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He shouldn’t have come here.
The window in the infirmary—the only one—faces a yard surrounded by barbed wire. The prisoners are kicking a ball, shouting, yelling something incoherent. The sound of the ball bouncing on the asphalt seeps through the glass, and Ryan feels each thud echoing in his chest. Thud-thud-thud. He shifts his gaze from the window to the cot by the wall. Then to the door. Steel, with a lock. He lowers his eyes and exhales, clenching his fists.
Everything here looks exactly as he imagined, but it doesn’t make it any easier. His stomach twists with cramps. And here he is—his biological father. Once a hero, an icon, the face of America. Now—a gray blot on the mattress, pathetic and frail, like a balloon that deflated by morning after a party. Skin and bones, short gray hair, a dull gray face. Straps hold him to the cot, bandages on his wrists. Ryan swallows.
“Ready?” the guard asks him cheerfully. As if being ready were even an option here.
“One minute.”
No, he’s not ready. Not now, not in an hour, not in a day. And what the hell is he doing here? When the phone rang this morning, he was pouring milk into a bowl of froot loops, telling Janine something about a trip to the horse-breeding factory—crap no one cared about. And then the answering machine: a reserved, dry voice.
“Mr. Milk, this is the MCC. We have an important message for you regarding inmate John Gillman…”
Ryan grabbed the phone before Janine could stop him.
“Marvin Milk listening,” he blurted out.
MCC. Ryan knew what MCC meant.
“John Gillman attempted suicide last night. According to protocol, inmates are given safety razors before visiting the shower room. Somehow…”
“Is he dead?” Ryan whispered. He realized he had gripped the phone too tightly when it shattered in his hand into wires and circuits.
“What happened?” Janine frantically glanced between him and the broken phone. “Dad! Dad!”
Ryan didn’t wait for Marvin to appear in the hallway and send him to his room to make a return call to MCC. Ignoring Janine’s screams, he rushed to the window, jumped onto the windowsill with his legs, and soared into the air, feeling the cold of the pale November morning pierce him to the bone. Even then, he knew he would regret this.
And now, standing in front of the door, for the first time he thinks, "What if Marvin had called back? What if I had just gone back to breakfast? It would have been easier."
Because his father isn’t dead. He’s alive, the guards got there in time. And Ryan can just turn around and leave. He can go back home. He’ll make it in time for the physics midterm if he hurries. None of this is his business. None of this is his problem. But he doesn’t turn around.
Because at that very moment, his father opens his eyes.
Ryan flinches. Inside, there’s emptiness, cold, fear. He has to remind himself that Homelander no longer has his superpowers and can’t sense his presence. His father is just a man. No longer a god. No longer the strongest. His gaze… lifeless, empty, like a wax figure. Not long ago, there was one in Times Square, a full-size smiling Homelander in the glory of his fame, created by a local artist to be melted down after the hearings, a pagan farewell to the deposed deity. He never managed to carry out his plan: an angry crowd destroyed the statue before the hearings even began. Ryan had seen images of the mutilated statue on the news—Homelander’s doppelganger smiling blankly into the void while former fans tore it apart.
Thud-thud-thud. The ball on the asphalt.
Homelander knows he’s here. He sees him. Through the door. Through the walls. He hears his scent. The sound of blood in his veins. His blood.
No. Not anymore.
“Well?” the guard is starting to get irritated. “You coming in or what?”
Ryan nods, not looking at him.
“Fifteen minutes. No more.”
The door creaks as he presses the handle. A hesitant step inside—as if the floor beneath him might collapse at any moment. The smells hit his nose: medicine, bleach, dried blood.
"John...?" Ryan's voice is almost a whisper, distant and unsure. He can't bring himself to say "Dad." He can't even think about it.
Homelander looks at him. Surprise flickers across his face, the muscles in his forehead and the corners of his mouth twitch, and for a moment Ryan thinks it’s something alive, something real. But no. In the next second, everything fades—like someone turned off the lights—and his father puts on his disgusting mask again.
"Ryan. How sweet. You finally decided to pay the old man a visit," Homelander’s voice is raspy at first, but it sharpens quickly, like a rehearsed line. "Well, come on, don’t stand there like an idiot. Come in. How’s life, huh?"
"Fine," Ryan mutters, staring at the floor, the nightstand—anything but his father. His throat tightens. He could leave. He should leave. But for some reason, his feet won’t move.
Homelander tilts his head slightly, his voice ringing with fake warmth:
"How’s school? Good? Learned anything new?"
Ryan remembers that question. A year ago, it was the same. "How was your day? What’s new?" Back then, it was all part of the act—his father playing the part of the perfect dad. So fake, so forced, but he tried. Ryan remembers it and hates himself for remembering.
"Why did you do it?" it bursts out before he has time to think. "You could’ve died."
Homelander’s smile widens—sharp, dangerous. The eyes are cold, calculating, and the bandages on his wrist tighten as he clenches his fist.
"And what? You care?" Homelander laughs, low and dark. "Isn’t this exactly what you all wanted? What you wanted? To finally get rid of me for good? Too bad I couldn't even do that right. What a shame. Never heard a story more pathetic, huh?"
Ryan swallows hard, his throat tightening as he struggles to find the words. Finally, in a barely audible whisper, he says, “I don’t want you to die.”
His gaze drops to the floor. He can’t bring himself to look at his father, not when he says it. He hates him—he’s certain of that. But the truth is, it’s not the whole story.
“Even if you deserve it,” he adds quietly, the words make his stomach churn.
Homelander stares at him, a bitter smile curling at the edges of his lips. “Wow. Real nice, kid. You must hate me a lot,” he says, his voice dripping with venom. “Not enough to let me go, though. No, no. Instead, you left me alive. Turned me into... this.” His hand gestures vaguely, shaking with rage. “This pathetic, neutered excuse for a man.”
His eyes glint, and Ryan instinctively steps back, his shoulders curling inward. But there’s no escaping this.
“Tell me something,” Homelander snaps, his voice dropping into a harsh growl. “Why? Why’d you do it? Was I that bad of a father? Didn’t I love you enough? Didn’t I give you enough?” He pauses, his words quickening. “A-Train, Ashley, the others—they’ve got their reasons. I wasn’t always... kind. But you? You’re my son. My flesh and blood. After everything I did for you?” His voice cracks as fury consumes him. “Ungrateful little shit.”
Ryan flinches, his father’s words cutting deep, sticking to him like tar. He wants to shout back, to tell him he didn’t save him out of hatred or some twisted revenge. He didn’t save him to punish him with this pitiful existence. He saved him because he couldn’t let him die. Because no matter how much he hates his father, there’s a thread tying them together, one he can’t break without breaking himself.
But he doesn’t say any of that. What’s the point? Homelander doesn’t hear people. He devours them. He’s a black hole of pain and anger, pulling everything into his orbit until there’s nothing left. This isn’t Ryan’s fault. He’s been told that over and over. He made the right choice. His father chose this path. Some people don’t want to be saved.
Ryan turns toward the door, his hand reaching for the handle.
“No!” Homelander’s roar fills the room, desperate and unhinged. He lurches forward, the restraints biting into his flesh as he fights against them. “No!”
The word comes again, weaker this time, breaking apart as it leaves his lips. His face contorts, the mask of rage slipping away, and underneath is something raw and broken, something Ryan can’t bear to see.
“Please,” Homelander chokes out. “Don’t go. I... I didn’t mean it. I just—these last few months have been... rough.” His voice shakes, his usual bravado crumbling. “You have every right to hate me.”
Ryan freezes, his hand still on the door handle. He turns to look at his father, his voice soft.
“I don’t hate you.”
Homelander goes completely still. He nods slowly, like he’s trying to convince himself he heard it right. The corners of his mouth twitch upward—a poor imitation of a smile. But his eyes remain hollow.
“I’ve been keeping up with the news,” Homelander says suddenly, his tone springing to life as if someone flipped a switch in his head. “Last week, every paper was screaming about those Dragon’s Ring terrorists. Said you took down their leader single-handedly and saved the hostages. That was... impressive work!”
“Thanks. But actually, there were three of us.”
“Three?” Homelander waves it off, annoyed. “Who cares? The papers are writing about you. And they should be! Tell me—what’s the buzz? What’s the public saying? They’re loving you, right?”
Ryan shrugs. “I don’t know.”
Homelander’s expression twists in disbelief.
“You don’t know?” He looks at Ryan like he’s just sprouted a second head. “You’re not checking your ratings? No reviews? Kid, that’s half the job! How many followers you got?”
“I don’t have social media. I don’t care about marketing. I just want to help people.”
“No social media?” Homelander snorts, shaking his head. “You seriously think you can be a superhero in the 21st century without it? All those rescues, all those screaming brats you’re handing back to their mommies... The world needs to see it. Or what? You want some idiot whose only power is farting underwater to take your spot? What’s the point if no one knows you’re doing it?”
“For the people we protect. To make the world better.”
Homelander rolls his eyes. “Oh, great. We’ve got ourselves a saint. No ratings, no likes. What’s next? A suit with no logo?”
“Maybe,” Ryan says with a faint smirk.
Homelander falls silent for a moment, as if trying to process the absurdity of the conversation. Then he leans forward.
“Let me give you some advice, son. I’ve been where you are. I know exactly how—”
“I’m not you,” Ryan cuts him off. He’d meant it to come out calmly, but something raw flares up inside him. How dare Homelander? After everything? “And honestly? I couldn’t be more grateful for that.”
Homelander stares at him, his face twisting into something... off. His lips press into a tight, pouty line, as if Ryan had just snatched away his milkshake.
“As you wish,” Homelander says, his voice flat now. “But if you don’t want my advice, then tell me this: why the hell are you here? What do you want from me?”
Ryan exhales heavily, a weight pressing somewhere deep under his ribs. He can’t say it out loud—it’s too naïve, too stupid—but what he really wants is for his father to just... admit he was wrong. To stop playing the victim and realize that being just human isn’t the worst thing in the world. His father could have been better. He could have changed. But he won’t. It’s like that Second Law of Thermodynamics Ryan has been studying for his physics midterm—there’s no way back from chaos, entropy always wins.
And every time Ryan thinks about that, something inside him cracks just a little more.
“I want you to promise me you won’t try to kill yourself again,” he says finally, his voice quieter than he intended.
Homelander snorts, like Ryan just asked him to volunteer at a kitten shelter.
“Oh, that,” he says, waving a bandaged hand like it’s nothing. “Sure, kid. Scout’s honor—I’ll keep dragging myself through this pit of misery until one of these fine folks decides to make it interesting and finish the job for me. Big, dramatic finale. Standing ovation. You can even clap if you want.”
“Do they hurt you?” Ryan blurts out before he can stop himself. He shouldn’t have asked, but the words escape on their own. Of course they do. His father is not the kind of man people sympathize with—not the prisoners, not the guards. When the officer on the phone described the ‘incident,’ there was a flicker of... satisfaction in his tone. Like Homelander had finally gotten what he deserved.
“Do they hurt me?” Homelander smirks. “Oh, no. We’re all best friends in here. Bake cookies together after pilates and anger management class.”
“I’m sorry.”
Homelander barks out a harsh, grating laugh—so sharp and cruel, it barely resembles the laughter Ryan remembers from when things were different, when he was younger.
“Sorry? You feel sorry for me?” Homelander’s tone is practically a snarl now, his eyes blazing with that familiar glint of madness. “Christ, Ryan. You really are a saint, aren’t you? The great hero, swooping in to save me?”
His father’s words never miss their mark—they always find the cracks Ryan tries so hard to hide. His fists clench at his sides, and he’s breathing harder. No. Don’t rise to it. Don’t let him pull you in.
“I... I just don’t want you to die,” Ryan manages, his voice breaking as he wipes at his eyes with his sleeve.
He’s supposed to be the hope of the future, the kid who, according to the headlines, stops wars and saves the world from terrorists. But right now? He feels like that scared, powerless eight-year-old boy all over again. No matter what the press says, there’s nothing he can do to save his father.
“Don’t get all sentimental on me, Ryan,” Homelander says tiredly. “I’ve always said you’re too soft for this world.”
Ryan doesn’t answer. His eyes linger on his father— crushed under the weight of his own downfall. He could bring him a dose of Compound V, bust him out of here, fix everything like a dutiful son. He’s supposed to be a hero, right?
But deep down, something whispers that fixing Homelander is a fantasy.
“You know, Ryan,” Homelander starts, his tone laced with its usual sarcasm. But then it shifts, cracks. “You’re a good kid. Sometimes I forget... you’re still just a boy.”
His gaze lingers on Ryan longer than usual—not the predatory glare that cuts through the room, but something almost... human. He gestures weakly to the edge of the bed.
“Come here,” he says, tiredly, without his usual venom. “Sit.”
Ryan hesitates. Part of him wants to walk out, slam the door, and never come back. But there’s something else—something small and stubbornly warm—that pulls him forward. He sits gingerly on the edge. Homelander reaches out, his hand heavy and cold as it rests on Ryan’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry you have to see me like this,” Homelander murmurs, his voice breaking for just a moment. The vulnerability is uncomfortable, unnatural, like a mask slipping for half a second. “But it’s better this way. I don’t know who I am anymore, Ryan. Without my powers, I’m... nothing. The whole world hates me.”
“You’re still my dad.”
The words escape before Ryan can stop them, and he hates how they sound—childish, raw, exposed. But they have a strange impact. His father shakes his head, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders twitch.
“Ryan,” Homelander hisses through clenched teeth. “I’ve lost everything. My strength. My purpose. Even my name. Don’t you get it? I don’t know how to be... just a man. I’ve never been one.”
Ryan drops his gaze to the floor. He should leave. Walk away now. Burn the bridge, cut the cord, free himself from the monster that looms over his life, hiding in every mirror. But that damned invisible thread pulls taut, refusing to break.
And then it flashes in his mind—an old memory, distant but vivid: a golden evening, the sun casting warm light on their baseball gloves. A day when Homelander was just a dad, not a symbol of terror and power.
“You haven’t lost me,” Ryan says softly. “I’m right here. And I’m not leaving.”
Homelander lowers his hands from his face, staring at him in silence. Ryan knows this changes nothing. He won’t fix him. He can’t. But before his courage falters, he leans forward and wraps his arms around his father. Slowly, like moving through resistance, Homelander’s arms rise in response. The bandaged hand rests awkwardly but gently on Ryan’s back.
And then the door bursts open with a harsh clang.
“Time’s up,” the guard says flatly.
Homelander’s lips curl into a faint, cynical smirk. “If you ever feel like lasering them all, I’ll cover for you,” he mutters, the shadow of his old self flickering in his voice.
Ryan smirks back as he stands. “Not happening,” he says, shaking his head. Then he adds:
“I’ll be back. I promise.”