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He was blindfolded. His powers were gone—for the moment. Wrists tied behind his back.
Blind. In more ways than one.
He heard Billy sit on the floor across from him. The creasing of his clothes, the small sigh of tired air. Even the dusting of his fingertips across the filthy basement tiles. Homelander didn't have his superhearing at the moment. But he could still hear all of Billy's little noises. There had always been something about him.
"Feel any different, cunt?"
Homelander hummed. He was glad Billy couldn't see his eyes.
"Feel mortal?"
He still didn't answer. He'd never felt so powerless. Gutted.
It was a weakness, sure.
But with it, or perhaps hidden behind it, was a single stroke of freedom.
"It ain't permanent," Billy continued. "But. We're going to see if you can die when you're all screwed up like this."
Of course.
"You sound sad," Homelander said, not trying to tease, but not upset if it came across like that either.
He could feel Billy's gaze on him. He tilted his head a little lower, not quite liking the feeling of being seen without being able to return it. Without knowing what to do with it.
"I've wanted to kill you since the moment I met you."
"How romantic." His tongue felt dry. "You could've. With Soldier Boy."
"Yeah. I could've."
They sat there for a few more moments. Homelander, with his head lowered, feeling strange and powerless and free all at the same time.
And Billy, watching him, for the first time, with unguarded eyes. Studying the beast up close. The barely visible lines on his face—subtle indications of age that made Billy feel sick, knowing Homelander did age and that under it all, despite it all, he was just another human getting old. The blonde hair, some falling in front of his face, all with hints of brown at the roots. He never thought about it, how Vought may have dyed Homelander's hair to create the perfect American symbol, even years after his hair changed from its original blonde to brown. How Homelander was a brunette and no one, not even the man himself, would ever be able to see it. Maybe he never even wanted to. And the blue uniform, fancily decorated with red and gold detailing, but up close, it all just looking like a plastic getup he could find at a Halloween store.
And Homelander was right, he did sound sad because he was sad. He was sad and miserable and even more sad and miserable about being sad and miserable about the utter asshole's impending death, the utter asshole that ruined his life, ruined his Becca's life, ruined everything and anything he could get his bloody hands on. But before all that hate and doom and gloom, Billy was sad looking at the plastic-y uniform and dyed blonde hair and lines on Homelander's face.
His fate had been set before he'd even been created. All he was, all he'd ever be, was a child in a plastic uniform trying to grow up and find love in no one who would ever give it to him. And over the years and months, Billy had seen the reconstruction of Homelander's birth, rise, and finally, his fall.
Perhaps even if Homelander tried to escape the fate given to him, the life pre-destined, he wouldn't have been able to.
Traps weren't just external.
"What is it?" Homelander asked. The voice was void of bravado. He sounded tired. Maybe, for the first time in his entire life, he was.
"I pity you."
"I don't want your pity. You're a fucking nobody."
"I am. You never were."
The man stilled. His arms tugged at the binds, then stopped.
"I don't need your lecture, William. I've heard it all, many times, from many people."
"And I'm sure you've killed them all soon after."
"As soon as they said it."
Billy heard a door slamming from upstairs—Hughie and Starlight were back. It was time.
"You know, mate," Billy started. "You're just a boy. You never grew up. You never got to. So, yeah. I am sad."
"Shut up." But Billy looked at Homelander again and saw him crying.
He stood, watching Homelander try to pull at the binds around his wrists and involuntarily contract his body closer. He looked small. Maybe it was just up close.
"Goodbye. I'll keep Ryan safe."
"William—just, just know..."
"What?"
Homelander's mouth twitched.
"You didn't beat me."
Billy laughed. The cunt always had to have the last word. But as he heard the others shuffling around upstairs, probably only seconds from coming down, he was just thankful this is how it ended. Not in a blaze of glory, not in a bloodbath. A calm. A quiet calm.
"I know."
He turned away.
"Scorched earth," Homelander called out once more. It was desperate. "Remember?"
The door to the basement opened. Homelander tensed, his face and body tightening in what looked like fear and anticipation of what they both knew was to finally come. As Billy stared, he saw the echoes of a child who was about to die again.
"Scorched earth." Billy let his typical self-righteous confidence leak into his voice. "I'll be waiting for you."
Homelander smiled.
And Billy didn't watch them kill him.