Chapter Text
Where the fuck are you?
Homelander isn’t panicking – he’s not become so reliant on your presence that he can’t handle coming back to an empty penthouse – but this is wrong. The air is too still, the open plan space too dark and cavernous in the evening gloom without you. He’s checked and your things are here: your clothes, possessions, the lingering whisper of your scent he’s grown to hold so dear. But you’ve just… left.
He’s been hovering by the window for the past quarter of an hour, one hand on his hip while the other holds his phone to his ear, mouth a thin line. He must look like some pathetic wife of old waiting for her husband to return from a war that had probably already killed him.
Why aren’t you picking up?
It’s his birthday– His official birthday– The only goddamn birthday he has, and you’re supposed to be here for it. Who else is going to welcome him home with open arms and understanding sentiments about the fucking media circus he’s had to endure, just so Vought can decide he’s earnt the right to have the same thing happen all over again in a year’s time? Who else is going to say it and mean it when they tell him he deserves to be celebrated?
Maybe you’ve never meant it.
Homelander’s left cheek twitches when your phone goes to voicemail for the twelfth time in as many minutes. He scoffs. The sound slices the silence of the penthouse while his eyes dart restlessly over the twinkling expanse of urban life below. It seems to echo in all the space you’re no longer occupying. He’s already sent you several increasingly agitated texts, each one ignored.
You really have left him.
Stuffing his phone away, he retreats from the glare of the world to advance into the kitchen, his cape swooshing behind him and boots squeaking against the polished floor. A pointlessly polished floor, it occurs to him bitterly. Polished for who to see, now that he’s alone? For once, he resents the suit for making him look proud when he feels so wretched underneath it. He resents being compressed into this human-like form period, and all the stupid distractions that come with it.
Happy fucking birthday to him.
None of this makes sense. It’s just gone eight-thirty in the evening, and Homelander hasn’t seen you since seven o’clock this morning. You interrupted his shower deliberately just to wish him a happy birthday. You were happy, doting. The softness of your arms slinking around his middle, the press of your bodies together under the warm spray from the showerhead – these things have been helping him get through the tedious chunk of the day without you. Suddenly the kisses you scattered across his bare skin feel more like scornful brands than gentle affection.
He’s let you see him again, and again, and again. Why have you run away? Why now?
“Oof. Ouch, buddy.” The familiar voice beckons, as ever, from the mirror in the bedroom. Homelander pauses by the kitchen island. The other has never entirely trusted you. “Hey, it’s alright. Better to learn the truth today than–”
“Shut up,” Homelander hisses, screwing his eyes shut. He expects he’ll pay for this later, but the other falls silent at his request.
After all, everyone’s got to do what the birthday boy wants on his birthday, right? Everyone except you, apparently.
He could tear New York apart looking for you. How far could you have gotten? He sighs, gripping the kitchen island with a little too much force. The granite creaks uncertainly between his gloved fingers. Why are you doing this to him? What do you think he’s done wrong? He doesn’t deserve this.
He needs a drink.
Homelander opens his eyes again and turns towards the refrigerator. All the lights in the penthouse are off – this was one of the first signs that something was wrong, right after the lack of your heartbeat coming into focus as he ascended in the elevator – but the darkness doesn’t matter. His eyes are sharper than any bird of prey’s, which is why he’s slightly disgruntled to realise there’s a note taped to the refrigerator door that he missed on his first sweep through the penthouse. Certainly, it’s innocuous enough, but it’s still out of place here. He can’t think how he didn’t spot it.
Because he wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t.
Really, he supposes the kitchen isn’t exactly an over-used area of the penthouse. That’ll be why. He tears the paper off the door, leaving a corner of it stuck beneath the tape.
OPEN ME
Homelander knows that’s your handwriting. You’ve even drawn a smiley face after the words, and it’s the suggested innocence of a doodle like that that confuses him the most. Something in his stomach flips violently, an abundance of contradictory explanations for your cheekiness when you’ve left him on his birthday presenting themselves to his mind, and he feels himself frowning against his will.
You’re not a sadistic person, and it would be unwise of you to torment him after pulling the wool over his eyes. He will find you eventually. Why antagonise him further? Perhaps you do have an explanation for leaving that isn’t some irrational, newfound hatred of him. Perhaps you’ve made and left him dinner tonight to apologise for your absence – a lousy apology, sure, especially considering the lack of any other explanation, but maybe there will be other things you’ll do to make it up to him once you’re back.
Maybe this is actually… normal.
Homelander hates the hopeful feeling that starts clawing its way through his chest the longer he considers that this is, in fact, the answer. You haven’t run out on him; something’s just come up. Something more important than him, on his birthday. Something oh so important, you can’t even check your phone. Great. That’s fine. He wishes it didn’t sting.
Still distrustful, he channels his x-ray vision to peek through the refrigerator door. Within, he finds the sparse collection of expected food items have been shunted to either side, leaving a pointed space on the middle row where an drink in a tall glass sits, waiting. Beside it is another note, this one larger and folded in half.
Not dinner then.
Heartrate well and truly increasing now, Homelander yanks open the door to grab the second note. The blast of light from the refrigerator bulb reveals the tall glass contains an off-white, creamy liquid. Its sweetness hits the back of his nose almost instantly, causing his mouth to salivate unwillingly: a milkshake.
“What in the…” His voice trails off as his eyes scan the note.
Hello handsome. Sorry if I’ve upset you this evening. I know you’re going to try and ring me before you find this and when I don’t answer I figure you’ll want something to drink. Was I right? Please be assured I’ve felt very VERY guilty each time I saw your name and didn’t pick up.
Your tone is reassuring, at least, though Homelander isn’t sure whether to be flattered or unnerved at your level of insight into his behaviours.
I’m sure you’re tired after your busy day. I will have watched as much of it as I could, although I’ve been busy too – as you’ll soon find out. I hope I’ve not totally misjudged all of this. You’re a very hard man to buy for, you know. I may have actually gone completely over the top. But you deserve that. You’re always doing the same for me.
It’s now that Homelander remembers, as if you’ve somehow pre-programmed them to emit a fresh wave of perfume in time with his reading, the red roses he bought you as part of your Valentine’s gift last week. They’re still sat slowly wilting in a vase on the coffee table. His mouth almost twitches into a smile.
I know it’ll be getting late by the time you see this, but if you check your calendar for tomorrow I think you’ll find it suspiciously empty as of 8pm this evening (dating Homelander gives a woman some influence, who knew?) so you really have no excuse not to try and find me tonight. I’ve left some clues for you and we both know you’re a smartass. I’m waiting for you.
Enjoy your milkshake first! There’s a piece of myself in there to tide you over until you find me. Happy birthday, my love.
Well, well, well.
For a moment, Homelander doesn’t react. This is not how he saw the night of his birthday going, not in any number of scenarios. You’ve surprised him; that’s for sure.
And you haven’t left him.
Instead, this is you plan? You want him to hunt you down? A smirk unfurls across Homelander’s lips as he finally reaches for the milkshake, turning over your note to find a final sentence written on the back:
NYC isn’t quite as cozy as the woods, is it?
Before he can properly take the meaning of that in, the scent and taste of the drink hit his system in tandem: a subtle vanilla, plain enough not to assault his senses, and refreshingly cool as all good dairy products should be. But beneath that – laced through it, impregnated into the flavour seeping into his tastebuds, soothing his oesophagus and short-circuiting his brain as it becomes one with him – is you. He’s sure of it.
You…
Homelander holds the milkshake up to examine it intently, as though this piece of yourself will do something to confirm he isn’t imagining its existence if he stares hard enough. He licks his lips. He’s still sure of it.
This is your milk you’ve gifted him.
“Fuck.”
Homelander’s voice comes out choked. How did you do this? How did you know?
He stumbles back from the refrigerator, only vaguely aware of the shapes of his surroundings, most of them a benign blur. The milkshake appears to be his one point of clarity, so he closes his damp eyes to take another sip.
His moans pierce the silence of the penthouse now. You fucking tease. Even the act of using your milk as an ingredient rather than giving him the product raw seems designed to egg him on to hurry after you. You can bet your ass he’s going to find you tonight, and fast.
He whispers your name into the glass like you might somehow be listening.
Once the hallowed drink is gone – much too quickly – Homelander wipes his eyes and fishes his phone from his pocket. With a soft smile, he fires off another text to you:
Found your note, missy
He watches, features sharpening with glee as the banner under the previously ignored messages changes to ‘read’ and a heart emoji appears alongside his most recent one. You’ve been waiting for him to figure this out. You’ve only run away so he can chase.
With a chuckle, Homelander trails a finger idly over the lit screen, sending just one more message before he’ll set out on his last-minute scheduled birthday hunt:
I’m coming for you
The journey from Vought Tower to his cabin in Rochester doesn’t take Homelander long by flight. The rural hideaway he first shared with you to celebrate one of your birthdays is obviously the place your note was hinting at him to go, and it makes sense as a first stop. He guesses, based on your reference to clues plural, he won’t find you waiting there.
But what will he find in your place? That’s the intriguing part. How exactly have you set all of this up?
The barren winter earth shudders beneath his boots when he lands by the cabin, claiming his surroundings with a purposeful thud. A few listless, dead leaves circle away from him in a flurry of brown movement, but all else is still. There aren’t many creatures around at this time of year: the trees and nearby clearing are quieter than they are during the warmer months, but it’s a more welcome quiet than back at the penthouse.
Just because he can, Homelander takes a deep, wholly unnecessary, breath of the cleaner air and feels the last of his earlier tension trickling out of his body. Of course you’d never really run away from him. What kind of lover would choose someone’s birthday, fake or otherwise, to leave them?
He approaches the cabin door, curiosity mounting by the second. What kind of game is this hunt really? What did you mean by admitting you might have gone over the top?
The answers to those questions come when the door opens and a waft of something fresh, almost lemony, greets his nose. Roses – but not red ones like he bought you. These smell like white ones, and plenty of them, he assumes, until he flicks on the low lights and discovers the sizable display resting at the centrepiece of the dining table are blue.
First a milkshake laced with your breast milk and now blue roses.
Homelander squints for a moment, tilting his head as he shuts the door and pads over. The rest of the cabin looks the same as usual: cozy, intimate, more like glamping with all the latest tech installed for his convenience than salt of the earth realism, but why shouldn’t he have the best of both worlds? The bouquet on the table is huge, spilling artfully out from the centre to cover the whole lacquered surface with flowers and handfuls of loose petals. Homelander slides his right glove off to rub one of the closest ones between his thumb and forefinger.
It’s a shame, an unwanted thought perks up, that this is probably the most use the table has ever gotten. There was a reason he requested one with so much room when he was kitting this place out.
He slips the petal beneath the flap on his chest for safe keeping with your note from the refrigerator. You bought him roses. He isn’t entirely sure what to make of that, so instead he just continues to stare, arms folding behind his back in that manner he knows is habitual.
The roses are blue-blue. Not as dark as his suit’s colouring, but far a richer hue than the sky usually manages. It’s striking, actually, how vivid they are; there’s something about them he can’t quite put his finger on…
They’re also freshly cut, which means you must’ve snuck off here earlier today to lay them out – he inhales deeply to check and, yes, there you are again, lurking underneath the citrus. He wonders if blue roses are meant to tell him something he’s not getting because he’s not a woman, when his eyes catch on a smaller flower you’ve tried to cover with two more attention-seeking ones.
He plucks it out to examine. This rose isn’t as vivid as the rest. Its petals are tipped in blue, the effect like ink spilt on paper, while their remainder are a cream shade.
He was right. These are white roses. Now he’s even more puzzled by your gesture.
His eyes snag a second time on the space between the larger flowers, where another folded note is just about visible, more white amidst the blue. Oh. He feels a smile blooming on his lips. You meant for him to notice that flower. Confident of you to assume – albeit correctly – that he wouldn’t scan right through them all on walking in. He lifts out the new note.
See? Told you you’re a smartass, the first line reads, and Homelander chuckles despite himself.
I hope you like the roses. You should get flowers too, you know. We are still in the month of lovers. You might be questioning why on earth I’ve had a load of white roses dyed blue. Welllllll I suppose I was thinking about those lovely eyes of yours. I’m probably thinking about them right now, wherever I am. Did you know some cultures believe the owner of a blue rose will have all their wishes granted? And you’ve got 100. Better get wishing.
Seriously though, blue roses don’t occur in nature. Their colour is added synthetically, and this makes them special. They’re supposed to symbolise uniqueness, so tell me who ELSE am I meant to associate them with? Remind me to pester you about going up to the cabin more regularly when you find me.
Where oh where could I be? It’s a good thing a man as unique as you can fly…
As with the first note, your next clue appears to be on the back:
I know you like history, so don’t you think you ought to pay a visit to the empire that fell so ours could rise? You’d be surprised what the tea addicts are still clinging on to that museum of theirs.
Sending him to the cabin really was only a warm-up. It’s nine-thirty now, and you want him to fly across the Atlantic for a museum stop? It’s the middle of the night in Europe.
Wait. This means you’re waiting for him on another continent? Homelander nearly laughs out loud. You weren’t kidding when you said you’d gone over the top! He’ll have to go and get you then. There’s no two ways about it.
On impulse, he bends over to take another deep huff of the roses – his roses – before straightening up and eyeing the skyline. When he’s travelling alone, Homelander can easily fly at speeds that would tear the meat from any other supe’s bones in seconds, let alone a mere human’s. He likes that you seem to have factored this into your plans for the evening. He likes that there isn’t a single other being on the planet who could pursue you the way he can.
He tucks your second note in beside the first and the blue petal and exits the cabin with determination on his mind. He considers texting you again, telling you how insane you are for this, and all the things he’s going to do to you when he finds you, but he’d rather just cut the distance now.
So, apparently, he’s headed to London. What the fuck is his life?