Butcher a look.
"Don't give me that,” Butcher snorts. “You have no leg to stand on when it comes to music.”
John rolls his eyes as they listen to the sounds of Spice up Your Life. It was grating if not catchy.
“Just take me home,” he groans.
“You sure you don't just want to swing by Vought-a-Burger?”
“Don't even fucking joke with me right now!” He hisses.
Butcher chuckles.
“I mean it! I'm tired, I'm hungry, I smell like chemicals and old people! And I barely got any fucking sleep because the beds were fucking shit! And what the fuck was with that bitch head nurse? Like what the fuck did I ever do to her?? Did you even see the way she looked at me? All I did was ask her to tell everyone to keep the goddamn noise to a minimum! But apparently that’s too much to fucking ask! She fucking lucky I don't–”
Butcher reaches across the middle to take both of John's cheeks in his hands. Warm palms slide over his skin. Slowly, so slowly, Butcher starts pulling him in as leans over the seat. John glares.
“Are you even listening to me?! Stop trying to distract me! You're not helping!”
Butcher's grin is as soft as his hold on him. John stops talking long enough for the other man to kiss him. It's just a little peck. Then another. A small flick of the tongue.
Butcher rubs his thumb across John's lips, still smiling. “I'm only teasin ya, love.”
John sags in his hold, still fuming. “I don't like it when you rile me up.”
“Well that's a shame, cuz I do.”
John snorts. He was so fucking weird. Not a single person ever enjoyed teasing the Homelander. All they ever tried to do was placate him or soothe him. People were afraid of his anger.
Butcher puts the truck into gear and they finally leave this awful fucking place after that. The relief is palpable when they pull into the parking lot of their complex. It was a nice apartment, nothing to write home about, but good enough that John only complained a little bit when he found out they weren't on the top floor. It was definitely better than the slum Butcher previously lived in. John would have rather lived in the truck than that pigsty.
They ride the elevator up to their floor. Butcher opens the door and lets John pass through first. Horror barks, trotting up to them happily.
John smiles. “Hey boy! Who's my good boy? Daddy missed you!”
He can't bend down to pet him but he does his best to sing his praises down at the French bulldog. Butcher rolls his eyes, walking past them. He was just jealous Horror preferred John over him.
When Butcher had first brought the thing home John had been furious. He didn't get the appeal of letting animals in one's home. They stunk, they made a mess, they slobbered everywhere. But Horror had taken to following him around and rolling over so cutely. He'd just stare at John with the most adorable little eyes.
The first time he gave Horror a belly rub that had been it for him. He fawned over the dog more and more, even sneaking him treats under the table while Butcher wasn't looking. On occasion, the man would catch him in the act and he would snap at John that it wasn't good for the dog's weight. How unbelievably cruel. No wonder Horror loved him more.
John shambles over to the couch and collapses. Sure enough, Horror immediately jumps onto his lap and curls up. John scratches behind his ears cooing down at him.
“I believe I was promised dinner?” John says at Butcher who is already moving towards the kitchen.
“Yeah, yeah.”
John could easily see him from the living room. It was an open concept apartment. He'd refused any other type of place when they were looking for housing. He couldn't x-ray through walls anymore, and it helped being able to know where Butcher was at any given point.
John picks up the TV remote as he hears the microwave start up. He clicks it on, changing it from Netflix to the VNN channel. Vought had been abuzz with some recent changes lately.
Butcher re-enters shortly with a little tray and a fork. John stares in disbelief as the man sets it on the coffee table in front of him.
“The fuck is this?”
“A TV dinner.” Butcher smirks before sitting down beside him.
“What about the spaghetti that was in the fridge?”
He was supposed to have been discharged the day before, but the fucking doctors kept him overnight and he had had to wait.
“I ate it.”
“All of it??” He was looking forward to that, dammit!
John takes one of his crutches leaning against the arm of the couch and whacks Butcher in the chest.
“Fuck!” Butcher grabs at it, stopping him. “I didn’t think you'd want two day old spaghetti!”
No, he wouldn't. But clearly Butcher should have made more.
“I’m not eating this shit after that disgusting cafeteria food!”
“I didn't feel like makin’ anything, and you didn't want to get burgers!”
“Of course I didn't want burgers!”
“Well then that's a you problem, innit?”
John yanks it out of Butcher's hold and whacks him again. “I'm an invalid, William! Fucking feed me!”
“Christ, alright you twat! Stop hitting me!”
John takes the crutch back with a huff. He sets it back down with a nice pat. He takes back what he said about them before. Clearly these things were multipurpose.
Butcher gets back up to slink into the kitchen for something proper.
“I want an omelet!" John yells at his back. “And a smoothie!”
Butcher flips him off.
He settles back into the cushions and watches the TV. The colors and sounds were all off. It took some getting used to when he first lost his powers. Everything used to be so sharp and clear. But it was all so dull now. The world felt like it'd been plunged under water. His hearing felt muffled. His sense of smell nonexistent. He couldn't even see properly. He needed glasses like some fucking dork! Nevermind he looked nice in said glasses, he just didn't like the fact that he actually needed them now. They got in the way all the time when he tried to kiss Butcher. They'd bump against his nose and rub at his skin.
He turns the volume up. Butcher yells from the kitchen. “Turn that shite off! I'm not watching that crap!”
“I saved your life! You owe me!”
Bugcher grumbles, turning back to the stove. John smirks. He could get used to this. He's never won an argument so easily before.
On screen, a young blonde newscaster smiles widely as she talks about the newest member of the trending superhero team. It was ten months ago when Vought introduced the five man team. Barely two months after the White House debacle. Vought had done away with The Seven entirely, deciding to go in a new direction. And they'd certainly wasted no time.
The Vendetters, they were called. Taking vengeance on those who would do wrong in this world, both human and supe alike. Audiences seemed to love it.
Vought had rounded up a bunch of youngsters fresh out of Godolkin for the project. They looked like a bunch of babies straight out of the womb. John hated them all. Not a single interesting person out of the bunch. Vought was desperate to maintain the status quo, going for the safest choices possible.
Then, about a month ago, the leader had gone missing. Up and disappeared. Butcher swore he had nothing to do with it. But even if he didn't, he likely knew something about it. He was the fucking director of the FBSA, there was no way Butcher didn't know anything. But no matter how hard John weedled or whined or offered to suck his dick, Butcher maintained his silence on the matter.
Either way, John was glad he didn't have to see that idiot on his TV anymore. He hated his grating voice every time the supe made an appearance. Plus his accent had clearly been fake. John didn't even remember the stupid hero's name. Started with an ‘S’ or something. It'd been dreadfully boring and uninspired.
The newsanchor continues her story with palpable excitement. It seemed that Boring Leader Man had already been replaced. Looks like Vought didn’t think he'd been worth the effort.
A picture of the newest member of The Vendetters pops up on the screen. Huh. Well that was new. The kid's skin was green and had what looked like leaves and vines for hair. John can already see the angle they were going for. Environmentally friendly, eco conscious, a way to appeal to the tree hugging crowd. He was basically the new Deep. Except this time it was aimed at forests and jungles instead of the ocean.
The blender whirls, blocking out the sounds of the TV for a moment. A few minutes later Butcher arrives with a glass.
“Your smoothie, your majesty,” he says with the utmost sarcasm.
“And my food?” John bats eyes.
Butcher grinds his teeth. “It's coming.”
“Kay.”
John sits up and happily drinks his smoothie. It was mango with pineapple. His favorite. How very thoughtful of the other man. He hadn't even told Butcher what flavor he wanted.
He leans to the side and watches Butcher head back into the kitchen, admiring his backside. Pots and pans angrily clang together as Butcher works. John chuckles and sips at his drink. He's no idea how long he can milk this before the other man snapped, but by god was he going to get his money's worth.
He tunes back into the news. The woman was now talking about some Save the Forest thing just as he predicted. Ugh. Boring. He plucks his phone out of his pocket and starts scrolling through TikTok.
Despite it having been a year ago, people still talked about Homelander across social media. It was hard not to. He'd been a huge part of the culture for decades. Not to mention there wasn't a single hero or villain in history that had gone out in such a blaze of glory.
After the initial disaster at the White House, the buzz took a long time to die down. The footage from that day–both from the news choppers and CCTV as well as police body cameras–flooded the internet. People eagerly ripped it apart, analyzing and searching and rewatching it over and over again. Someone had even lovingly sliced together all the footage they could get their hands on and made a little movie.
No one could get enough. No one could shut up about it. Homelander, the number one superhero, had gone crazy and declared himself God. He rambled on about punishing non-believers and rebirthing the world from the ashes. Then he was suddenly attacked by the terrorist Billy Butcher alongside some kids as they all fought on the front lawn. On top of that his son Ryan showed up out of nowhere and joined the fight.
And then,
And then,
In an epic conclusion worthy of this century, Homelander lost his powers. Poof. Just gone. In an admittedly less epic move, Homelander had started blubbering like a baby on live TV.
To the further bafflement of captivated viewers, said terrorist Billy Butcher almost died. And instead of rejoicing, Homelander clutched the body begging him to stay. If people were confused before, they were downright bewildered after that. What had happened between them? Had they been lovers? Worse?
At the end, the script flipped again. Audiences gasped and bit their nails as the most famous superhero chose to walk away with both terrorist and son never to be heard from again. He never showed his face. Never answered any calls from his old number. He just disappeared.
Many former Hometeamers were adamant that Homelander didn't run off with Butcher. Sure, they walked off screen together but they speculated he probably died shortly after. Because that made way more sense thematically than for Homelander to be gay all of a sudden. He'd never shown a single ounce of interest in men before. Impossible.
Other people–Starlighters–claimed that the pieces of their conversation (both in and outside of the White House) screamed they had carnal relations before. And how could anyone think otherwise? It was obvious what happened. And the Hometeamers (former) would claim it was AI or doctored and that would spark a whole new slew of arguments.
And on and on it went.
Pieces of the fight went viral online. John loved watching edits and clips of himself rising from the flames to rain down hell. He looked pretty cool. Though if he was being honest with himself, his favorite trend had been the voice audio taken from Butcher.
The trend would feature a person performing some sort of mundane task; washing the dishes, vacuuming the rug, raking the leaves. They would fail in some obvious way, perhaps accidently breaking a glass, and they'd dramatically cry out in Homelander’s audio overlay.
“I'm nothing. I'm nothing! Just fucking kill me! I'm no one! I'm–”
And then their partner or significant other would enter the frame and press their forehead tenderly against theirs and growl in that guttural voice. “You're fucking mine. And that's all you need to know.”
Butcher hated that trend. He could not stand to hear it or see it. Called it fucking lunacy.
The boys had been relentless, teasing the man to hell and back. But John absolutely loved it. He loved scrolling through the tag and seeing all the variations and spins people put on it. Turns out he did like memes as long as they weren't making fun of him.
That had led him to discovering the “enemiestolovers” hashtag alongside the burgeoning “butchlander” tag. He'd lay in bed for hours, scrolling through videos and giggling to himself.
Though not everyone who posted about butchlander shipped them. Many would cry out at how insensitive it was. About how both Homelander and Butcher killed a lot of people and neither of them were good men. That it was “disgusting” and “immoral” to even talk about their supposed relationship. What happened at the White House was horrific, and these trends were hurting the people who'd been affected.
John ignored those types of posts. Those people clearly needed to lighten up.
There was a lot of speculation on how they actually met. How this rough, rugged terrorist might have caught Homelander’s eye. The public only knew the gist of it. The CIA never released the files on Butcher's supe killing missions. People still didn't know the truth about Translucent and likely never would. Though the public did uncover that Butcher was a former intelligence agent.
John liked reading through the fan theories. People even wrote whole stories about how it could have happened, complete with depraved sex scenes. John liked the ones where he topped the most. They got quite graphic. They even drew fanart and everything.
Given his status as the world's former most famous superhero, John was already extremely familiar with the concept of shipping. The most popular pairing had been with him and Maeve for obvious reasons. (He doesn't talk about Deeplander. Even now it sends a shiver down his spine.) But he'd never been interested in reading or looking at any of that stuff before. What did it matter if a fan came up with an elaborate lie and wrote it down? But he had to admit, something about butchlander really tickled his fancy. He'd even been contemplating on writing his own fanfiction. Anonymously of course.
Every once in a while, in his endless scrolling, he'll catch a Hometeamer (former) ranting about how it was all a giant conspiracy. That Homelander was not in his right mind that day. That a team of crazy psychics took hold of his mind and made him say all those horrible things. They made him do all that awful stuff. That Homelander didn't mean any of it. They're the ones to blame.
That conspiracy, more so than the AI one, got a foothold in Reddit after it was revealed that Homelander had started to pardon mind control supes from major prisons and asylums in his rise to power. The evidence was circumstantial, but it couldn't be denied, the theory held weight. Surely those psychics were the real culprit behind everything? They were the ones that made Homelander go crazy. And although there was no real proof, people were willing to believe anything in order to keep their heroes on their pedestals.
Speaking of conspiracies, in a horrible, and frankly rude, turn of events, Marie Moreau started trending more than Homelander after a few days. More than the destruction, more than the death, more than Butcher and his mysterious relationship with Homelander, the internet was obsessed with the girl who had not only taken away a supe's powers, but brought someone back from the dead.
It didn't take long for internet sleuths to figure out who Marie was. She'd been quite famous at her old college after all. The news of her spread like wildfire, igniting far more discussions on late night TV shows and dime a dozen podcasts. In the end, the world did start to believe there was a living god. It just wasn't Homelander.
She was more than a saint. More than an angel. People flocked under her banner, Hometeamers and Starlighters alike. People actually started to worship her. Some even prayed.
Marie became an instant sensation overnight. No one had seen hide nor hair of her since that day, but that didn't stop people from making and selling their own merch. Despite Vought's numerous efforts, the number one superhero in America right now was Marie Moreau. Possibly the world. She'd been the one to save it after all.
Stories would pop up around the country every once in a while. About a young woman who helped someone who needed it. She healed their broken leg. She helped a blind man see. She took away their pain. She cured their disease.
Former supes that had been labeled “Undesirables” started to come forth with testimonies of how she freed them from their nightmare. Most people weren't aware that V didn't always give someone favorable powers. And when that happened, Vought would try to bury them.
Some powers were embarrassing or life ruining or caused someone great agony. One person claimed Marie took away the powers of a supe who had been forced to live in reverse, living his life backwards. Another claimed she took away the powers of someone who drained the life force of everyone they touched. They had cried when they finally got to hug their loved ones for the first time.
Every day stories came pouring in. Marie Moreau helped them. Marie Moreau saved them. Marie Moreau healed them.
She never did resurface. John was positive she was living on the road somewhere with her pack of delinquent friends. She never stayed in one spot.
It didn't make any sense. She didn't need to hide. The world loved her.
He'd complained about it to Butcher once. The alpha had merely looked at him like he was stupid and said that the kid had simply not wanted the fame. Which made even less sense. John couldn't even begin to comprehend how she could throw it all away. Marie had everything that John had had to claw and scrape and fight for; the recognition, the love, the power. And yet she didn't even want it.
It made him dizzy with envy and hatred. But only sometimes. That life was behind him now. He would never be the Homelander again.
“Please welcome our next guest–Ashley Barret!"
John looks up at the TV to see the red head walk across the stage waving at the audience.
Butcher chooses that moment to walk into the room with a plate of eggs. “Jesus, the fuck is that bird squawking about now?”
He sets the plate down in front of John. It was a perfectly cooked fluffy, yellow omelet with green onions, cheese, and sausage.
Butcher collapses onto the couch next to him, jostling Horror who gives him an irritated look. The dog then goes back to staring at John's plate.
“Thank you for having me!” Ashley says with a bright smile. John wonders if any of her hair had started to grow back under that wig.
The newscaster pulls out a hardcover book with Ashley's giant face on the cover. She was holding a finger in front of her mouth as if to shush the audience.
“So tell us about your new book!”
“Absolutely!” Ashley smiles. “As you may already know, it's a tell-all from my time in Vought serving under Madelyn Stillwell and eventually Homelander.”
The newscaster nods along, looking absolutely riveted.
“Now, obviously, I can't talk about anything I signed an NDA for, but my lawyers talked to Vought's lawyers, and the company graciously gave me the go ahead to tell my story. Including everything that led up to that day in the White House!”
John snorts. Of course Vought wouldn't care if Ashley threw him under the bus. Hell, they probably gave her several talking points about how none of this is actually their fault. Or how Homelander held them all captive or some nonsense like that. It was an opportunity to paint themselves in a sympathetic light. It was no surprise they let her write such tripe. It was open season on America's sweetheart turned villain, and Ashley Barret was taking her fucking shot.
“...And I can't say much about it here, but I saw Marie Moreau that day! I even spoke with her briefly!”
The newscaster holds her breath. Damn, she was an actual pro. John can see awe reflecting in her eyes.
“You mentioned you barely escaped with your life. Did she have anything to do with you making it out?”
Ashley smiles like she's holding in a secret. “Spoilers! You'll have to buy and read my book!”
John finishes his omelet and sets his fork down. He wipes his mouth with a pat before setting the napkin on top of the plate. He shoots Butcher a glance.
“How much do you wanna bet that most of the garbage in that book is greatly exaggerated?”
Butcher lifts a brow. “Don’t.”
“What?”
Butcher narrows his gaze. “You're thinking of getting on Reddit threads and debunking whatever it is she's written about ya. Don't.”
John huffs. “I wasn't going to,” he lies smoothly.
“You did this fuckin’ shite with the pyshic theories and it was a bitch and a half to clean up!”
“I didn't even say anything bad!”
“I don't understand why you suddenly feel the need to correct people! You went decades in Vought, completely content with them lying for you!”
“That was different! They were maintaining my image! No one is there to maintain it anymore!” In fact they were actively besmirching it.
Butcher gives him a warning glare. “If I get even a whiff that you're sniffin’ around discord chats or Twitter threads or TikTok groups or whatever the fuck that has to do with anymore goddman hashtag Homelander-was-innocent conspiracy nut jobs, I'm gonna turn you over my fuckin’ knee.”
John pauses. He swallows thickly and opens his mouth.
“And you won't be allowed to cum at all!” Bucher snaps.
John closes his mouth. Actually, that still sounded appealing if he were honest.
Nevertheless he sighs and sinks into his seat. He pets Horror, scratching his little ears. They were so cute the way they flopped around.
Normally, he would've saved a little bite of his food for the dog, but he was already pushing Butcher farther than normal today. Instead he lets Horror lick the empty plate. Butcher rolls his eyes from his end of the couch but doesn't protest.
Butcher had a (small) point about correcting people. John was smarter than that and knew better than to leave cookie crumbs about himself online. But he can't help it. He was bored as fuck these days. Now that he was just plain John, there wasn't that much to do. No interviews, no saves, no hosting an event, no fan meet and greets, no nothing.
Butcher had briefly suggested getting a job, but then winced and promptly shut his mouth. Yeah no. Never gonna happen. John was not made for manual labor. And he certainly wouldn't do well in customer service. These days he mostly lounges around in their home, arranging and rearranging the furniture.
He's taken up a few hobbies to pass the time. He's tried his hand at both cooking and baking. They were fine but he wasn't particularly good at it. He's also tried crocheting. He even made a little sweater for Horror. He's taken up video games again as well. He plays with Ryan sometimes on the headset, battling it out in Tournament of Champions or Vought Combat. Though he didn't like gaming so much as he just liked talking to his son.
On screen, Ashley reads an excerpt from the book. “...His hand felt firm but warm. It wasn't like any other normal human hand. I knew that those fingers could crush me in an instant, but I wasn't afraid in that moment. I didn't know that I should have been. It was intimidating, yes, but mostly I just felt awe. Everyone felt awe back in those days. Because no one knew the truth. No one knew the monster lurking underneath...”
Jesus. Who the fuck wrote that? It certainly wasn't Ashley. Probably some ghost writer. Most likely someone hired by Vought.
They all just loved to paint themselves as the victim. How an evil entity held them all at metaphorical gunpoint. How no one had a choice in the matter. No one lied to him or manipulated him or pushed him over the edge. Fucking typical.
She finishes reading the passage and puts the book down to the newscaster's rambunctious applause. Ashley smiles and nods gratefully.
“Amazing stuff! Truly amazing!” The woman thrusts her arm out. “Look! I even got chills!”
Butcher snorts. “You know, we can still change the channel.”
“Quiet,” John shushes him.
On screen, the blonde jumps onto a new topic. “Now, quick question, and I have to ask, but I heard a rumor that your book will also feature the infamous Billy Butcher?”
Ashley grins with all her teeth. “Yes! These days it's practically impossible to bring up Homelander without also talking about him.”
“It's easy to understand why!”
“I know! I can't reveal too much, but what I can say is that Homelander looked down on humanity as a whole. He would refer to human beings as mudpeople when the cameras were off.”
“No!” The other woman gasps appropriately.
Ashley nods sagely. “He did. He didn't think normal human beings were worth his time. But there was no one I had ever seen him more obsessed with than Butcher. From the first moment he popped up on his radar, he couldn't take his eyes off him.” She leans in conspiratorially. “He even kidnapped him and forced Vought doctors to try and cure him when he learned he had cancer!”
“Stop! Is that really true?”
“Yes, It is! And you can read about it in my book!” Ashley holds it up proudly to the camera, showing off the title:
Ashley Barrett: secretary, manager, hostage.
John groans. He just knows there's gonna be a fucking movie about this. He just knows it. They'll cast all the wrong people and he'll have to sit there and listen to some nitwit deliver the lines in an overly dramatic fashion. Of course, he didn't have to watch it when it came out, but obviously he's going to watch it.
He yawns, moving to lean against Butcher's shoulder. It wasn't even noon yet but all those pain meds made him sleepy. He tucks his good leg up under him, maneuvering Horror as he nuzzles into that horrid dragon shirt.
-
John dozes softly on his shoulder. As soon as he's positive the other man is out, Butcher swipes the remote and immediately changes the telly to Hulu. He flips through to ESPN to find a nice game to put on. John hated sports. He couldn't stand watching any of them, especially baseball. Something they both could agree on.
He'd complain and complain and complain until Butcher either retreated to the bedroom to watch from his phone, or John successfully convinced him to change it. Usually with fellatio. But God forbid Butcher not want to watch Vought propaganda. He couldn't fucking stand hearing those cunts spread lie after lie. Hell, he'd even take Disney over that shite.
Which was another thing about John. As it turns out, the former supe was fucking obsessed with Disney movies. It was the strangest thing. Maybe it had something to do with childhood magic. Something John never had as a kid. It wasn't the worst thing in the world. And some of the songs were admittedly catchy.
So yeah, he was fine with it. Whatever kept him happy. But Butcher drew the line at going to Disneyland. He's not going to wear those fucking mouse ears and cry over meeting some cunt in a costume like all those other freaks.
It was a relief when John waved his hand saying that, no, he didn't want to go either. In hindsight it made sense. A roller coaster would never compare to flying at Mach speed. Thrill rides would only ever be a disappointment to someone who had experienced the real thing. Not to mention John hated crowds. If no one was paying attention to him or screaming his name, there was no point to them. So no, he was rather happy having Disney princess marathons at home.
John's favorite movie, though, was Lilo and Stitch. The story of a little blue monster that was created for destruction only to find a family and discover he was more than what his creator made him. The parallels aren't lost on Butcher.
John exhales, breath tickling his neck. Butcher reaches up to run a hand through the other man's hair. At his insistence, John had stopped dying it. Butcher found he missed the corn yellow blonde, but it was for the best. Homelander needed to disappear completely. He was far too recognizable otherwise.
As a brunette, it would take more than a second glance to place John's face. Not to mention he had a bit of a five o'clock shadow now. Butcher runs his hand over his jaw. Even now it was still hard to get used to the fact that the man wasn't clean shaven.
It had taken a while for Butcher to discover that the cunt needed glasses. Initially he thought it was a delta thing. Deltas didn't experience the world with the same vibrancy as any other secondary gender. But then one day John had once again been complaining about a lack of anything to do when Butcher had thrown a book at him and told him to just fucking read something. John then whined about the letters being “too fuzzy” which had stopped Butcher in his tracks.
Sure enough, one doctor's appointment later had them walking out with a brand new pair of glasses. Butcher remembers grinning the entire car ride back home. John was a spitting cat, cursing him over and over and he can't need glasses he just can't! He looks like a giant nerd now and this was awful and terrible and you did this to me you fucking crippled me and now I can't even fucking see I hate you!
John pointedly refused to wear the glasses for weeks. He hated how they felt on his face. It was only when he had walked straight into a door–Butcher laughing so hard he nearly had an aneurism–that he started wearing them more.
Butcher ushers Horror down from the couch as he shifts. He stands and bends down to lift John up into his arms. John exhales and nuzzles into his chest. Butcher heads for their bedroom, keeping mind not to step on the dog under foot.
It was harder to pick the other man up without his powers. The tendrils had made it so easy.
Turns out when Marie brought him back to life she also healed his tumor. He was both tentacle and cancer free. Lucky him.
Horror dutifully follows behind them into the bedroom as he sets John down on the mattress. He eyes the dog with a warning look. He had to constantly tell him to get down off the bed. He'd never liked letting Terror on the bed either. Animals belonged in their own space. But John would often let Horror up in the middle of the night when he thought Butcher was sleeping. Butcher would wake to the traitors snuggling.
As he pulls back, John instinctively reaches for him. He always wanted to be closer, clingy little shit. Sometimes, in the morning, he'd wake to John curled up on his chest. Missed the sound of his heartbeat, John would say. Fucking cunt. He hated it when he said shite like that. But at least John could no longer hear his heart skip a beat when he did.
He lingers, brushing John's hair back. He lifts the glasses and sets them on the nightstand. Then he leans down and presses a kiss on his forehead. No one was around to witness it after all.
It still amazes him that he has this. That he has a life at all. Butcher had been ready to give up everything. His morals, his integrity, his own life. And yet here he was living in a high rise apartment with a partner, a good job, and a dog.
It almost fell apart immediately after coming back to the hideout from the White House. Mallory had come for John that night, bringing a whole squad with her. The boys all stood up for him, placing themselves in the line of fire. It was quite touching how willing they were to help a man they all hated simply because Butcher had decided, for whatever fucking reason, he didn't want to let the cunt go.
Ryan had stood arms raised in front of his father, refusing to back down. “Aunt Mallory please! He's human now, he can't hurt anyone anymore!”
Her face softened, but only a little. “Be that as it may, he still needs to face justice for the crimes he has already committed.”
It would have been a fight had John not come forward and offered to give Mallory everything he had on Vought. Absolutely everything. Names, dates, meetings, dirty little secrets that he overheard while living in the tower.
Mallory's face had twisted into angry reluctance. They all knew the bigger enemy here. And surprisingly it wasn't the former Homelander.
After that it was endless interviews and video recordings and paperwork. John talked about Vought until his throat went dry. Then he went home, rested, and did it all again the next day. He spilt years of invaluable secrets to the CIA. In return they didn't arrest him and throw him into a hole to rot. Butcher made Mallory swear on the lives of her dead grandchildren that no one, not a single government agency, be allowed to fucking touch him. She looked like she wanted to spit in his mouth but she swore he would be safe.
On top of agreeing not to arrest him, John and Butcher were granted a new identity. The boys may have all been given immunity for their actions, but Butcher's name was far too intertwined with Homelander's. Too many people, and far too many supes, still wanted their pound of flesh for what Homelander had done over the many years he'd terrorized both Vought and America. Billy Butcher's name would lead them right to the former supe. And so Butcher had to stay missing to the world at large.
When Butcher originally brought home John's new identity (Jack Hodges) the other man had gone quiet in that fuming kind of way. It was different from his explosive temper. The one where he was so mad he couldn't speak.
“Alright out with it. The fuck is wrong?”
He didn't think John would throw such a fit over a goddamn name. It wasn't like he could keep the old one. Butcher had said it on live TV in front of the whole nation. Plus Vought knew it as well.
“It's just…” John sighed, a tired housewife explaining to her husband for the fifth time to put the dishes in the dishwasher. “I thought we'd have the same last name.”
“What?” Butcher's voice came out more strangled than he meant it to.
“Well I can't change it to Butcher, obviously, so why can't I be a Williams?”
Butcher tried to find words for that and failed. So then he went right back to Mallory and changed it again. He tried very hard not to think about the implications. He ignored any and all fluttering it caused in his stomach. It wasn't real. It didn't mean anything. They didn't even have any rings. They'd be fake anyway if they did. But knowing John he'd definitely insist at having rings at some point. Just to sell the lie. No other reason.
He untangles himself from the other man and steps back. He closes the door gently and heads back to the living room. He takes a bottle of beer out of the fridge and settles onto the couch. Horror wanders in, perhaps hoping there would be more food he could beg for.
Homelander was dead. Butcher had finally killed him. Just not in the way he thought he would. The old Homelander would never watch Disney movies. He'd never admit to needing help. He'd never cuddle with a dog or sneak him treats when he thought Butcher wasn't looking. He wouldn't lay down in someone else's bed and clutch at them when they tried to leave. He wouldn't put anyone's life before his own. He wouldn't push someone out of the way of a moving car at the expense of his own fragile body.
Butcher has done it. He's killed the man Vought created. And in its place is something new. Something weaker and feeble, and a little softer around the edges. Something that liked to be held. Something that allowed itself to love and be loved.
Butcher thinks a part of himself died too. It must have. Homelander had taken a part of him when he went, dark and hollow and screaming for vengeance. Something that belonged to John grew in its place. This new thing was ferocious and twisting and always hungry, always aching, for John.
Sometimes, just sometimes, while they're laying down watching TV or in their bed, John will inch his hand under Butcher's shirt, slowly lifting it up. He'll suckle on his tits, rubbing the nubs over and over. Butcher never pushes him away. He'll act it was just another chore, placating the monster he created, but he's pretty sure John could tell he liked it. After all, the proof would dig into his thigh.
If Butcher is in a good mood he'll even let John fuck him. Golden face buried between his hairy breasts while John's cock is buried between his thighs. Fuck, Butcher was getting hot just thinking about it. He'd never bottomed much in his life before, but something about John made him want to submit. The feeling was as unsettling as the softness in his chest whenever John smiled tenderly at him. Or wolfishly at him. Or really smiled at all.
John was an entirely different animal from Homelander. He was needy and demanding and a fuck ton of work, but a lot less murdery. Turns out the tosser crumpled fairly easily when he didn't possess the powers of a god. Homelander's mental stability had been held together by duct tape and breast milk. All Butcher had to do to get him to behave was a well placed hand on the small of his back and the promise of a good spanking. Shut the cunt right up.
Though he never shut up for very long. John had a built in whining mechanism. He was used to luxury. He used to have Michelin star meals personally delivered to him all the time. Though they're not exactly slumming it with Butcher's new job. In fact his new apartment is incredibly nice compared to the shithole he used to live in. But for John, nothing but the best of the best would ever be good enough.
He had complained endlessly about Butcher’s scratchy bed sheets until he finally got new ones. Then he complained about the pillows and how they weren't fluffy enough until Butcher bought new ones. Then it was the goddamn mattress. Then house slippers. Then a robe.
And then came the clothes. God the clothes.
Had Butcher known the monster he was creating, he wouldn't have made such a big deal out of the clown suit. Some days he genuinely wishes John would go back to wearing one thing and one thing only. Sure the suit had been an eyesore, but it was easy to maintain.
The good news was that John had finally discovered his sense of fashion. The bad news was that it was expensive and John didn't have any money anymore on account of being disowned from Vought. So when John wanted a silky new shirt it came out of Butcher's expense. When he wanted nice loafers, it was at Butcher's expense. He paid for fucking everything because John refused to get a job. Granted, the man only knew how to be a pretty face, but plenty of people online got paid for having pretty faces. Or pretty feet from what he's heard.
“You took him to Macy's?" Annie had asked when Butcher dared to vent about John to the group. Talking about how the man hadn't even liked anything that first time when they went out shopping. Butcher didn't understand what changed between then and now?
“Jesus, no wonder he didn't like anything.”
“The fuck is wrong with Macy's?”
“Oh my god, Butcher.”
Annie didn't elaborate.
So now John just sat around rearranging the furniture for the uptempth time and deep diving on TikTok and Reddit. He's pretty sure John was also spying on the neighboring buildings. He'd caught him at the window with the binoculars more than once. John claimed he was bird watching.
“You watching the fuckin’ pigeons take a shite on the sidewalk then?”
John huffed, refusing to answer.
Still, it was kind of nice coming home to someone. Not that he'd ever
admit that out loud.
Once or twice, he'd come back from the office to John sucking on one of those idiotic red, white and blue rocket popsicles Americans were so fond of. John said it helped cool him down, but it always served to heat Butcher up. Cunt knew what he was doing. Christ, he was going to develop a fucking fetish at this point.
He takes another sip of beer. He might have to ask Singer for a raise. At this rate John would burn a hole through his wallet.
Robert Singer had been instated as President after the fiasco last year. To his utter surprise, the man had offered all the boys a job at Mallory's recommendation. He was reopening the FBSA and wanted them to head it. Hughie turned it down, wanting to focus on a smaller, safer adventure with his finance. MM had sworn off supes and revenge, wanting to focus on his family. And Frenchie and Kimiko decided to go off and travel the world. So as it was, only Butcher had accepted. It was a bit lonely without the boys, but his new team wasn't so bad.
He'd accepted on the one condition that he be allowed to pick his own team. Every last one of them. He wasn't about to trust the government not to put tabs on him and John. Singer agreed on his own condition that Butcher keep a tight leash on the former supe. Butcher then responded he didn't like to brag about what he did inside the bedroom.
The office knew him as Jasper Williams. He'd cleaned up for the role too, looking far less shabby than he used to. Though his salt and pepper hair was a little more salt than pepper these days. And if any of his coworkers happened to look twice, thinking he bore a striking resemblance to a certain someone, no they fucking didn’t. Government agents knew better than to go digging around in things above their paygrade. Especially the ones he hand picked. He specifically chose people that wouldn't ask questions and would keep their heads down. He wouldn't tolerate anything otherwise. Not for something as important as John's safety.
Still, it was a bit of an open secret around the FBSA. But as long as they kept their mouths shut, Butcher didn’t care. That and he'd had the whole place bugged. He'd know if someone was planning something.
The microphones scattered throughout the building would pick up conversation here and there. Butcher would make sure to go through it every now and then to make sure his underlings were staying in line. Unsurprisingly, Butcher himself was a common topic. They thought him some sort of legend: a god killer. Nevermind he didn’t deliver the final blow, he still brought the motherfucking Homelander down from the sky. They'd quietly speculate in the break room what had happened to Homelander. Whether he was still alive or living with Butcher. No one dared ask. It wasn't their place.
Butcher downs the last of his beer. He'd have to make lunch later. John would be hungry after his nap. He should probably make some more pasta while he's at it. Personally, he was burnt out on spaghetti, but he did feel slightly guilty for eating all of it before John got the chance. Plus maybe he'd be so grateful Butcher would be getting a blow job later. One could only hope.
-
John climbs into the truck in aggravation. He's back to hating his crutches. It made getting anywhere more difficult. And he already hated cars on principle. It took forever to drive anywhere. Flying was so much faster.
He starts to fiddle with the radio only for Butcher to slap his hand away. “When you learn how to drive you can pick the music!”
“Oh, come on! I'm going to be tortured enough tonight as it is!”
“Karaoke is sacred, and you're lucky the boys are letting you join.”
John throws his hands up and sinks into his seat. The sounds of the 90s band Steps blare through the speakers singing about boot scootin’ babies. No wonder Butcher was fucking crazy. He grew up listening to mind melting music.
He turns to look out the window, watching the world whiz on by. It looked so different on the street than it did in the sky. If flying felt like losing a limb, his super strength felt like having to relearn how to walk. (The irony does not escape him in his current state.)
Some days he missed it like an ache. But other days, piling up more and more, he didn't miss it at all. Finally John didn't have to constantly be careful with how much pressure he applied when picking up a mug or a fork. Finally he could mindlessly open a door without being aware of gripping it too hard. He didn't have to think about anything anymore. He could just do it.
Now that he was a puny, fragile human, he didn't really know how to fight or defend himself Butcher had been giving him basic self defense lessons. They also had a joint workout routine now. And even better than the lessons or the workouts, they would get all sweaty and have to take showers afterwards. They almost always took one together.
John originally thought that with him without powers, and Butcher with no more tumor tentacles, sex would get boring. Butcher had relieved him of the notion very quickly. He's never been happier to be wrong. Plus he liked that Butcher taught him how to strangle him with human strength.
And if he'd thought the man had been insatiable before, Butcher on his rut had been an absolute nightmare. John had woken already aching and sore, Butcher rubbing his cock against his entrance like an animal. John had sobbed in frustration.
“Can you at least fucking wait?” He whined, tears leaking down his cheeks. He'd taken it three times last night. He barely healed at all. Without powers he couldn't keep up like he could before.
Butcher licked his tears up greedily. “I like it when you're in pain.”
“Asshole.”
Then, shocking him speechless, Butcher had turned him over on his back and sat in his lap. John held onto his hips in disbelief as Butcher slid John's cock up into himself.
“Fuuuuuuck!”
He’d never fucked Butcher before then. The alpha had never let him. He'd felt so fucking good.
The “I love you’s” spilled out of his mouth. He's no idea what the fuck he said, word vomiting as Butcher rode him, but he said quite a lot. Butcher just grunted and moaned above him.
Butcher never reciprocated when John told him the L word. But he'd noticed when Butcher's pet name shifted ever so slightly. When “luv” became “love.” He could hear the difference. It always stopped him in his tracks. The inflection was warmer, softer, and terribly fond.
He also started calling him baby spice on the rare occasion. Which was definitely a new one. John's not saying he hates it but he doesn't understand his obsession with girl bands from the 90s.
Butcher parks the truck and they head inside the bar. John has been here before just not with the other boys present. This one was slightly less filthy than the others Butcher liked to frequent. The food was also quite tolerable.
Frenchie waves them down from a table near the stage. He and Kimiko had been back in New York for a couple days now. Hence the reason for this little boy's night.
There was a gap with two chairs left open between MM and Annie. John sits down like he's holding court. A king on his throne. Or rather a supe at the head of the table. He's careful not to touch Annie or the questionable tabletop.
John didn't get invited out with them often. Or at all. Mostly it's just Butcher dragging him against his–and their–will. They'd only extended their invitation when they learned about his stint in the hospital. It was the very least they could do. Bare minimum really.
MM and Butcher clasp hands. “How you been, man? Terrorizing the office peons?”
“They're alright. Smooth sailin’ so far.”
As Butcher catches up with MM, John turns to Annie who had apparently gotten the short straw in being sat next to him.
“Jesus, you got fat.”
Annie flips him off. “Try carrying an entire human child asshole.”
He'd seen the TikToks of her saving people with her extremely round belly. She didn't even wear a modified suit or anything. She showed up with no makeup, sweatpants, and crocs. Fucking crocs. It was an utter disgrace to the profession. The last video looked like she hadn't washed her hair in days. He'd literally rather die than let someone like her save him. Ugh.
“How's the leg?” Hughie interjects, trying to mediate like the sniveling suck up he was.
“It's fucking broken,” John sneers. “Thanks for not even visiting me in the hospital.”
Hughie shrinks a little, but John actually means that. He's grateful no one in Butcher's little friend group came to see him. It would have been unbearable. He doesn't want any of these people seeing him weaker than he already was. Plus he knows any niceties they would have given him would have been false. He appreciates the honesty in not showing up more than anything else.
“How did that happen again?” Kimiko asks, genuinely curious. “Butcher's text said ‘cunt in the hospital, leg broken’ and nothing else.”
John gives Butcher a withering look. Butcher looks back. “What?”
“You seriously didn't tell them?”
“What's to tell? You were in and out in like two days.”
John turns back to the group. Everyone was watching them now. He puffs up his chest and juts his chin out. “He almost got run over by a car. I pushed him out of the way.”
The words sink in before chaos erupts.
“Wait, you saved Butcher’s life?” Hughie spurts.
“Butcher what the fuck?” Annie asks.
“Wow, okay, now I feel bad for not sending a card,” Kimiko says.
MM starts laughing, choking out words. “You…you were saved…by the fucking Homelander?”
“Quite romantic, no?” Frenchie smiles.
“Shut the fuck up!” Butcher snarls. “This is why I didn't tell you lot! You're making it into a big fuckin deal!”
“Clearly it was since Home–since John got hurt!’ Hughie points out.
It'd been a year and they were all still getting used to calling him John. It was fine. John himself was getting used to responding to the name.
MM turns to him. “Be honest, did he panic? Was he freaking out?”
“I don't remember much as I was in a lot of pain. But William was screaming at the driver. Pretty sure he threatened to break every bone in his body.”
Annie smirks at Butcher. “How sweet. We all know violence is your love language!”
“It really is,” Frenchie nods.
Butcher slams his hands down on the table. “Alright that's enough you wankers! Are we gonna fuckin’ order food or what?”
They open the menus on their phones (one of those QR code things) and look through the selection. John hums and haws, wondering if he should get nachos or fries. It doesn't take long for everyone else to figure out what they want but John lingers for some time.
“Oh my god just fucking order something! I'm starving!” Annie snaps after several minutes.
“I'm not the one that chose to be a whale,” John snorts. “You're probably on, what, your fifth meal of the day? You can wait.”
Annie looks five seconds away from throwing herself out of her chair. Hughie tries to calm her, telling her stress wasn't good for the baby.
Butcher lays a warning hand over John’s neck. The hairs on the back of his head leap up at the touch.
“How bout some chili fries, love? We'll share.”
Acceptable. John nods.
Butcher then leans in to whisper softly. “Play nice with Annie or she'll ban you from boys night. You don't wanna stay at home all by yourself do you?”
“First of all Annie is a girl. She shouldn't be allowed to come to boy's night at all! And also, if I get banned you're not going to go to these things either!”
Butcher lifts a brow. “And why's that?”
“You're not leaving me home alone while you go gallivanting off!”
“I'm not gallivanting! And I've hung out with me friends before without you making a big deal out of it!”
“Not with all of them together! And that was because it was my choice to stay home! Not because I had to!”
Butcher rubs his forehead, a telltale sign of a headache coming on. “Then play nice,” he replies, wisely choosing not to comment on anything else.
John huffs, folding his arms angrily across his chest. Butcher's hand is still on his neck rubbing little circles. The old alpha acts like it's such a chore keeping John in line, but John knows for a fact the man liked it when he was an asshole to everyone. Made him feel special or whatever the fuck.
Homelander spent his entire life making other people happy. Following orders, smiling for the camera, pretending he was harmless. But there are no cameras anymore, he doesn't have to pretend. He can finally be himself. And who he is, is what Butcher has dubbed a “prissy little princess.”
John went on a very long journey of self discovery, trying to find the personality buried under the one Vought created for him. And what he found, after peeling back all the layers of patriotism and plastic people pleasing, was that he genuinely just hated people.
Whenever they went out, he stayed close to Butcher, unwilling to mingle with common riffraff. He refused to talk to the waiter if he thought they looked weird. He didn't say excuse me when he bumped into someone else on the street. He never held the door open for anyone even if they were literally right behind him. And he never said thank you. Ever.
Once, he'd dropped his phone and someone picked it up to hand it back to him. Butcher watched in amusement as John leveled them with a scathing look of disgust. “Don't touch my things!” he snapped. The person had sputtered idiotically as John wiped his phone off on his shirt like they'd infected it with their disgusting fingers.
Homelander had never liked it when his lessers touched him casually. And he definitely didn't like mudpeople brushing up against him. Maybe that's why Butcher was so dirty all the time. He liked knowing that no matter how covered he was in sweat or blood or cigarette smoke, John would still allow him close. Allow him to defile him. He used to be a god. But he belonged to Butcher now. And Butcher could touch him whenever he wanted.
They all place their orders with the waitress and she goes back into the kitchen to put them in.
“Remember, we can't stay out too late,” John warns Butcher. “Horror will need to be let out to go to the bathroom.”
The dog also tended to get separation anxiety. Poor little thing couldn't stand to be away from his daddy.
“Still can't believe you have responsibility over an animal,” Annie comments.
“I still have not seen this dog in person,” Frenchie says. “Only the photos Butcher has shared in the group chat.”
“He posted photos in the chat?” John asks.
“Like two,” Kimiko answers. “And they were terrible. You could barely see anything. He's the worst at that kind of stuff.”
“Would you like to see him in his little Halloween outfit?” John already has his phone in his hand. Kimiko grins back at him.
“Aww! You dress him up?”
“Of course! He loves it!”
John proudly shows her and the rest of the group several pictures of Horror dressed up as Homelander for Halloween. Butcher scoffs beside him.
John then scrolls through pictures of Horror around the house and playing with his various toys.
“And here he is with his little pupcake for his birthday!”
MM leans over looking at the phone in disbelief. “Wait, you celebrated his birthday?”
“Yes?”
Horror was in a bib with the words ‘Happy Birthday!’ printed over it. He even had a cute little hat on his head. Butcher was in the background looking grumpy for whatever reason. Probably because John hadn't shown half as much enthusiasm for the alpha's own birthday. But in his defense Butcher said he didn't want to celebrate. He just gave him a blow job and called it a day.
“What? Don't tell me you don't think dogs deserve to have birthday parties!” John says, getting defensive.
“No, it's just hard to imagine is all. Didn't think you were the type.”
To be fair John didn't think he was the type either. It seemed so mundane. Just another thing mudpeople did to forget how miserable their lives were. But now he understands it was because people loved their pets and wanted to do something special for them.
“It's almost harder to believe than finding out you and Butcher were fucking.”
Butcher snorts, leaning an arm across the back of John's chair. “Made perfect sense to me when I found out John was a poofter! Ain't no way anyone fusses over their hair that much without thirsting after a fat cock–”
“That's not what I was getting after!” MM says loudly, quickly stopping Butcher's tirade to the relief of the rest of the table. “John being a closeted gay man wasn't surprising! I mean the fact that he found you attractive!”
John snickers in laughter, a smile crossing his face.
Butcher tilts his head. “The fuck does that mean? You sayin’ I don't got a pretty face?”
“You’re a lot to look at even on a good day.”
“I don't disagree,” John says, still chuckling.
“Oh you don't do ya? That's not what you said last night riding my supposed ugly mug!”
“Can you please stop referring to your sex lives?” Hughie asks with a note of desperation.
“Seriously, you're gonna ruin my appetite,” Annie says.
“Oh no, we can't have that!” John says, giving a pointed look at her swollen belly.
Several emotions cross over Annie's face. For a second John thinks she's about to deck him. She exhales a long a winding breath.
“I am eating for two,” she says in a calm, deadpan voice. “And if you make one more comment about my weight, I am going to rip your balls off and shove them down your goddamn throat.”
John shifts uncomfortably. She seems deadly serious. “You–”
“One. More. Comment.” Annie holds up a finger.
John closes his mouth. Annie lowers her hand. Then she tilts her head thoughtfully.
“Actually I've changed my mind. I won't shove them down your throat. Sick fuck like you would probably like that.”
Butcher starts to chuckle beside him. John elbows him hard.
“You are supposed to be on my side!” he hisses.
“I am! I told you to play nice! Not my fault you won't shut up!”
John crosses his arms angrily and sinks in his seat muttering to himself.
It's not long before the food rolls out. John is mostly silent as they all talk. When its time for karaoke, Hughie goes up to put in his selection first. The boys all cheer him on. Annie wolf whistles, making Hughie blush. John will never understand what she sees in the beta.
One by one, the group rotates as they each take a turn. At one point Frenchie and Annie make a bet to see which of them could sing the better couples song with their respective partners. Neither of them win because the judges, Butcher and MM, are both split. It's declared a tie.
John has no idea how any of these people aren't embarrassed. Their singing wasn't even particularly good. Yet somehow the atmosphere was relaxed, inviting even. Karaoke always seemed to be this humiliation ritual for degrading drunk people at a bar. At least that's what movies taught him.
But ten songs in, John starts to feel just a little bit jealous. He wanted that. The camaraderie. The easy way they interacted with each other. Homelander wouldn't have allowed his own team to speak so freely to him. He'd have kicked them off The Seven or worse.
He'd tried so hard so bond with his teammates over the years. But it always felt off. They were too annoying. Too stupid. Too stiff. He knew deep down it was because they were all too scared of him to truly relax and let loose. But still he tried. The Seven was supposed to be his family. They were supposed to love him. They were supposed to be his reward for enduring the lab.
They never played any games or talked to each other after a long day. They never had lunch or dinner together. They never hung out and they certainly didn't sing any karaoke. Any and all singing was done professionally in front of the camera for an event.
This is what he'd wanted all along. Not fame or money or power. Connection. Friends. Family. And he just had to be dragged back down to earth to get it.
Eventually, all of the boys, plus the girls, get up on stage to sing What's Up by 4 non blondes. John adamantly refused, though they tried their best to persuade him. He may be jealous, but he's not about to humiliate himself for their amusement.
He stuffs his face with fries as he watches Annie grip the microphone. She yells into it with Hughie pressed by her side. Frienchie and Kimiko dance around the stage, swinging each other around as the chorus hits.
“Heeeeeey heeey heeey hey ya!
Heeeeeey heeey heeey!”
MM pushes his way in to sing loudly, “I said hey!”
He turns to Butcher as they grin widely at each other.
“What's going on?!” They all sing together in unison.
They laugh and dance and sing loudly off-key. John can't look away.
After the song comes to an end, they stay on stage, choosing another one they could all sing together. Which was harder than it looked as not everyone had the same taste. Butcher and Hughie argue for a Billy Joel song while Annie and MM claim they want to do something by Britney Spears. Kimiko was good with whatever.
As they debate, Frenchie wanders over to refuel on nachos. “Are you going to join the festivities at all?” He asks, crunching on a chip.
“I don't really do karaoke.”
Frenchie snorts. “It's not just about singing, mon ami! It's about making a fool of yourself! Embracing the parts that you're embarrassed by and empowering them! It's about telling society to fuck itself and that you don't give a shit what others think!”
John doesn't move. “I'll pass.”
Frenchie clicks his tongue. “I'll bet you've never danced a day in your life.”
John bristles. He opens his mouth to respond but MM has arrived back at the table.
“Better get back up there. They're about to start.”
Frenchie eats one last chip and hops back up on stage. MM surprises him by taking a seat.
“You’re not singing this round?”
“Nah. Need to give my vocal cords a rest for a second.”
The man leans back and takes a sip of his drink. Neither speak. The silence isn't exactly comfortable, but it's not awkward either.
“How's Ryan?"
It'd only been a week since he saw him in the hospital, but John doesn't really want to ask after MM’s family. He doesn't particularly care and he knows MM doesn't want to talk about them with him either.
“Good. He's excited for Saturday.”
Good. That was good.
Ryan would come over sometimes on the weekends if he was caught up on homework. He and Butcher were always happy to have him. John tried to make the apartment as appealing as possible to a teenager. Every time he visited, he would not so subtly try to convince him to move in. But every time Ryan would smile and shake his head.
At first, when he had learned Ryan would be living with MM, John was furious. MM had gone had stolen his son from him. Not only that, but Butcher was just letting him go without a fight.
He'd raged at the man, calling him a spineless coward. “Isn't that what your precious fucking Becca asked you to do?! Protect him??”
Butcher had swallowed hard, hands clenching by his sides. For a moment, he thought the man would deck him. He didn't. But John wished he had. “It's the lad's choice. We're not good for him, John. And he knows it.”
It'd fucking hurt. God it hurt when Ryan rejected their offer. But neither Butcher nor John were anywhere near ready to raise a growing boy. He needed stability. A good home. MM, despite everything, was the best possible choice.
And it's not like he couldn't visit the kid whenever he wanted. Well, Butcher could visit at least. John was not allowed in the Milk household. Hence the reason Ryan would come to them on the weekends.
If nothing else, John was happy that Ryan had found someone his own age to hang out with. Janine Milk got along with Ryan well. John had always wanted siblings when he was younger. He's glad Ryan has what he never got.
Both of them watch everyone on stage sing enthusiastically to I Want It That Way by the Backstreet Boys. Kimiko mimes out a whole play with Frenchie. Hughie and Annie move in sync like they actually remembered the dance moves from the music video. Butcher holds a hand over his heart like it's breaking in two.
John's mouth starts to lift up into an involuntary smile. All his facial expressions were softer these days. They hurt less. They didn't feel forced. He wasn't putting on airs or acting. They weren't for anyone but himself.
“Never thought I'd see the day,” MM muses.
John looks over at him. “What?”
MM gestures to the stage. “He’s been a miserable son of a bitch since the moment Becca disappeared. It's weird seeing him so open again. I gotta say, it's kinda nice.” MM gives a glance over at John. “Don't fuck this up now.”
He won't.
“I won't," he promises.
For once in his life he's happy. Deliriously happy. It felt surreal at times. But he was going to hold onto this for as long as possible.
He picks up his fork to eat some more chili fries. They were a bit cold now but it was still good. He swallows a bite before hearing shoes click clack across the floor. He looks up to see a woman sauntering towards them. The busty blond leans over the table smiling down at him. Her red lipstick promises a good time.
“Hey,” she bats her eyelashes at him. “Noticed you were all by your lonesome, handsome. Looking for some company?"
Even though he was human now, he still had a face carved from marble. It was inevitable people noticed. Normally John would preen from the attention. But tonight he did not want to be disturbed. His grip on the fork changes, ready to stab someone if need be.
“Oi! Fuck off cunt!”
Butcher slaps a hand down on the table between John and the woman. She sneers, her face instantly changing from inviting to ugly.
“Fuck you, asshole! I don't see your goddamn mark on him!”
Butcher grins with all his teeth, rage building up at the thought of someone taking John away.
“Sorry, I'm taken,” John says. John's not sorry at all actually.
The woman flicks her hair over her shoulder. “Your loss.” She walks away, making sure to jut her ass out.
Butcher mutters under his breath about dumb bitches trying to steal what isn't theirs. “Goddamn cunt’s been eyeing you all night!”
Really? He hadn't noticed. John smiles teasingly up at Butcher. “Easy there, tiger. I thought we were here to ‘have fun.’”
“I'll have more fun once she stops prowling like a bitch in heat! Fuckin’ omegas! Tear her goddamn eyes out if she looks over here one more time!"
“Both of them or just the one?” John purrs.
Butcher stops, looking back at him. His growl shifts into something guttural, noting the heat in John's voice. He leans over him, hand tangling in his hair. “Just the one as a warning. I'd do it quick, no time to even scream.”
John shivers.
“Christ.” MM rubs at his forehead. “You do realize this is why Ryan didn't want to live with either of you? Fucking psychopaths.”
Butcher flips him off. He grabs the front of John's shirt and drags him up.
“Outside,” he murmurs.
“Wait! Lemme grab my–”
There's no time to get his crutches. Butcher holds most of his weight up as he drags the other man towards the side door. The second they're in the alley John's back slams against the wall, Butcher's mouth claims his. John instantly melts. The smell of garbage and piss don't really do it for him, but Butcher fucking loved bringing him down a peg. And John loved it too if he was honest with himself. And he's really been trying to be more honest with himself these days.
Butcher slides his tongue against the other man, kissing him so hard it feels as if he's trying to suffocate him. It certainly wouldn't be the least interesting way Butcher has tried to kill him.
They rut together, cocks straining in their pants. Butcher's mind rages in leftover anger and building desire. He will never get enough of it. The fact that he took this pristine thing and dragged him into the mud. That this former god loved it when he put his filthy hands on him.
“Fuckin mark you up if I could,” Butcher growls. “Send a warning to any twat dumb enough to encroach on my territory.”
“William…” John moans into his ear.
Butcher bites down on his neck, trying to get at scent glands that aren't there. John was never good at holding back. He comes quickly, Butcher helping him over the edge. The former supe was going to be mad at him later for ruining his pants, but for now John was pliant in his hands.
They kiss again, less urgent now but no less passionate. It's John who breaks away first. “William?”
“Yeah?”
John swallows the sudden lump in his throat. “Would you…” he stops. Fear grips him, stealing his breath. He doesn't know what he'll do if Butcher rejects him again. He doesn't know if he can handle it.
“If I got the surgery for a secondary gender, would you want to…would you…?”
Fuck he can't say it.
Butcher stills. Brown eyes look back at him.
There was no guarantee it would work. It was a fifty fifty chance it would even take. Deltas were built differently from everyone else. Even the ones that chose to undergo the surgery would never fully be an omega or alpha or beta. The surgery could not enhance their vision or sense of smell. They would never experience a rut or a heat. But what it could do, was give them a mating gland. As long as their body didn't reject it, they would be able to mark and mate with their partner.
Butcher strokes his fingers over his neck, thumb pressing in. John shivers at the fingernail trailing so delicately. He bruises so easily now. He might not have a mating bite, but he carried Butcher’s teeth marks all over his skin.
They stand there in silence as Butcher continues not to answer. It presses in from all sides, smashing John back down into nothing. He knew it. Butcher was just talking out of his ass. Just sweet nothings that ultimately held no merit. He really should have known. Of course Butcher wouldn't want that. For fuck’s sake, John should just be happy with what he has. He shouldn't ask for more.
“Yeah.” It comes out gruff on Butcher’s tongue. “I would.”
John's heart leaps out of his chest, scrambling for Butcher's. He exhales shakily. “Yeah?”
Butcher cups his face, brushing their noses. “Gotta make you remember who you belong to somehow, right?”
John's face splits into a grin. He laughs. Butcher swallows the rest of it down, kissing fire over his cheeks.
It was this man, John thinks, this man who plucked him from the sky and brought him back down to earth. This man who taught him what it was like to have a family. This man, so unafraid and fearless.
“I love you,” he says when Butcher pulls back long enough to let him speak.
“Fuckin’ right you do, love.” Butcher kisses him again.
The side door swings open.
“Butcher? MM said you were–”
Hughie yelps. His face goes completely red. He turns away, avoiding their gaze.
“What?” Butcher asks, entirely unfazed.
“I, uh, just wanted to let you know you're up next!”
The sounds of Spice Girls waft out from inside. Butcher grins. “Fuck yeah!”
They head back inside, Butcher’s fingers tangle with John's as he half carries him, supporting his weight. Maybe John can make an exception to singing. But only just this once.