[There's something affirming about the acknowledgment Billy gives him, lending him a bit of strength to endure the strikes of the whip, even as it bloodies his skin and digs into his flesh.
It's fine. He can take it. He tries to will away the tears that threaten to leak out, as Billy's question echoes mockingly in his head.]
...No.
[He admits softly, in little more than a whisper. He'll always be too weak, too emotional. An underperforming, unreliable asset.
[He does pause once in a while to give Homelander a break -- to let the pain ebb a bit instead of just constantly building, instead of adding pain on top of more pain. He's not sure if it's more merciful that way, really.
But none of this is about mercy, is it? They want him-- shaking and crying.]
Hmm.
[He reaches up to grasp the other man's shoulder, giving it a bit of a squeeze.]
Well, then. Better question... why do you care what a bunch of cunts who tried to mold you into their perfect supe think?
[Because he needs the love, needs the approval, right? Same reason they got him to back off with the promise of leaking fucking footage showing what he really is.]
[His breathing grows ragged, tears leaking over his face; all of his focus goes to keeping him moans quietly strangled, and even then, he can only hold back so much. This shouldn't be so hard, he should be better than this.
It's the hand on his shoulder that gives him a tiny bit of room to breathe.]
It--it's the only way I can--
[The only way anyone would ever love him, hold him, tell him he's not just a genetic fucking mistake. It's as essential as oxygen -- Homelander can hold his breath, but not forever -- only it's a whole lot more shameful than that. He shoves it down, again, grasping for something more palatable to say.]
Yeah, well... you haven't even got them down here, do you?
[He circles around to face Homelander, tilting his head to the side, meeting his eyes.]
Come on, lad. You'll spend your whole bloody life chasing that wee bit of affection you weren't allowed because those cunts decided it wouldn't make you into a hard enough hero for'em?
[He sneers just slightly. It isn't better at all, in Billy's opinion.]
[Vought might not have a base of operations down here, but that doesn't mean they're not always in the back of his mind, cold judgment digging into every wound and failure.
He can't help but let his gaze slip down when Billy comes around to face him, not wanting him to see--all of this.]
I--I'm not--
[His face twists. Don't bullshit. Billy will know he's lying.
Of course he's chasing it. He was meant to earn it, but he couldn't. He shouldn't need it, but he does. And he doesn't know how to cut out that craving inside him.]
--'m sorry.
[It's a half-whispered mumble, and he wants to kick himself in the face as soon as it squeezes out of his throat. But it's instinctive, apologizing when he's so obviously failing at a task.]
[He's a bloody mess right now for the lad who was insisting that a spin on this wheel wouldn't break him. All teary eyed and shame twisted in his expression. He huffs out a sigh and reaches out under the other's chin, giving him a bit of a nudge.]
C'mon. Chin up, lad. You're here for pride, yeah? Act like you've got a bit of it then.
[He wonders if this is pathetic enough, broken enough, to let him down yet, or if he'll have to give a few more lashes yet.]
You should be fucking sorry. I'm the dumb fucking arsehole sticking with you down here and I'm not nothing.
[For better or worse, they're-- tangled up in some disgusting mess together, right? Entwined in each other's lives. Maybe one day, one will fuck the other over, but right now it's them against this piece of shite they've been dragged to.
So if Homelander wants to whine about not having anything else besides Vought's judgement living in his head to chase after, he can do it elsewhere after they're out of this latest mess.]
Any more whining and he'll drive Billy off, too. He may not be much of a hero down here, but he's still a man. This is nothing but pain. Wet, slick, red, meaningless.
There's a tinny ringing in his ears, a momentary buzz of power as his eyes glow a dim red, only for a second.]
Yes. [His voice is low, blank, determined.] Let's.
[This is nothing. They can't hurt him if he won't let them. Nothing can hurt him.]
[As many times as he's fantasized about doing absolutely dreadful things to Homelander, it's never as much fun when they're forcing his hand and he doesn't even get to pick the tools he gets to use.
This isn't his game and there are so many worse sins to punish Homelander over than pride.
But he strikes anyway, again and again. He watches blood drip and skin tear and it's all so fucking diabolical, twisted. Appropriate for one of God's punishments, right? The sadistic bastard that he is.
[None of this is new. He just needed to remind himself of that. Of what he is.
His body may jolt and shudder at the strikes, but none of it hits him, none of it is real. He's invulnerable. Made of steel. Godly. He's there but he's not. He's just being tested, and he can't. fucking. fail.
It's all just... nerve endings. Organic mechanisms. All he needs to do is sever a few threads. Transcend. Evolve. Be better.
His vision blurs and darkens, eventually, and his body goes limp. When he feels nothing at all, the restraints loosen.]
[He barks out when the restraints start to loosen, the whip dropped in favor of trying to catch the other before he collapses to the floor.
He might have managed to make himself nice and closed off to the pain, made himself accept each blow like it weren't nothing at all. Maybe Butcher understands it -- the times he's gotten punched or lashed at with a belt.
But he's not letting him fall to the bloody floor and stay there at least.]
[Something else kicks in before Billy can catch him. A shot of adrenaline that awakens a last reserve of strength, a burst of speed that puts him on the other end of the room within a split second, glaring at the source of his pain with wild, uncomprehending red.]
[Shit. He holds his hands up in a pacifying gesture when Homelander is suddenly across the room, looking at him like he has every intention of turning that laser sight on him.
He might recognize that look, enough to know he might be in trouble here in a wee bit.]
Oi, c'mon now. Deep breaths, John. You're done with your punishment... we can see ourselves back home.
Yeah? You can reach all the way to your back, can you?
[He crosses his arms over his chest, jaw tightening briefly. Half tempted to walk out and leave him and half worried if he does, the cunt will do something... rash.]
[Like he fucking asked to get locked in a room to whip Homelander out of the blue. But if Homelander wants to act like a cunt about it, he can go right ahead. What Billy wants to do is head down to the lobby and get a drink, who gives a fuck what time it is. He needs it.
He shrugs out of his coat at least, offering it over.]
Here. Just bring it back in one fucking piece when you come back.
[Getting the blood out of it's going to be a pain, but it won't be the first time.]
[He convinces himself it's Princess he needs to check up on, not Billy and his stupid coat.
He slips into their temporary suite late in the evening, when most of the hotel has quieted down. Princess is curled up on the floor by the door, snoring noisily, and she squiggles towards him without fully awakening when he crouches down to pet her.
Billy seems to have passed out already, and the bed reeks of alcohol. There's a pang of... something, in Homelander's chest.
Maybe he's overreacted, taking off like he did. But his famous pride won't let him take it back. It still stings, for some reason.
He strips off his shirt to let his bandaged back breathe, before slipping into bed next to Billy. There's enough space that they don't need to be touching, but he'd rather be close than sleep on the couch.]
[He doesn't care that Homelander left. Of course not. Why should he?
He's drinking-- for many fucking reasons. Hell is shite is top of them. To keep the nightmares at bay might be another. To improve his shite mood is another - not that whiskey ever does that, or drinking like a man who wants to die.
Or at the very least, doesn't give a fuck if he does.
But none of it is to do with Homelander. Absolutely not.
He groans quietly when the bed shifts, but it's a little delayed, and might be because he felt the bed shift or whatever phantoms in his dream are being fucking cunts. Either way, he cracks open his eyes and-- looks to the side.
There's a groggy little grunt at the sight.]
Look who got 'imself patched up.
[The words are a bit slurred together, a bit too drowsy sounding to qualify as properly awake.]
[Never mind the half-empty bottle of whiskey within easy reach. He shifts a little bit to his back and enough to kick the blankets down a little further while still maintaining-- maybe a tiny bit of modesty. His dick is still covered at least.
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It's fine. He can take it. He tries to will away the tears that threaten to leak out, as Billy's question echoes mockingly in his head.]
...No.
[He admits softly, in little more than a whisper. He'll always be too weak, too emotional. An underperforming, unreliable asset.
He'll never be good enough.]
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But none of this is about mercy, is it? They want him-- shaking and crying.]
Hmm.
[He reaches up to grasp the other man's shoulder, giving it a bit of a squeeze.]
Well, then. Better question... why do you care what a bunch of cunts who tried to mold you into their perfect supe think?
[Because he needs the love, needs the approval, right? Same reason they got him to back off with the promise of leaking fucking footage showing what he really is.]
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It's the hand on his shoulder that gives him a tiny bit of room to breathe.]
It--it's the only way I can--
[The only way anyone would ever love him, hold him, tell him he's not just a genetic fucking mistake. It's as essential as oxygen -- Homelander can hold his breath, but not forever -- only it's a whole lot more shameful than that. He shoves it down, again, grasping for something more palatable to say.]
They're--all I have.
[That's not much better, is it.]
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[He circles around to face Homelander, tilting his head to the side, meeting his eyes.]
Come on, lad. You'll spend your whole bloody life chasing that wee bit of affection you weren't allowed because those cunts decided it wouldn't make you into a hard enough hero for'em?
[He sneers just slightly. It isn't better at all, in Billy's opinion.]
They're not all you've got.
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He can't help but let his gaze slip down when Billy comes around to face him, not wanting him to see--all of this.]
I--I'm not--
[His face twists. Don't bullshit. Billy will know he's lying.
Of course he's chasing it. He was meant to earn it, but he couldn't. He shouldn't need it, but he does. And he doesn't know how to cut out that craving inside him.]
--'m sorry.
[It's a half-whispered mumble, and he wants to kick himself in the face as soon as it squeezes out of his throat. But it's instinctive, apologizing when he's so obviously failing at a task.]
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C'mon. Chin up, lad. You're here for pride, yeah? Act like you've got a bit of it then.
[He wonders if this is pathetic enough, broken enough, to let him down yet, or if he'll have to give a few more lashes yet.]
You should be fucking sorry. I'm the dumb fucking arsehole sticking with you down here and I'm not nothing.
[For better or worse, they're-- tangled up in some disgusting mess together, right? Entwined in each other's lives. Maybe one day, one will fuck the other over, but right now it's them against this piece of shite they've been dragged to.
So if Homelander wants to whine about not having anything else besides Vought's judgement living in his head to chase after, he can do it elsewhere after they're out of this latest mess.]
Now, let's finish up, shall we?
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[Stop blubbering. You're better than that.
His jaw clenches shut, chin drawing upwards.
Any more whining and he'll drive Billy off, too. He may not be much of a hero down here, but he's still a man. This is nothing but pain. Wet, slick, red, meaningless.
There's a tinny ringing in his ears, a momentary buzz of power as his eyes glow a dim red, only for a second.]
Yes. [His voice is low, blank, determined.] Let's.
[This is nothing. They can't hurt him if he won't let them. Nothing can hurt him.]
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[As many times as he's fantasized about doing absolutely dreadful things to Homelander, it's never as much fun when they're forcing his hand and he doesn't even get to pick the tools he gets to use.
This isn't his game and there are so many worse sins to punish Homelander over than pride.
But he strikes anyway, again and again. He watches blood drip and skin tear and it's all so fucking diabolical, twisted. Appropriate for one of God's punishments, right? The sadistic bastard that he is.
Loving father... what a load of shit.]
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His body may jolt and shudder at the strikes, but none of it hits him, none of it is real. He's invulnerable. Made of steel. Godly. He's there but he's not. He's just being tested, and he can't. fucking. fail.
It's all just... nerve endings. Organic mechanisms. All he needs to do is sever a few threads. Transcend. Evolve. Be better.
His vision blurs and darkens, eventually, and his body goes limp. When he feels nothing at all, the restraints loosen.]
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[He barks out when the restraints start to loosen, the whip dropped in favor of trying to catch the other before he collapses to the floor.
He might have managed to make himself nice and closed off to the pain, made himself accept each blow like it weren't nothing at all. Maybe Butcher understands it -- the times he's gotten punched or lashed at with a belt.
But he's not letting him fall to the bloody floor and stay there at least.]
C'mon...
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[Shit. He holds his hands up in a pacifying gesture when Homelander is suddenly across the room, looking at him like he has every intention of turning that laser sight on him.
He might recognize that look, enough to know he might be in trouble here in a wee bit.]
Oi, c'mon now. Deep breaths, John. You're done with your punishment... we can see ourselves back home.
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I... can't go back there.
[He's at the brink of...something. He can't be near Princess. If he even glimpses her pathetic crying face, he'll tear her fucking head off.]
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[He nods. Well-- that's usually the safest fucking place, but...]
We don't have to go back there yet. We can go wherever the fuck we want, yeah? Maybe find a room to break into, get you cleaned up a wee bit.
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You don't need to do that.
I'll take care of it.
[It'd be too fucking humiliating to have Butcher clean up after him, too.]
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[He crosses his arms over his chest, jaw tightening briefly. Half tempted to walk out and leave him and half worried if he does, the cunt will do something... rash.]
Did they even bring you any bloody clothes?
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[Never mind that whatever mangled state his back's in is unlikely to be fixed by a shower.
He's a supe. He'll heal.
As for the clothes, he'll find a pair of pants somewhere. Who gives a fuck?]
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Fine.
[Like he fucking asked to get locked in a room to whip Homelander out of the blue. But if Homelander wants to act like a cunt about it, he can go right ahead. What Billy wants to do is head down to the lobby and get a drink, who gives a fuck what time it is. He needs it.
He shrugs out of his coat at least, offering it over.]
Here. Just bring it back in one fucking piece when you come back.
[Getting the blood out of it's going to be a pain, but it won't be the first time.]
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Keep it.
[What good is a smelly coat going to do him? He'll just get an infection or whatever other pathetic thing people get.
He's out the door the next moment, leaving it slammed open with only a trail of blood behind him.]
The next night...
He slips into their temporary suite late in the evening, when most of the hotel has quieted down. Princess is curled up on the floor by the door, snoring noisily, and she squiggles towards him without fully awakening when he crouches down to pet her.
Billy seems to have passed out already, and the bed reeks of alcohol. There's a pang of... something, in Homelander's chest.
Maybe he's overreacted, taking off like he did. But his famous pride won't let him take it back. It still stings, for some reason.
He strips off his shirt to let his bandaged back breathe, before slipping into bed next to Billy. There's enough space that they don't need to be touching, but he'd rather be close than sleep on the couch.]
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He's drinking-- for many fucking reasons. Hell is shite is top of them. To keep the nightmares at bay might be another. To improve his shite mood is another - not that whiskey ever does that, or drinking like a man who wants to die.
Or at the very least, doesn't give a fuck if he does.
But none of it is to do with Homelander. Absolutely not.
He groans quietly when the bed shifts, but it's a little delayed, and might be because he felt the bed shift or whatever phantoms in his dream are being fucking cunts. Either way, he cracks open his eyes and-- looks to the side.
There's a groggy little grunt at the sight.]
Look who got 'imself patched up.
[The words are a bit slurred together, a bit too drowsy sounding to qualify as properly awake.]
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Billy's stirring and comment prompt a small, reluctant smile.]
Look who got himself wasted.
[The words are soft, hushed by the pillow. He tries to sound more teasing than concerned, keeping a bit of a guarded edge.]
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[Never mind the half-empty bottle of whiskey within easy reach. He shifts a little bit to his back and enough to kick the blankets down a little further while still maintaining-- maybe a tiny bit of modesty. His dick is still covered at least.
He lets his eyes shut for a moment.]
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You wouldn't say that if you were.
[He's not an idiot. He could give a pretty good estimate of what Billy's blood alcohol level is at the moment.]
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[And interrupting his trying to go back to sleep to top it all off.]
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