Chapter Text
You’re going to sing me Happy Birthday, he’d said, teeth bared in that sickening ventriloquist dummy grin. Fun, right?
And then when she’d tried (half-heartedly) to oblige him, he’d told her to make it sexy, and he’d brought out those dancers—all those skimpily dressed women prancing around the stage with their polished Stepford smiles. The same smiles Annie herself had worn during so many pageants.
What he was doing was so fucking obvious. It wasn’t just his pathetic need to constantly be the center of attention. This was a power move, because everything Homelander did was a power move. This was designed to humiliate her.
She could try to handle this discreetly. But she was suddenly so, so done.
She looked Homelander in the eye. “Are you kidding me?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not doing this.”
He tilted his head, an artificial, baffled expression on his face. “Why not?”
“You know why. It’s demeaning.”
“It’s demeaning to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to a friend?”
Something about the way he said that—with that faux wounded little boy tone—made her snap, “You aren’t my friend. Okay? I don’t care what the teleprompter says. We’re not friends.”
He froze. His smile vanished, as though someone had flipped a switch in his brain, and his face went frighteningly blank. “Now, Annie,” he said, his voice chillingly quiet. “That’s not a very nice thing to say to your teammate.”
“What do you want, then?” she asked, lowering her voice to a whisper, intended only for him. “You’d prefer that I pretend to like you out of fear? Like everyone else? Don’t you ever get sick of that, John?”
A muscle at the corner of his eye twitched.
From the back of the room, Edgar called, “If Starlight doesn’t want to sing, she doesn’t have to.”
“It’s my birthday special,” Homelander snapped.
“We’ve had this conversation before. You’re not the one pulling in the numbers. She is. You’re lucky we’re putting on this farce at all.”
Homelander gaze jerked toward Annie. Her pulse quickened, and she felt that primal lurch of fear, as though she were about to plummet into an empty void. But she didn’t drop her gaze. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Homelander’s gaze swung toward Edgar. “Fantastic,” he said through gritted teeth. “Why don’t you just put a fucking collar around my throat? Why don’t you just hand her the leash? Have her drag me around the stage like a good little puppy?”
“Don’t tempt me,” Edgar replied.
The muscle near Homelander’s eye twitched again. His pupils contracted to pinpoints. Slowly, he turned his face toward Annie.
He could kill you. Easily. He could reach out and snap your neck with one hand.
She felt sweat trickling down her sides, pooling in the small of her back. When she was standing in the same room with him, the awareness of her own mortality was so close to the surface, so thick that she could taste it. There was a tiger-like blankness in his eyes, something inhuman. He was missing certain parts; there were voids behind those blue eyes, empty spaces where things like remorse and doubt were supposed to be. He could snuff her out with no more guilt than she would feel for swatting a mosquito. And the only thing stopping him was his bottomless hunger for the public’s adoration and worship.
“Take it back,” he said. His voice was low, meant only for her.
She blinked. “What? Take what back?”
“What you said. Take it back.”
“What—you mean about us not being friends? Are you serious?”
“Say it.” He leaned in. “Say that I’m your friend.”
This was some new mind game. Some new power play.
But for once, she had the advantage. She wasn’t going to give it up so easily. No matter how much a part of her wanted to give in and mollify his swollen ego—smooth things over, play nice, smile, just smile and be a good girl—
Fuck that. Fuck that so hard.
“I don’t see what good it would do to pretend that we like each other,” she said quietly. “You obviously resent me. You resent the fact that they gave me this position. You hate having to share the spotlight with someone you see as weaker than you. And I—do I really need to spell out how I feel about you?”
“Go on.” He smiled tightly. “Let’s hear it.”
Edgar cleared his throat into the microphone in back. “All right—why don’t we take five? I think we’re all a little tense—”
“No.” He held up one gloved hand. “No, I want to hear what Starlight—what Annie has to say about me. Let’s clear the air.”
She wanted to back out. This was spiraling out of control. She could feel the murder brewing behind those eyes, behind those tightly stretched lips. Even if he wouldn’t kill her now, here, she had no doubt he could find a way to make it happen and to cover his own tracks. But it was too late. And she was pretty fucking sick of backing down. Fine, she thought. Let him kill me. Better than living in fear of him.
Another voice inside whispered, Hughie would be devastated. His face flickered through her head. Then something insider her chest hardened.
The truth was that Hughie had been getting on her nerves lately—getting insecure, jealous, clingy. She loved him. She did. Desperately. But loving another person could be exhausting, sometimes. Having to hold back, to always take their feelings into consideration when you wanted to just let go—
“I—” her voice came thin, scratchy and hoarse. She swallowed and spoke again: “I hate you.” The words emerged quiet but clear.
Homelander stared at her, the muscles drawn tight over his skull. He breathed in slowly through his nose.
“I hate you,” she said again. “More than I’ve ever hated another person. You already know that. Did you just want to hear me say it?”
“Oh-kay,” Edgar said, standing. He emerged from the back, approached the two of them in measured strides and said in a low voice, “The two of you need to get your shit worked out. You don’t have to like each other. But you do have to act professional in front of the cameras, and right now, you’re behaving like two spoiled toddlers.”
Annie opened her mouth reflexively to apologize, then closed it. “He asked me a question. I answered.”
“Nevertheless, this cannot go on.”
The dancers were still standing awkwardly onstage, motionless. Edgar raised his voice: “Clear the room.”
No one moved.
“You heard me. All of you, everyone out—except Starlight and Homelander.”
The dancers hurried off the stage. Footsteps receded.
“I’m leaving the two of you alone together for a bit,” Edgar said.
Annie’s mouth opened. “What?”
“You’re going to talk this out. Right here and now. You’re going to speak to each other directly, like co-captains—like equals, like adults. I want you to come to an understanding—and when I come back into this room, I want you both to show a little fucking professionalism. Or this special is not happening.”
“You can’t cancel the birthday special,” Homelander said.
“I can and will.”
Annie’s jaw snapped shut. She could feel the blood draining from her face. Actually feel it. She’d always thought that was just a figure of speech. “Mr. Edgar,” she said, “please don’t leave me alone with him.” She hated the pleading little-girl note that crept into her voice.
“He’s not going to hurt you,” Edgar said. “He’ll be a perfect gentleman. Won’t he?”
Homelander gave him another wide, tooth-baring smile. “Of course,” he whispered. His expression suggested a series of nuclear bombs going off inside his skull.
“Good,” Edgar said. He turned and strode toward the back of the room. The door shut with a resounding click. And just like that, they were alone, cocooned in silence. Maybe they were still being watched via security camera. But if Homelander decided to take his rage out on her, there would be no one to intervene.
Of course, even if there had been someone else in the room, it wouldn’t have made a difference. He could easily kill everyone there, if he chose.
Homelander rocked back and forth on his heels. He interlaced his fingers behind his back and hummed low in his throat. “So,” he said. “You hate me.” His voice was flat, but—was she imagining things, or was there the slightest quiver in the words.
“I guess I…assumed you knew that,” she muttered. “Does it surprise you?”
“No.” He turned his face away. “No, it doesn’t surprise me.”
“I mean…the feeling is mutual, isn’t it?” she said.
He looked at her from the corner of his eye.
“You think it’s bullshit,” she said. “This promotion. I mean, how many times have you fantasized about ripping me apart?”
“Too many,” he muttered.
“Exactly. And it’s not like I haven’t noticed. So why is it weird for me to come out and say it?”
It was absurd, the fact that she actually felt a little guilty about hating him—this murderous psychopath whose cape dripped with the blood of innocents. But she’d been raised Christian. Even if she had complicated feelings about her faith now, she still believed in God. She’d been taught to believe in the virtue of forgiveness, of unconditional love. Even when people hurt you, even when they didn’t deserve forgiveness, it was a sin to harbor hatred in one’s heart.
But of course, that was how they’d always controlled her. How they kept her tame and muzzled.
“You hate me because I’m stronger than you,” Homelander said in that sullen little-boy voice. “That’s how it always is. The weak hate the strong.”
“I hate you because I’m afraid of you.”
He turned his face away. “So then why did you agree to this job? You knew that being co-captain would mean spending a lot more time around me.”
“I agreed to it because I thought if I could inspire little girls around the world—”
“Bullshit.” He gave her another one of those tight-edged, toothy smiles.
“That’s not a lie!” she snapped.
“But it’s not your main reason, is it? Come on, Annie. You’re tired of the masks? Tired of faking smiles?” He leaned in. “Even if you have to lie for the cameras, you can at least be honest with yourself.”
She stared, face flushed hotly, pulse hammering in her throat. “Fine,” she whispered. “I agreed to it because I wanted it. For myself. Because I was sick of feeling powerless. Sick of feeling like I was always in the background. I’m strong. I’m worth something. And I wanted people to see that.”
He leaned back and spread his hands. “There you go. Was that so hard?”
She looked away.
“You’re better than ordinary people,” Homelander said. “I mean—not better than me, obviously, but better than most. That’s why you’re in the Seven. It’s only natural that you want to be seen that way.”
“I’m not better. I don’t think that. Not everyone is like you. That’s why my numbers are better than yours. Because I’m human. Because I actually do give a shit about other people in ways that have nothing to do with my own ego.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Sure, you’re hot shit now. You’re riding that high. You think I haven’t been where you are? Sooner or later, the cracks are going to start showing, and people are going to start talking. The very things they loved about you will become weapons they can turn against you. And they’ll rip you apart like the jackals they are. Trust me—I’ve been playing this game a lot longer than you have.”
She inhaled slowly through her nose. “You know what? Maybe you’re right. Fine. Whatever. If that happens, then that happens. I’m not going to compromise who I am to keep my numbers up.”
“You say that now. They all say that.”
A flush climbed up her neck, into her cheeks. “I won’t become you.”
For the space of several breaths, he stared at her with an unreadable expression. Then he leaned a little closer. “Do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Hit me.”
She stared.
“I’ve fantasized about killing you, it’s true. But I’d bet dollars to donuts you’ve fantasized about killing me, too.”
“I—I’ve never—”
“I mean, obviously that’s not possible, but it’s fun to imagine, isn’t it? It’s okay. Go on. Work out a little of that aggression.”
She didn’t move. This was some trick. It had to be. “I don’t want to hit you.”
“Yes you do.”
“Stop it,” she muttered.
“What are you worried about? Hurting me? Please. You can’t hurt me. You’d break your fucking hand before you so much as bruised my skin. So go on. Give it to me. Hard as you can.”
She exhaled, raising her fingers to one temple. “This is bullshit. You know what? Edgar can cancel the special. I don’t care. I’m not doing this another—”
“Coward.”
She whipped toward him. Before she’d even made the decision, her arm shot out, fist colliding with his perfectly sculpted, clean-shaven jaw. His head snapped back. She stood flushed and panting, fist trembling. He blinked a few times. His gaze focused on her. He rubbed his fingertips along his jaw and smirked. “Again,” he said.
“Fuck you.”
“I know you can hit harder than that.”
Her fist whipped out again, whistling through the air. It was like slamming her fist into a brick wall. This time, his head barely budged. “Such a girl,” he sneered. “Like getting hit by a whiffle b—”
Smack. His head snapped back again. He stumbled a little, let out an odd, gasping moan, and touched the corner of his mouth. His fingertips came away glistening with blood—just a tiny bit. He looked at them and let out a small, breathless laugh. His gaze focused on Annie’s. “There you are,” he whispered. “Felt good. Didn’t it?”
They stared at each other. Her chest heaved. The blood thundered in her veins.
He raised one fist and said, “Now I get to hit you.”
She tensed.
“That’s only fair, isn’t it?” He advanced toward her, and she flinched back, raising her hands. He stopped. “No—of course not. Of course that wouldn’t be fair.” His wide-stretched smile remained in place. “I’m stronger than you, after all. If I hit you as hard as you hit me, it would kill you. And that would be bad for my numbers. Wouldn’t it?” He lowered his arm. “This—this partnership—this illusion of equality between the two of us—it’s what the public wants right now. But you’ll never be as strong as I am. Because no one is. When you embrace your strength, you’re spunky and independent. America’s sweetheart. When I embrace my strength, I’m a monster. That’s just how it is. No sense complaining. Right?” He laughed stiffly. “Even Stormfront doesn’t like me anymore. No one does. Sometimes, even I don’t like me.”
Silence hung between them. Slowly, Annie lowered her arms and took an unsteady breath.
“You don’t have to sing the song,” Homelander said flatly. “I don’t care.” He turned away. “This show is a farce, anyway. Like Edgar said. It’s meaningless.”
She didn’t think it was meaningless—she was using it as a chance to introduce the Starlight Home, after all—but she just muttered, “Thanks.”
Homelander didn’t move, didn’t respond. She stared at his back.
For better or worse, they would be working closely together for the foreseeable future. Co-captains. It was in everyone’s best interest, including her own, if she could keep things relatively calm between them. She took a breath. “I don’t mind singing the song if it’s normal, just not…not with the sexy dancers and all that.”
“Don’t bother. It’s fine. You were right; the only reason I wanted you to sing was to humiliate you. Just introduce your—thing. You know. The at-risk youth thing. I’ll donate the money. Not like I need it, anyway. I don’t give a shit.” His tone wasn’t even sullen or petulant; it was completely empty. “You know, this isn’t even my real birthday. It’s just the day the marketing team picked out. It’s fake, like everything else.”
“So…when is your real birthday?”
After a few seconds, he replied in a near-inaudible murmur: “I don’t know.”
And now, a new, peculiar feeling—she was worried about him.
Even if he’d done terrible things, even if she would never like him, he was still her teammate. Still a person.
“This whole thing is so fucked up,” she whispered. “Isn’t it? I mean—not just the TV special. Everything. This whole hero business. It fucks with your head. Doesn’t it? You lose sight of who you are. You get caught up in the persona. In everyone’s eyes on you. Do you ever wish you could just go back to the way you were before?”
“There…” He cleared his throat. “There really wasn’t a ‘before,’ for me. The Homelander is just—who I am.” He turned toward her. “This is me.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
His jaw flexed. His gaze jerked away. “Let’s just get this fucking thing over with,” he muttered. Then, raising his voice: “Stan!”
After a few seconds, the door in the back of the room opened, and Stan Edgar appeared. “Are you ready to cooperate?”
He smiled. “Ready when you are, buddy.”
“Did the two of you reach a compromise, then?”
“Yes,” Starlight said. “We’ll lose the dancers. Nothing flashy, nothing sexy. I’ll just sing the song.”
“Just you? No musical accompaniment?”
“Yeah.”
Edgar raised his eyebrows a little. “All right. Let’s try it.”
* * *
Several minutes later, the two of them stood up onstage together. Homelander hadn’t spoken since Edgar reentered the room. He stood with his hands folded in front of him, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
“All right,” Edgar said. “Let’s pick up where we left off.”
Annie fixed a smile in place and spoke: “I have a special announcement to make. But before that, I’d like to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to my friend and mentor—my co-captain—Homelander.” A pause. She breathed in. Without musical accompaniment, this was going to be awkward. Maybe she hadn’t thought this through. But she’d already committed to it.
She turned toward him. When he didn’t react, she took his hand.
He tensed. After a few seconds, he met her gaze. She began to sing. Her voice quivered very slightly. She sang quietly, almost under her breath, though the microphone still picked up every syllable. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear John. Happy birthday to you.”
Homelander’s mouth opened, then closed. “Th—” he cleared his throat. “Thank you, Starlight. You’re a brave, kind young woman, and it’s—it’s an honor and a privilege to have you as my co-captain.”
In the ensuing silence, Edgar spoke: “I think that works well, actually. Simple. Earnest. For a moment, I was almost convinced that you care about each other.”
Homelander laughed, a sharp burst of sound, and released her hand.
Maybe it was just the glare of the stage-lights, but for a moment, she thought she saw a wet sheen in his eyes.
She thought about her own childhood—singing and dancing up on the stage, blinded by spotlights. Denying herself half a sandwich so she could squeeze into the sparkly pink dress, scrunching up her face as her mother applied makeup. Keep smiling. Endless rehearsals, endless performances. You’ve been crying again, haven’t you, Annie? Now your eyes are all puffy. Stretching her face into a smile. Curtsying to thunderous applause. The way some of the men looked at her. Smiling, smiling. Hiding her disgust, her fear, her resentment.
It was the same smile on his face, now. The smile of a child being who’d been paraded around like a show dog, who’d squirmed in the chair as an expert hand applied makeup, or its equivalent. The smile of a performer—of someone who’d never had a childhood. It was so easy to lose yourself in the reflection of all those staring eyes, your self-concept flattened and squeezed into the image on a screen.
She reached out and took his hand again. She heard a soft intake of breath.
She covered her wireless microphone, leaned toward him, and murmured, “It’s okay.”
He didn’t respond. His shoulders remained rigid, his hand motionless in hers.
They stood together on the stage, under the spotlight’s glare, hand in hand.