Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

She’d been so scared of dying. 

She hadn’t wanted to die in the hospital, so her family had brought her home. She was scared because she had thought there’d be nothing in the end – she would be gone, her body would decay, and the world would continue to spin meaninglessly.

This… this felt worse. 

She’d rather be dead then crazy, and she felt pretty fucking crazy looking in the mirror and seeing a man covered in blood staring back at her. Him. 

She’d woken up in a shitty studio apartment. The sheets were stiff with sweat and blood; the air rank with the stench of fast food and weed. A discarded gun laid next to her head. His head. Whatever.

After rifling around the disgusting room – truly, the previous tenet must have been in a horrible headspace for a while – she found ID.

Mathew Culbert. Born January 1st, 1995. A Michigan license. Not a donor. Huh. 

She was in Mathew Culbert. He was Mathew Culbert now? She had died from a terminal disease, and woken up in the body of a suicide victim – had they switched? He hoped they had not switched.

Physically, his body felt incredible. No pain, no aches. Mentally? He wanted to wake up from this nightmare and return to hell, or wherever he was supposed to be. 

With Mathew’s wallet, he also found a smartphone. It was a sad smartphone – no group chats, no recent conversations with friends, and a contact labeled Mom (Don’t Pick Up). For a twenty-one-year-old man, it was quite sad. Twenty-one was so young to die.

The phone had signal, so he opened his Twitter. After scrolling for a bit, he ran to the toilet and vomited. 

He would rather be in the dirt then in The Boys universe. Why couldn’t she have died and woken up as Loki in the MCU, or Hannah Abbott in Harry Potter? Well, actually, transmigration into any fictional universe seemed like sort of a raw deal – but becoming The Gecko was ridiculous.

If he died in this universe, would he die foreal? Or die and continue in another body, but hopefully without the memories?

+++

His stress response was to try and drown himself in the shower, but the shower was filthy, coated in a slick coat of grime. So, he turned to his second stress response: cleaning. 

As he tossed sticky buzzballs and slimy food wrappers away, he had time to calm down. Three full black trash bags later, he started scrubbing the grossness away.  
He could do this. He could survive. 

He had wanted to live, and now he was very unlikely to die – given he kept himself out of trouble and wasn’t shot in the head again. But even if there was trouble: whatever. She died. This was like a bonus round. The cycle of death and rebirth would probably continue.

She had wanted to live so she could grow old with the people she loved. See her friends marry, spoil some future brats, take care of her aging parents; go to her niblings dance recitals, her sister-in-law’s plays, her brother’s soccer games. Vacation with her bestie; win trivia with her friend group on a bimonthly basis.  
That was all gone. Her loved ones weren’t dead, they were just impossible to be with. That was a small consolation.

Had Mathew Culbert really have no one? If an old friend showed up, should he hedge the truth: say he lost his memories because he lost some original brain to a suicide attempt? Or just avoid the issue. It was bleak, but he felt grateful that he’d body snatched someone so isolated.

He could still enjoy life, even separate from everyone she’d ever loved. He could still travel, experience more of the world. Enjoy good food, play beautiful music. Not all was lost. 

He cleaned for hours. At some point he found his physical lease: three more months until he could renew, or move out. Moving out, far away from Homelander and the other psycho Supes was an option, but… maybe he had a moral obligation to change the timeline – or keep the timeline the same? Given Gecko smuggled Starlight evidence of Compound V…

He also found his Vought badge; apparently, he worked for the Research and Development Department on floor sixty-seven already, which was both good and bad news. Good news: he wasn’t unemployed, could buy food. Bad news: he was working for a mega-evil corporation as a lab rat. 

He finished cleaning the studio, and took his laundry to the building washroom. Had Mathew Culbert owned any books, he would’ve brought one with him to read while waiting for his loads to be done. He wasn’t going to abandon his second-hand clothes in a building like this. Even if they were mostly boring, normie clothes.
Instead of reading, he watched the laundry spin and continued overthinking.

What did Mathew Culbert do in his free time? There were no books, no instruments, no art supplies, no computer. He didn’t cook; it seemed like he had completely subsisted off of pizza rolls and takeout. Maybe he had been a TV guy, a phone guy. Or just a depressed kid who left his hometown nine months ago for brighter prospects, only to be miserable in New York too. 

He did have collectibles, but they weren’t her – his style, anymore. He’d sell them, buy a keyboard instead. If all else failed, he could try teaching piano again.
Had be gone by Mathew? Matt? Gecko? He didn’t really care for any of those names. Matt was passible – he had hooked up with a Matt once, so that was a little weird.

Would a psychic-based Supe be able to see his memories of The Boys, or Culbert’s overtaken/suppressed memories? He regretted not paying more attention to the show; he’d watched it with his brother and tended to tune out the show during the violent scenes, and fight scenes, and sexy scenes. So, he missed a lot of the show. He didn’t know how it ended – season three was where they left off. He should’ve read the comics.

He was in over his head if he decided to stay in New York. 

Being able-bodied again was sweet though. No more wheels needed. And having superpowers: awesome, even if he wished he was a little tougher. Well, he was this universe’s version of Deadpool – but somehow completely unnoteworthy. 

Maybe he should pick up martial arts or knife throwing. He was averse to violence, generally. The world was cruel enough without people adding to it. But if he had powers, didn’t he have an obligation to help?  The strong must protect the sweet. 

Matt couldn’t take down Homelander, wouldn’t even try. He didn’t want to kill people – so he couldn’t help out Billy Butcher and his ilk. But he could be a superpowered good Samaritan, if he picked up a little combat experience.

+++

Matt had been so nervous about work, but it was easy money. 

He was just a lab rat. All he did was hang around and get cosmetics, and the occasional toxin, smeared on him. And Matt didn’t feel pain! Well, he did, but in a very distant way: a burn was an itched, a hacked off finger equivalent to a paper cut. He healed incredibly quickly, and the pain was abstract. Out of all The Boys characters he could’ve been delt, Gecko was a pretty convenient pick in such a violent world.

When he got off work Monday, Matt stopped by the library and got a card. Checked out a couple books so he’d have something to do when he was waiting to be lathered or stabbed or prodded. His pay rate was abysmal for the value he brought to Vought – although knowing Vought they’d probably just test on orphans and puppies if he wasn’t around – and he resolved to move on from the work if he couldn’t negotiate a pay raise. 

It was his bonus round life, so it didn’t really matter if he lost a job. Not much mattered. 

Tuesday, Matt shampooed his carpet. He’d own being a clean freak, even in a shitty studio. Matt also went grocery shopping. Made curry for dinner. Brought leftovers for lunch the next day. 

“Oh, that smells delicious,” a low-level lab tech, Shelly, commented in the breakroom.

“Thanks,” Matt said, “I’m trying to get back into cooking. Do you cook a lot?” 

“Not so much anymore. I’m in my take-out era.” 

So Wednesday, Matt made small talk with Shelly over lunch and signed up for a boxing gym membership after work. He resolved to try and workout at least three to five times a week, and to get to know Shelly as a friend. She seemed genuine.

Thursday, he learned Shelly had an evil good-for-nothing boyfriend (but she didn’t use those words) and got his ass beat at the gym. 

“You really pack a punch,” Matt chuckled, hand over his bloody nose to make his super healing a little less obvious, “I want what you have.” Diego gave him a judgmental look and left without another word.

Friday, he got his ass handed to him at the gym again, but by Will. He was friendlier about it all. Before that, during lunch, Matt learned that Shelly enjoyed thrifting and so he invited her out that weekend.

“I don’t know about that,” Shelly shook her head, “Robbie wouldn’t like it.”

“Tell Robert I’m gay,” Matt shrugged.

“Wait, oh my god, are you? What kind of coming out was that?” 

It occurred to Matt that it was February 2015 and gay marriage hadn’t been legalized on a federal level yet. It was legal in New York already, probably. 

“Well,” Matt wobbled his head in a so-so movement, “I’d rather be with a man but... yes ok I take it back, you shouldn’t lie to your husband. Tell him I’m ugly instead.” 

“You’re not ugly!” 

“I look like a normal guy, arguably a subpar guy, and you’re gorgeous – I’m not fishing for compliments. Just tell him I’m ugly or whatever so we can go shopping together.” 

“That sounds very gay.” 

“Homophobe!” Matt pointed an accusatory finger at Shelly, “Shopping is a normal capitalist activity, and everyone has a right to enjoy a little consumerism. As a treat.”

“I’m not a homophobe,” Shelly rolled her eyes, “I’ve made out with women before.” 

“Shelly, in all seriousness, that makes you sound as straight as Katy Perry.” 

So Saturday they went thrifting, and Matt found some cozy sweaters and obnoxious graphic tee-shirts. He didn’t know how to be man stylish, really, but he’d have fun trying. Done thrifting, they walked around Central Park, and Matt walked Shelly home. 

Sunday, Matt tried lifting and got clowned on by some men – but overall they were helpful with his form and what kind of exercises he should start out with. He sold his collectibles, bought a second-hand keyboard. 

All in all, a nice week. Better than he would have thought, only a week after death.

He could do this. 

Chapter Text

The first month of living in New York was amazing. Sure, he cried himself to sleep for a few weeks and wallowed in the shower enough for his water bill to be absurdly high, but largely: life was good. He was alive.

Death wasn’t the abyss – or maybe it was, but he had dodged the abyss a little longer. He kept his days full of things he wanted to do, and kept looking ahead.

He was learning how to fight; the regular exercise was giving him endorphins and helping him sleep well. He was eating well; cooking was no longer the energy sink it once was. He’d made friends out of Shelly and Will, and felt Diego and the other guys were warming up to him. He was playing music again – with his keyboard, and practicing his singing even though it was surreal to retrain a new voice.

Matt asked for a raise and got it, so he gave his apartment a little facelift. Added a lot of warm, indirect light, and decorated with mostly second-hand pieces to make the space cozy. Finished transforming his wardrobe to fit him. Considered adopting a cat, but decided to wait; he’d probably move in a couple months, either into a nicer studio or out of New York.

Shelly was turning twenty-four and still going into work that Tuesday, so Matt decided to bring muffins for the office. Buttermilk banana muffins with a crumble top – since Shelly was anti-cupcakes but pro banana bread. He had wanted to open a bakery in his past life, and had become a pro baker in middle school, so he felt confident they would be a hit in the breakroom.

Two dozen muffins in hand, Matt stepped onto the elevator. Smiled at the unfamiliar Vought employees; he was in a little earlier than usual and there were hundreds of people in the tower.

On level twenty, Homelander came in and a few nervous employees skittered out.

Matt was normal. Matt was sooo normal. He looked down at the muffins instead of drilling holes into Homelander’s back.

He wondered if they had encountered each other before. Had Mathew Culbert been a fan of his before their replacement or had he heard the rumors of his instability and derision for the worker bees of the tower? Homelander probably didn’t remember or care either way.

Was Homelander already in his era of killing whoever he wanted? Or just the criminals and innocent bystanders that Vought permitted? It was 2015, so he was definitely already in the phase of doing whatever he wanted – Becca and Ryan were somewhere hidden because he was such a piece of shit. Office culture at Vought among underlings was definitely one of deference to the Supes; was that a result of intimidation or violence?

Maybe if Matt died, he’d transmigrate into Superman or something. That would beat dealing with captain psycho.

“Excuse me, Homelander sir,” Matt said, edging towards the door. It was almost his stop.

He popped the lid off his muffins; Homelander cut his eyes towards him, clearly annoyed at his audacity to make noise. “Would you like a muffin? They’re banana.”

The elevator door opened and Matt held the muffins out towards the semi-hostile Homelander still, walking backwards, “Or not, totally cool.”

Homelander looked at Matt with contempt and took a muffin.
“Ok, sir, have a nice day,” Matt said, like he used to when he was working at Wendy’s, and turned to go to the breakroom.
Matt was soo normal.

+++

The muffin was delicious.

There was something wrong with that man. His heart had barely skipped a couple beats before settling down, and the stench of fear was noticeably absent. Homelander’s refusal to put on an act in the tower usually served to dissuade unnecessary interactions.

But, the muffin was delicious.

It was a nice interaction. Like from a movie – just two men in an elevator, friendly. No schmoozing, no pretense, just: nice.

During the horribly boring meeting, in which suites spoke about engagement, the DOW, shareholders, yada yada yada. Homelander appeared to be staring intently at the folder they’d given him full of mission statements and other hoo-ha – but really, he was staring over thirty floors down, zoomed in.

The muffin giver had brought the muffins for a birthday; he hugged a woman too pretty for him, gave her a card and a muffin. They chatted, then went their separate ways.

Muffin man took out a book to read, and Homelander wondered why the fuck Vought was paying him.

Homelander’s attention was called back to the meeting when a suite asked him a question. He pushed the odd interaction out of his mind.

+++

It was shaping up to be an nothing burger work day, until Don found him after lunch.

“We’re testing how drastic the damage is,” Don explained, showing off some green vials, “There’s a new Supe on the block who spits this acid and we want to be able to prepare for the collateral, and make projections about what jobs would suite him best.”

“Right. You wouldn’t want to send him to save a hijacked plane, only for his power to destroy the control panel and doom the passengers,” Matt nodded.

Don gave him a weird look, “That’s oddly specific.”

+++

After the meeting, Homelander had a scripted save. After the save, and the subsequent hours of taking photos, signing autographs, and talking to the media, Homelander went back to the tower.

While he was eating his late lunch, he recalled the man who’d given him a muffin. It’d been a nice interaction, but Vought didn’t need some layabout on their payroll.
Homelander looked down through the floors. The man was gone. Homelander frowned – decided to do a cursory look throughout the building. It was good to do practice searches; it kept his senses honed. Vought tower was such a well-oiled machine, so he rarely surveyed what was happening on an ordinary day.
Eventually, he found the man. He was being tortured on a lower floor.

Laid out on a table, arms and legs restrained. Four lab coats around him. They were pouring acid on his body, and he was barely reacting.

He healed. Incredibly quickly.

“Food break.” he requested, “That was a lot of calories spent to not die just then.”

The lab coats freed his arms so he could sit up, but not his legs. He guzzled a Gatorade and scarfed down a huge deli sandwich. “I would say that was a nine in pain. A normal person would faint in pain before the acid ate through their essentials and killed them.”

The sound of clipboards scratching. One coat asked, “About how long until they’d faint from the pain?”

“Almost immediately, but they’d have time to scream,” muffin man answered, “Definitely would be bad press for the Supe, and Vought too.”

“That’s above your paygrade to worry about,” A different coat said.

“Gee Barry, keep talking like that and I might realize we’re working for the bad guys.”

The muffin man laid back down, and allowed the suits to restrain him again. They poured acid on his feet, and the only reaction the man gave to his feet being completely eaten away by the green liquid was the tensing of his jaw.

Well, damn.

Homelander had never gotten the appeal of reality TV. Beyond the fact that a lot of it was obviously scripted, it was boring. Just insignificant people doing insignificant things.

Yet he was strangely transfixed on the supe below him. He was insignificant, just another small gear in the million-part Vought machine, doing insignificant things, as he let himself be used – literally used as a lab rat – for Vought.

His name was Matt. He was unflinching in the face of torture, and unfazed by the attitudes of everyone around him.

After the acid trials were done, Matt took a shower. Got dressed, got his stuff, left. Homelander followed.

High up in the air, he followed the supe home. Watched him cook dinner. Homelander imagined that it was as delicious as the muffin that morning. Watched him make some music for a bit; he was good on his keyboard, but his voice was sort of crap. Watched him go for an evening walk – smiling at every Tom, Dick, and Harry he passed.

He was an odd one. Abnormal, while still coming across as completely mundane.

Chapter Text

The muffins had been a hit, so Janet pulled him aside and asked him if he could bring something in for Barry’s birthday.

Matt did not like Barry. Barry was a miserable lout who treated him like he was stupid; and while Matt was under no illusions about his own intelligence, he knew he was pretty average, that didn’t give Barry an excuse to treat him like he was inferior.

But Janet was sweet, so Matt brought two dozen red velvet cupcakes to work that following Friday.

This time, when Matt stepped on the elevator, Homelander was only a few steps behind him.

Matt smiled at Homelander, “Early morning?”

All the irritation from their last interaction was gone – Homelander was just as pleasant as he was in front of cameras. “Crime never rests.”

They stood side by side in the elevator. Matt didn’t know what to say. So, he defaulted to a peace offering.

“Cupcake?” Matt offered, already un-popping the lid off his baked goods.

“Thank you,” Homelander smiled, and took one. “It’s a little early for a cupcake, isn’t it? Is there another birthday in the office?”

“Yeah. Barry Hargrove is turning fifty – still coming into work on his semicentennial.”

“Ah,” Homelander nodded.

The eye contact was kind of intense. Matt looked away first, to see the floors tick by instead. He had nothing to say to Homelander – what could he say? Hey man, what would do you want? What in the world could possibly satisfy you? Is there anything I can do to get you to chill the fuck out and not kill millions in the next decade?

Matt didn’t know how The Boys ended, but he did know Homelander was a ticking time bomb. He was soon to experiment on terrorists to benefit his own career, soon to execute innocent people publicly and get away with it.

It was sad, how the removal of the leash around the mad dog – held both by Madelyn Stillwell and Stan Edgar – didn’t help Homelander by any measure. No one deserved to go what he had gone through, and yet, he failed to ever break free from the monster they made him to be. How could he, when that was all he ever knew?

“You seem to be thinking pretty hard.”

Matt looked at Homelander again. He was putting on a friendly front still, but Matt noticed a muscle twitch in his jaw. Seriously, why did he care if Matt was giving him attention?

“Oh, I just – I was trying to think of something intelligent to say,” Matt replied honestly, and laughed a little in a self-depreciating way, “And I guess I failed.”

The elevator opened on his floor, but when Matt moved to get out Homelander stopped him. Gloved hand on his arm. Homelander leaned over and pressed the door closed. The elevator continued rising upward.

“I think I know what you were thinking about,” Homelander said. “You want to be a hero.”

Matt gaped at him.

“Believe it or not, I care about every supe in this building. So, when you started working here months ago, I took note. You really are wasted in Research and Development – I know. You shouldn’t be trapped in some lab. You should be out in the world. You deserve better,” Homelander clapped his shoulder, kept his hand on him, smiling toothily, “You can be a hero.”

Instead of screaming and vomiting like he wanted to do, Matt scrunched his eyebrows together, “Homelander, sir, I’m honored you think so – but I’m really not that impressive.”

“Not yet,” Homelander corrected. “But with the right training, the right gear – you could be like Black Noir.”

Homelander was advocating for Matt. He had noticed him, thought about him. Wanted him out of Research and Development – away from the Compound V that would be easy to smuggle to Starlight. Well, he might still have access, but with Homelander’s attention, it’d be harder. They’d had literally one interaction before this, and Matt had broken canon.

“Right,” Matt agreed. “Sure, yeah, okay. Okay. That’s very generous of you, Homelander, sir. I’ll… try not to disappoint.”

“Attaboy!” Homelander is pleased, “I’ll see you tomorrow bright and early, floor 90, okay?”

“Awesome,” Matt nodded.

He watched Homelander leave the elevator. The blonde looked back at Matt, gave a cheeky salute with one hand while the other still held his cupcake. Matt smiled back at him, a little hopelessly.

Matt pressed floor sixty-seven. He still had cupcakes to drop off, and a resignation – or transfer? – to communicate. Then, he’d go home and sit in the shower for a bit.

He was so fucked.

+++

Homelander wasn’t a stalker. And if he was, he wouldn’t stalk some reedy young man. So: he didn’t stalk Matt. He gathered intel. Scoped him out. Discovered his potential.

The Gecko had been a failure. He debuted with Capes for Christ, but couldn’t take the heat. He was jumpy, insecure, scared of confrontation. Useless, aside from his regenerative healing, so Vought had offered him a poor paying job as a test subject. His file made him seem like an embarrassment of a Supe – too weak to even be stationed in a backwater like Michigan.

His file clashed with Homelander’s observations. Matt must have hit a late character-growth spurt, or whoever did the profile on him was a complete idiot.

Matt was tough. Nothing hurt him, nearly nothing phased him. And he was disciplined – he cleaned and cooked like a neurotic housewife, worked out regularly, had no apparent vices. He was fearless, not jumpy: Homelander watched him square off with a few cockroaches of the city on his late-night walks, and while he stopped short of killing anyone, he definitely put fear in some hearts. He was smart socially, wielding self-deprecation to ease social situations while still being confident enough not to let any mud people get under his skin.

It bothered Homelander how Matt seemed content to be stuck in a lab all day. He had threatened to walk if Vought didn’t up his paycheck by a lot, but then he stayed – six figures a year to be treated like a lab mouse.

But Homelander saw how he trained. He saw how Matt push his body to the limits after work, he saw him dive headfirst into fights. It was clear that Matt wanted more out of his life, but knew he had a lot of work to do before that was possible.

Of course, The Gecko wasn’t in the same league as Homelander. But compared to Lamplighter or the Deep, The Gecko was already enough to be a hero.

So, Homelander decided to help him. He wasn’t lying when he said he believed Matt could be like Black Noir. He could even join the team soon, since Mister Marathon seemed to be two doses of V away from a heart attack.

Though, Homelander really hated having to justify his decisions to others.

“Vought doesn’t do sidekicks anymore,” Madelyn argued.

“Oh, I know that!” Homelander dismissed, “He’s not going to be a sidekick. I just meant: I’d like to help him along personally. Show him the ropes, help him train. Take him under my wing.”

“Homelander –”

“Just give me this, please,” Homelander cut her off, patience waning. “I’m the leader of the Seven; the face of Vought. Why should I have to beg to have some nobody moved from one place to another – you don’t care about him.”

Madelyn came around to where he was sitting, slowly, as if he was a powder keg just waiting to blow. “No, I don’t care about him,” she trailed her hand down his arm, “but I care about you.”

True. Homelander softened a tad. “Then why do question every decision I make? I know what I’m doing, Madelyn.”

Madelyn sighed. Relented. “I just want what’s best for you, for Vought. But I’ll trust you on this. When should I let him know?”

“I already did, actually,” Homelander stood, started towards the door. He knew Madelyn would hate his initiative and wasn’t interested in staying around for her disappointment. “If you could have his contract written up before lunch tomorrow that’d be swell. Oh, and notify the costume department – the Gecko needs a rebrand.”

Chapter Text

Matt spent a few hours tossing and turning in bed before he decided to go for a run. A very long run. No music, just the sound of his heavy footsteps and labored breathing filling the sparsely populated streets. If he was physically exhausted then sleep would come.

He had broken canon after only a couple months in the universe. Things were off the rails, and he wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing.

This reality was his now – death had come and left him here marooned. He had some knowledge of the future, a useful superpower, and a burgeoning sense of obligation to try and spare some lives. Matt was under no illusion that he could save Homelander from himself, or destroy the Supe-industrial-complex that was Vought. But maybe he could stop Lamplighter from murdering the CIA lady’s kids.

Matt wondered if Homelander could smell the wrongness on him; if Homelander was just playing with his food before he decided to beam him into a million pieces for being out of place. Matt hadn’t done anything noteworthy, so he wasn’t sure what prompted Homelander’s attention. The muffin interaction had been so small, so insignificant – millions of people loved him so he probably received gifts constantly, and sycophants probably flocked to him so it couldn’t have been because Matt was polite. It couldn’t have been because he was a fellow lab rat – he volunteered, and it wasn’t like Homelander was helping the lab rats Vought kept non-consensually.

Man, it was so easy to be complicit. With a cushy job and at least two degrees of separation from the injustices being committed, Matt had pushed the human experiment wards out of his mind. While he was out in the world, worried about potential harm to his person, innocents were being tortured. By his employer no less. What could he do about it?

He’s just a guy. A supe guy with a little foreknowledge, but still just one person. The Boys flailed around for three seasons and did very little about the evil that was Vought, ultimately; they killed a couple insignificant Supes, exposed V… but didn’t really save a lot of lives. In his last life, she had been down bad for Billy Butcher and Frenchie, but now that he was here in this world he didn’t actually want anything to do with them. It’d be nice to have a team but he hadn’t ever been a killer, had no interest in it, and The Boys were mostly a team for vengeance. He would like to stop Lamplighter from killing kids, but the timeline and details were fuzzy; he couldn’t just make a hobby of trailing the man…

Maybe he could expose Compound V to the public on his own – not just the product, but the constant human experimentation that accompanied it. If Homelander killed him, well, maybe he’d move onto another universe with his identity subsumed properly; or maybe he would be met by the abyss after having done something worthwhile with his life.  

Matt ran for hours that night thinking, and managed to get some sleep before his first day as a Vought-ordained hero. Homelander hadn’t specified a time so Matt got up a little before the sun and arrived on floor ninety as the sunrise was visible.

Floor ninety had a beautiful view. It was all training grounds of various sorts, and reminded Matt of the scene in which Homelander disabled the blind supe. Matt felt a little sick remembering the casual way Homelander ruined another’s life for literally no good reason.

He’s just a mad dog. Beaten too hard in the kennel, held back with a lax threadbare leash. Matt reminded himself that death is actually not that scary and he barely feels pain anyway. The worst Homelander could do is hurt his new friends – which, Matt would not do anything to prompt that on purpose, and thinking of it… he should probably stop spending time with Sherry and Will, or any squishy humans. Just in case.

Matt walked around the floor and didn’t touch anything. He’d like to get started, but didn’t want to unintentionally cause Homelander offense, so he went back to the bench he saw near the elevator and pulled out a book to wait.

An hour later, Homelander arrived – cape and all. Matt put his book away and stood up to greet him.

“Good morning! Enthusiastic one, aren’t you?” Homelander said, pleased.

Matt smiled at his new boss, “Morning, Homelander, sir.”

“Oh, just Homelander’s fine. Have you looked around already?” At Matt’s nod Homelander continued speaking. “Well, we won’t be using any of it today – it’s just you and me and the crash mats.”

Matt followed Homelander as he walked towards the sparring mats. “I want to see where you’re at, so I know what we’re working with.”

Homelander stopped walking and faced Matt. Matt acted normal despite the highly abnormal circumstances. “Okay, hit me.”

Matt raised an eyebrow, “You want me to break my hand on your face?”

Homelander blinked slowly at him. They were way too close to each other, in Matt’s opinion. “I didn’t say you had to hit my face.”

“You want me to break my hand on you,” Matt corrected himself. “Is this a loyalty test or something? Because I’m not a masochist, personally.”

Homelander’s eyes lit up, “Just do it,” he growled.

Matt considered for a long moment before shrugging and hitting Homelander in the head with all of his strength. The sound of his bones crunching was gross as fuck, but he knocked Homelander’s head to the side. He shook his injured hand out while sucking in a breath.

Homelander laughed, “I actually felt something – you have a little strength after all.”

Matt regretted giving him any baked goods and gave him an unamused look.

“C’mon, that didn’t hurt you,” Homelander waved a gloved hand, “Your pain tolerance is crazy.”

“So far, you’re shaping up to be a bad boss,” Matt said flatly.

“I’m not your boss,” Homelander grinned, “I’m your mentor.”

Matt held cradled his broken hand and didn’t dignify that with a response. The bones shifting back into their proper places felt repulsive. There was no point to that, besides confirming to Matt that Homelander thought of him as a toy for his amusement.

“What does it feel like?” Homelander asked.

Matt met his intense blue eyes, “The bones slotting back into place feels gross. Like centipedes are crawling under my skin. Then it gets all staticky when the white blood cells rush in.”

“Staticky?”

“Yeah, like when your leg falls asleep after being in an uncomfortable position for too long… you’ve probably never had that happen to you. I can’t think of a better comparison.”

“I’ve never had a limb ‘fall asleep’ before, no,” Homelander confirmed.

“Yeah,” Matt nodded. He paused, thought. “I would ask you what the worst pain you’ve ever experienced was, but I don’t think our relationship is there yet.”

 “You’re very flippant,” Homelander observed.

Matt pointed at himself, “Pot,” pointed at his boss, “kettle.”

Homelander rolled his eyes, “Right. Well, now that you know how hard not to hit me, we spare.” He took a few steps away from Matt and squared up in a defensive position.

“I can’t just forfeit?”

“No. Come at me.”

Remarkably, Homelander held back enough so that Matt didn’t break anymore bones. Matt felt like one of those inflatable punching bags little kids got. Homelander knocked him down, Matt got back up. Again, and again, and again. Occasionally there was sparring, a real back and forth (like a rally, or a volley, whatever the word is when you’re playing a sport and just playing for practice and not to win). But mostly Matt was getting his ass handed to him.

Homelander was delighted by his game, gleeful in his torment. At some point Homelander picked Matt up, spun him, threw him into a crash pad, and laughed boisterously. Matt also laughed genuinely, a little giddy, because he’d gotten the swooping feeling of a roller coaster and he was a good sport generally. Sure, Homelander was treating him like he was a toy, but it was kind of fun having unlimited attempts to hit the deadliest man around. 

“Uncle, uncle, I beg your mercy,” Matt held a hand up after getting knocked across the room again, panting, covered in sweat, “I need water. Water break. Water break please.”

Homelander was gone in a flash and back with a Gatorade, standing over the prone Matt. Matt sat up and made grabby motions at the orange drink, which Homelander then held out of his reach. “Oh, you are my enemy. Vile miscreant. What do you want? I have like, a dollar and some change in my wallet right now.”

“That is the worse bribe I’ve ever heard,” Homelander dropped the drink in Matts hands.

“Thank you,” Matt said, and chugged his favorite flavor of Gatorade. Then he laid back down, and closed his eyes. Homelander could beam his head off right now, Matt needed a breather. “Give me two minutes, then we can keep going. Please.”

“You want to keep going?”

“I’m not dead yet,” Matt joked, “I can do this all day.”

Homelander didn’t respond, so Matt cracked his eyes open. He was still standing over him with an odd expression. Staring. “Do I have something on my face?”

Homelander nodded, “You’re blue and purple… we should stop. Have lunch,” He looked upwards, “It looks like Mario is almost done prepping some beef ragu.”

“I love beef ragu!” Matt started to get up and Homelander held out a hand – so Mario took it, and Homelander pulled him up fast enough he stumbled into his padded suit, “Oof, sorry.”

Matt took a step back. He was so sweaty. “Should I take a shower? I probably smell horrible to you.”

“No,” Homelander pinched his wet shirt, pulled, and let it flop back, “You do look like you just took a swim though, so maybe change.”

“Ok, yeah. Where should I –”

Homelander pointed and gave him directions to the changing room. Told Matt to meet him in the Seven’s private cafeteria.

Fortunately, Matt had brought a change of non-workout clothes in his duffel bag. The black slacks and white button-down were giving waiter, but Homelander looked ridiculous all the time so Matt let it go. He had no one to impress. By the time he got to a mirror his bruises were gone and he wondered how bad they’d looked; he had hardly felt them so they couldn’t have been too bad. That explained Homelander’s staring at least – the bruises blooming and fading on his skin probably looked strange.

The private cafeteria was giving rich man’s breakroom, with two big tables and a few smaller tables surrounding them. Like always, the view so high was incredible. Matt was surprised to see some members of the Seven already seated together, with plates of pasta dishes, salads, and bread laid out.

“Everyone, this is the Gecko!” Homelander introduced, gesturing broadly, “Let’s make him feel welcome.”

Homelander’s teammates had clearly not been informed ahead of time about him. Queen Maeve looked at Homelander like he’d grown a second head, Translucent’s reaction was impossible to discern (but he was wearing clothes, so Matt at least knew where he was), and The Deep’s confusion was clear on his face.

Matt smiled his customer service smile, and gave a dorky wave, “Nice to meet you all.”

“Why is a fetus eating with us,” Maeve asked, but in a flat enough tone it didn’t sound like a question.

“Wait, is one of us getting kicked off?” The Deep asked, “Is that why Lamplighter has been acting so weird recently?”

“No one’s kicked off,” Homelander said, “Yet. And he’s an adult, Maeve, sweetie, show a little respect.”

Homelander went to where Maeve was sitting, cupped her face, leaned down and kissed her intensely. Like, tongue and all. “Missed you.”

Maeve gave a smile that was a grimace, “Missed you too.”

Matt waited until Homelander sat down, then took a seat next to him. He served himself an absurd amount of beef ragu and a massive salad. Matt was starving after getting his ass beat for four hours.

“You know of everyone already, yes?” Homelander asked him.

Matt nodded and continued shoveling food into his mouth. Homelander was apparently in a merciful mood because he turned his attention to his teammates and started bothering them instead. Lunch was very strange; Homelander acted pleasant enough, asking after Translucent’s son and The Deeps whale awareness campaign, but whenever his teammates showed their crazy he’d look at them like he wanted to hurt them and they’d tense up. Matt wanted to asked him to drop the pretense but he figured that would go even worse.

After lunch, Homelander and the rest of the Seven left for filming. “I’ll see you tomorrow, same time.” Homelander told Matt before he left.

“Awesome,” Matt had nodded, “But uh – could I get your number?”

“My number?” Homelander had looked confused, “Why would you need my number?”

“Oh, if that’s like, a boundary, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I don’t need it,” Matt backtracked. “I just thought, in case something comes up – if you have to save the president, or someone decapitates me, we should text.”

“Yeah,” Homelander had nodded slowly, “I guess you’re right.”

Homelander gave him his phone. Matt put his number in his boss’s phone as ‘The Gecko <3’ and took a silly photo for his profile. Matt texted himself so he’d have Homelander’s number too.

“I hope filming goes well.”

“Thank you. I hope your meeting goes well.”

So Matt went to Madelyn’s office without his boss. The imposing headshots of The Seven members crowding the halls was a little tacky, and Matt wondered why she took this job. What a horrible job for such a horrible company. But then again, here he was. Well, on second thought, Matt was here to try and sabotage. Madelyn was here for power.

“Come in,” Madelyn called after he knocked.

Matt came into her office and took a seat across her desk. She hadn’t stood at his entrance, or offered to shake his hand. “Hello, Mathew Culbert.”

“Just Matt is fine.”

“Matt, then,” Madelyn slid a packet over to him. “We’re happy to have you on board. Just sign here,” she pointed further down on the paper, “here,” turned the page, pointed again, “here,” another page, “and here.”

“Uh, no?” Matt said, “What even is this?”

Madelyn leaned back in her chair, “Standard contractor agreement. Liability waiver. Everything you and Homelander talked about, I’m sure.”

Matt looked at Homelander’s manager. She wasn’t even pretending to care about him. Matt looked down at the paper. She could wait while he read it through. He grabbed a pen and twirled it around as he read.

At-will employment: Vought could fire him whenever for whatever reason, but Matt would have to give at least a month’s notice if he decided to leave the company. The liability waiver part of it all was crystal clear that Vought would not be held liable for his death. Benefits were generous. A severe confidentiality clause: Vought would bury him if he ever spoke of anything to anyone basically. His image would not be his own, Vought had the right to rebrand him at any time, etc. etc.

“I can’t sign this,” Matt shook his head, and slid the packet back to Madelyn. “Vought could decide to station me in Antarctica or Utah and I’d have no rights to appeal that decision.”

Madelyn gave him a tight-lipped smile, “All heroes managed by Vought are given placements. Those placements are liable to change based on what’s best for all parties involved.”

Matt waited. Madelyn waited. Matt had died as a woman approaching thirty, but as far as Madelyn knew he was a twenty-one-year-old which made this stare off feel a little pathetic on her end. Matt broke the silence, “Well… it seems we are at an impasse.”

“We are not,” Madelyn asserted. “You have no job if you do not take this very generous offer.”

Slowly, he nodded. He needed to infiltrate evil, and Homelander had paved the way for him so well it was basically a slide. He’d be a fool to give this up. And yet, Madelyn was giving him bad vibes – she clearly didn’t like that Homelander had plucked him off the shelves to play with. She could just send Matt to Nevada and pacify Homelander with sex. Then he’d be fucked.

Matt slid the packet back in front of him, pulled out his phone, and took a picture of the Placement and Station section. Sent the photo to Homelander.

              The Gecko <3 : if I sign this and vought places me in purgatory (arizona or another state away from you) will you fight for me to come back

Madelyn frowned at him, “Did you seriously just send a picture of this highly private legal document?”

Matt smiled, “Only to the boss. I don’t want him unhappy with me.”

              Homielander: Sign it. I’ll keep you in New York.

              Homielander: Why do you text like that?

Chapter Text

Like the previous day, Matt arrived early and Homelander made him wait. As Matt read The Worst Hard Time, Homelander scrolled on Twitter and occasionally stared at him from the safety of his penthouse.

At 9:16, Homelander finally came down to meet him. Matt stood up and greeted him with a grin, despite being forced to wait a little over two hours. “Good morning, Homelander.”

“Morning,” He gave Matt a stiff nod. “I expected you to be with marketing already. Are you usually this slow?”

Homelander radiated disapproval. He glowered at the taller man. Anyone else would’ve tensed, groveled, maybe pissed themselves, but not Matt. Matt just gave him a confused look, “I’m sorry? There must have been a miscommunication, because this is the first I’m hearing of this.”  

Homelander continued to give his protégé the evil eye. Matt continued looking at him like he wasn’t in any danger.

Matt’s attitude was actually completely fucking with him, because Homelander knew the world he inhabited. He was on top. An apex predator. It was natural for everyone around him to shy away from his ire – he could kill them easily, and nothing would happen to him. No guardrails. He chose to stay with Vought because he was Vought; he’d been born to play hero, to be adored, and where else could he be besides at the top (on a farm, in a cubicle, in a boring blazer and tie like a pleb?). Madelyn understood he was more, he was better. But compared to Matt’s steady heartbeat and authentic smiles, she had no faith in him.

It was starting to rub him wrong. He wasn’t sure the source of the discontent. Was Matt delusional, completely fucked in the head? Or did he think of Homelander as nothing but a patsy for Vought, a non-threat to his person as long as he played nice? Or did Matt have faith in him… did he sincerely believe in his rational nature and benevolence?

After a few moments, when it was clear Matt was not going to give him anymore of a reaction, Homelander broke his act and gave his protégé a smile. “I’m just kidding around,” clapped him on the shoulder, “You should head up for the meeting though. It starts at 9:30.”

Matt gave him a questioning look but let his little test slide. “Should I change? I thought we were sparring again.”

Homelander looked at his slightly ill-fitting band t-shirt and sweats. Truly, no one in the building was dressed like Matt. “No, I think you’re fine. I’ll put you through the ringer in the evening when I’m back. I’m off on patrol for the rest of the morning.”

He had a scripted save in Jersey of all places. He was scheduled to catch an arsonist and swoop in to save some civilians for photos. There’d been a small uptick of public criticism about ‘extrajudicial public executions’ and ‘excessive collateral damage’ so Vought was pushing The Seven to appear more as good Samaritans. Saving kittens and orphans from a burning building would help his image.

“Ah,” Matt said, “Any particular crimes you’re out to foil?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

“Fine, keep your secrets,” Matt grinned at Homelander, “I wish you a very nice patrol, in which everyone surrenders and no one gets hurt.”

“That would be unbelievably boring,” Homelander scoffed.

“Well, then, I wish you a very nice patrol in which you win every fight and save every civilian,” Matt amended. “That’s not too tall an order, right?”

Homelander hemmed and hawed, “Every civilian? Some people, Matt I’ll be honest with you, they’re like fucking lemmings. It’s like they’re so overwhelmed with life they want to die.”

The younger man did not shy away from Homelander’s casual disregard for other people’s lives. No judgement, no fear, no forced commiseration. He looked away from Homelander, not in disgust but in thought.

Matt frowned a little, “I thought the lemmings were set-up to die.”

“What do you mean?”

“Actually, I’m not sure. I’ll fact-check myself and get back to you about that,” Matt dismissed, waving his hand. “Well, regardless, I hope you save the hopeless lemmings – if anyone can do it, it’s you.”

Homelander did not preen at the casual compliment. “That is true. Don’t let marketing push you around while I’m gone, ok?”

“You got it boss,” Matt gave him a two-fingered salute and a smile.

Homelander clapped him on the shoulder twice and Matt did not flinch, tense, or release any stinky emotional response. “Good man.”

His scheduled save went off without a hitch. There were a few resisters (“I can’t leave, my kids are still in here!”, “I was born in this apartment and I will die in this apartment!”) and on a normal day he wouldn’t bother to save the insufferable – a 70% save rate is good enough for Vought, which makes it good enough for him. But something about the conversation with Matt tickled his brain, and he evacuated the complex completely. Not to prove anything. Homelander had nothing to prove to anyone anymore.  He did it because it is impressive to save the day completely, so it’d be good for his numbers.

There were some awesome candids from the save, and the meet and greet after was absurdly populated. People were stupid; even after he went through the trouble of saving them many still hung around in the contaminated air just for an autograph. He wondered how many would prematurely die because they were dumb enough to voluntarily breath in burnt asbestos and forever chemicals.

Matt didn’t smoke. He also didn’t indulge in sweets or any ultra-processed foods that often. Homelander hadn’t seen him drink either, during the week he’d scouted him out. He would’ve thought Matt was still the scared little Christian boy, too cowardly for sin, if he hadn’t observed him jacking off a couple nights. He was so sensitive, so tentative, that Homelander halfway believed him a virgin. Unlikely though, given how women found him charming. Shelly would give it up for him undoubtably.

Homelander took another selfie with a fan, barely paying attention to the chaos around him. He wondered what Matt was doing, which suit Matt would pick. He’d stopped by Seth’s late last night to ensure they were taking his little project seriously, and seen a couple proposals. He’d given some feedback, offered some ideas – scared Seth enough that hopefully he’d up his game and give Matt something worthy of an A-lister.

By the time he got back to the tower, Matt’s PR meeting was over. Homelander didn’t find him on the training level or the cafeteria. He was in one of the recreation rooms Homelander rarely stepped in; Matt had gotten a tour of the facilities after signing with Madelyn and getting the run down with HR so that in itself wasn’t surprising.

What was surprising was that Matt was talking to Lamplighter. Homelander lingered down the hallway, eavesdropping. Through the walls, Matt was looking down at Lamplighter with a critical expression.

“That’s not my plan,” Homelander heard Matt tell the shorter man, “I don’t think I’m cut out for fame, like at all. I just want to help out, save some lives.”

“Aren’t you so sugary sweet,” Lamplighter scoffed, “Do I look stupid to you? I see through your little act.”

“Why are you so defensive?” Matt asked, still looking at Lamplighter like he was a germ under a microscope. “I’m not a threat to you.” Matt lied.

Matt lied, and Homelander could tell. So, he hadn’t mastered body language. Homelander had honed his lie detection skills, and can tell when they people try and fake him out. He can hear their heartbeat, their breathing; he can see their perspiration, their micro-expressions; he can smell their stress. There’d been a slim chance, he had thought, that Matt was just a very good actor – that Matt was intimidated by him and pretending to be friendly. Apparently, that was not the case.

“I’m not defensive,” Lamplighter said, defensively.

“And I’m the queen of England,” Matt said flatly, “Look, I’m not interested in fighting you,” lie, “and have no plans to join The Seven.” True. “I’ll leave you be – but, just so you know, fucking teenagers at your age is gross as hell, and eventually the public is going to catch on to what a creep you are.”

Lamplighter pulled out his lighter, “I’ll burn you to a crisp, you fucking pussy.”

Except Lamplighter was a dumbass and was standing close enough to Matt that the younger man quickly snatched the lighter out of his hand and shoved him onto the ground. “Chill out, man.”

Lamplighter cursed at him and Homelander decided to interrupt. Matt probably thought the Seven was full of dumbasses, with how idiotic The Deep had shown himself to be yesterday and now Lamplighter trying to burn his protégé on the second day. Even Maeve had acted stunted yesterday in front of him, and she was usually good at putting on a performance.

“Hey guys!” Homelander beamed artificially, walking in, “What’s going on?”

Lamplighter scrambled to his feet. Matt had settled into a defensive position, but relaxed as Homelander came in – which was flattering. Almost endearing. “Hey boss,” Matt greeted.

“Homelander!” Lamplighter straightened up, “I thought you were in Jersey.”

“I was,” Homelander let some irritation seep into expression and raised his eyebrows at his teammate. Got a little closer to the man. “Now I’m not.”

“My bad,” Matt interrupted, and met his eyes evenly, “It was my bad. I was being immature.”

He wasn’t telling a lie. He didn’t lie to him. Matt seriously claimed responsibility for their little domestic, as if Lamplighter being an insecure little baby wasn’t the center of the issue.

Homelander tilted his head, “I seriously doubt that,” he turned his attention to Lamplighter and let his displeasure show, “Lamplighter, is that anyway to treat a new recruit?”

The useless human torch started an excuse and Homelander held up a hand, silencing him. He moved a little closer and looked down at the man. “No. The answer is unequivocally no. Apologize.”

Matt’s heart sped up. He looked wide-eyed between Homelander and his underling. “I-I’m sorry,” Lamplighter stuttered out.

Homelander would’ve accepted that as enough, except for Matt’s reaction. He wasn’t scared. He smelled good. He was excited. Power could be intoxicating, Homelander knew, and watching Lamplighter suffer must have scratched an itch deep inside Matt. So, he continued. “Sorry for what?”

Lamplighter floundered, “… I’m sorry for… being… bad to a new recruit?”

“No, you’re sorry for being a pathetic insecure manbaby,” Homelander corrected. “And disrespecting Matt.”

Lamplighter shrunk into himself, “I’m sorry for being a pathetic insecure manbaby and disrespecting Matt.”

Homelander looked at Matt, “Do you forgive him?”

Matt nodded slowly, “Yeah, forgiven. See you around Lamplighter.”

Homelander nodded a dismissal and Lamplighter skittered off. Matt watched him go, then looked at Homelander, “Should I give this back?” he held up the lighter.

“Nahhhh,” Homelander shook his head. Lightened up. “It’s yours. So, what costume did you pick?”

Matt looked down at the lighter. Took a beat. Wrapped up whatever thought he had, then smiled at Homelander, “Can I show you?”

He rummaged through his bag on the coach. Homelander scooped his cape out of the way and sat next to him. Matt pulled out a folder, and opened it to concept art. He hadn’t picked the suit that Homelander liked the most – no cape.

He hadn’t picked one of the major rebranding options either; there’d been proposals that involved dropping The Gecko as a title and going darker, leaning into his death-avoidant power, becoming Wraith, Spector, or Lich. Homelander had liked Spector, but The Gecko was fine. It was goofy, but Matt seemed to like goofy.

He was keeping The Gecko, but not the dorky tailed costume he’d worn as a teenager. Instead, his skin would be completely covered in a black tactical suit. Dark green scales decorated the arms, covering his collar and shoulder muscles too. A thick helmet shaped somewhat like a gecko covered his head completely, also mostly black with dark green decals.

“You’ll be completely covered,” Homelander said.

“That’s the idea,” Matt nodded, “It’s not like I’m super conventionally attractive.”

Homelander considered Matt’s appearance. Skinny and pale, long nose, bug eyes. Mousy coloring. “You’re not ugly,” he said. Matt's appearence was rather growing on him. He liked his smile, both his toothy and closed-lipped grins. He liked his eyes - big and brown. Guileless. There was no pretense to him, no artiface. 

“Oh stop, you’ll make me blush,” Matt rolled his eyes, “I might die if I lose too much of my brain matter, and a thick ballistic helmet will protect me. Plus, an actual secret identity lends itself to relatability – people can project on me easier.”

“You might die?” Homelander questioned. “Vought’s taken out your heart, like, seven times.”

“Yes, and yet, I need my brain. It kind of holds all of my identity, and maybe my soul… or something.”

“It’s a nondescript suit,” Homelander pointed out, “Don’t you want something a little more memorable?”

“The Gecko head is pretty memorable,” Matt disagreed, “And I want to be able to blend in at night – you’re powerful enough to be bright red, I’m not. And I like the pockets! I can hold your stuff for you.”

Homelander hated when people disagreed with him but Matt offered had good points. He let it go. “Okay, what about your character?”

Matt flipped past the suit design, “Comedic relief, a la Shaggy from Scooby Doo. I like food, jokes, and doing the right thing despite being a risk-adverse scaredy cat.”

“You’re not a scaredy cat,” Homelander said affronted.

“I’m not tough,” Matt countered.

Homelander looked at him like he was being unreasonable, because he was, “Are you serious? I’ve yet to see you show fear.”

“I’m scared of many things.”

“Like what?”

Matt opened his mouth, retort on his tongue, then swallowed his answer. Looked away from Homelander, considered. “I used to be very scared of men. Most men,” he said, honestly, “And I’m still scared of disappointing the people I love. And the future – sometimes I get overwhelmed with fear still.”

Homelander didn’t know what to do with all that vulnerability so he changed the subject, “Well, you are a foodie. But comedic relief? Please, you can do better than that.”

“I like it,” Matt shrugged. Closed the folder and tucked it into his bag. “Before I forget, the lemming thing is a myth. I looked it up. Lemmings don’t commit mass suicide. Disney set them up to die in a documentary decades ago and the urban myth has endured.”

“Huh. Honestly, I really don’t care. My point still stands. Humans are weak, panic easily, and often hasten their own deaths.” 

“We can agree to disagree on that,” Matt said, unphased by his contempt, “Anyway, are you ready to kick my ass again?”

“I thought you’d never ask."

Homelander liked the smell of his sweat, and the feel of Matt latching onto him. He'd spare him everyday, given the chance. And given that Matt was his to do with as he pleased, he would. 

Chapter Text

Matt had settled into a new routine.

Monday through Friday, he would go to the tower at 7am. Sometimes Homelander would meet him right when Matt arrived, but usually not; typically he’d appear an hour or two later, rarely later in the day. Matt would then do whatever he wanted, and sometimes what Homelander wanted. He’d usually leave around 5pm, except for the occasional days Homelander pushed to have dinner together (which, fortunately, wasn’t that often). Matt sometimes wondered when the honeymoon period would end – they spent so much time together, he was surprised the man wasn’t sick of him yet.

Matt had been given access to all of the resources a member of The Seven would have, but hadn’t been given the job obligations yet. So, he was being paid a ridiculous amount of money to swim in Vought’s Olympics-sized pool, train with Vought’s highly skilled martial artists, and hang out with Vought’s golden boy. His debut as a neighborhood hero was scheduled a month after his contract signing, so he was prepping for the work in the meantime.

He mostly chose to work on his combat skills with trainers, although Homelander and him would still tussle regularly too. Matt understood that saves were scheduled and micro-managed by Vought, but people’s lives were still at risk and Matt wanted to keep deaths to a minimum so he trained to disarm. When he wasn’t working on his combat skills, which was usually the bulk of his day, he was spending time with his boss.

It occurred to Matt that Homelander had never had a friend before him, although sometimes Matt felt like a pet. Or property. They talked a lot and Matt let Homelander guide the conversation; if he wanted to bitch about the filthy commoners or whatever, Matt would nonjudgmentally listen; if he wanted to geek out over American history, Matt would add on. He wasn’t a complete yes-man, since he couldn’t lie to Homelander, but he also wasn’t going to stop being chill as fuck and good company to get his boss to stop trying to be buddy-buddy. Inevitably Homelander would get bored of him.

Sometimes they watched movies together. Occasionally they’d play games – Matt had learned through some tense pool and Mario Kart rounds that Homelander could be a sore loser, and didn’t care much for co-op games like Portal 2, so the only games they played were aerobatics and hacky sack.

“This game is stupid,” Homelander had said, after dying to another Creeper. They only played Minecraft once.

“Respectfully, you couldn’t be more wrong. Me and my friends used to stay up until the birds started chirping during sleepovers playing this game. Look – we can be neighbors, and wear matching outfits, and have chickens! I’ll make you gold armor, since I can’t make you your suit.”

“I’m embarrassed for you,” Homelander pushed into Matt’s space, “I can take you into space right now, and you want to adopt chickens together.”

Matt had clicked off of Minecraft, “Ok old man, take me up to space.”

And so Homelander did take Matt up to space. And then he had dropped Matt, and caught him, and threw him, and caught him. Screaming and laughing, Matt had felt both like an adrenaline junky and a madman.

“This is insane!” Matt had screamed, grinning so hard it hurt, arms around Homelander’s neck after he caught him the third time. “This is, like, a million times more fun than a roller-coaster.”

Homelander’s joy at getting to treat Matt like a ragdoll suddenly cooled. He expression deadened. “You would definitely die if I let you go. The impact would turn you into mush – they’d have to scrape you off the pavement. There’d be no part of you left for a funeral.”

Maybe Matt would’ve been scared by that if Homelander wasn’t carrying him bridal-style, but he was, so Matt rested his head on Homelander’s pec and sighed, “Yeah, I’d be Matt soup.”

“I can kill you.”

He’d already died once anyway. “You won’t,” Matt said, confident. He might kill him later, but not while he’s genuinely having fun. “I know you won’t,” right now.

Homelander dropped him again, and caught him again. And so aerobatics became a game they played, just as sparring had, and hacky sack.

Overall, if Matt were to label their relationship, he’d say he was an emotional-support animal for Homelander.

Like now, as Homelander paced back and forth, frustrated at the recent news coverage of The Deep’s most recent mission.

“I am surrounded by idiots!” Homelander complained, “How hard would it have been to ask the fishes to quietly drown the smugglers? Instead of sic’ing sharks to tear them apart in front of a recording bystanders! I mean, seriously, we’ve been doing so good!”

Matt scrolled on Homelander’s phone on the couch as his boss paced. Even worse, news had just broken that The Deep’s victims weren’t drug smugglers but American frat boys that’d gotten a little too sloppy with their illicit drugs  – but Matt didn’t think adding more fuel to Homelander’s fire would be smart though, so he stayed silent.

“And his interview! God, he can’t even handle softballs when he’s unscripted. He deserves to have his arms ripped off and shoved deep into his disgusting fucking slits.”

Matt set his boss’s phone aside. He could validate his boss without affirming that violent impulse. “Maybe it’s all the salt water eating away at his brain.”

Homelander was distracted somewhat from his upset, “Do you think that might be a real thing?”

“Well, seawater corrosion is intense, with all the salt and underwater microbes. There’s nothing but shoes and jewelry to mark the people who sunk with the Titanic,” Matt pondered, “What are the chances that The Deep has the power to talk to fish, breathe under water, and resist organic decomposition?”

Homelander paused, “That would explain a lot, actually.”

“Or he’s just a dumbass,” Matt said.

Homelander barked out a laugh. “Or both. The microbes are eating what little he already had.”

“Yeah,” Matt agreed. He opened his mouth to continue, then stopped himself. Matt wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on his sweats.

Homelander noticed the change in Matt, like he always did. Every exhale, every heartbeat – it was almost exhausting being around someone so perceptive all the time. “What’s wrong?”

“Uh, I’m not sure if I should say what I want to say.”

“We’re always honest with each other,” Homelander stated. It was true, even if Matt often felt he was lying by omission. Homelander however, seemed to enjoy being his horrible uncensored self to Matt.

Matt met Homelander’s piercing gaze and gathered up his courage, “You could always send him away. Put him to work recovering shipwrecks or something.”

Homelander blinked at him. “Why were you nervous to say that?”

Because he was derailing the plot. Because he was asking Homelander to betray one of his most loyal sycophants. Because he was telling the strongest man around what to do.

“It’s not really my place,” Matt answered tentatively, honestly, “It’s your team, you understand the dynamics of it all better than I do. Just because I think The Deep is a useless sex pest doesn’t give me the right to, uh, try and tell you what to do.”

Homelander looked at Matt with a thoughtful expression.

It was really unfair how pretty Homelander looked. Of course it was a tragedy for the world that he lacked a moral code and any solid sense of decency, but it was fortunate for Matt in moments like these. If Homelander was both pretty and kind, Matt would’ve melted into a blubbering mess of infatuation weeks ago.

“You don’t want to join The Seven, and yet, you suggest I remove The Deep,” Homelander said.

Matt nodded slowly. They had talked about this briefly, and Homelander hadn’t pushed then. “There’s hundreds of heroes out there – surely, many of them would be better than The Deep.”

Homelander sat next to Matt on the couch. He put his arm on the back of the couch, behind Matt, and leaned into his space, “How about I remove The Deep, with the condition that you join The Seven to replace him?”

Matt didn’t want to be in The Seven, “Madelyn doesn’t like me,” he said truthfully, “She won’t let me. And I’m basically just a knock-off version of Black Noir.”

“I’m the leader of The Seven, and you provide comic relief – unlike Black Noir,” Homelander responded, batting away his excuses as if they were flies, “I’ll make it work.”

In for a penny, in for a pound; Matt was already in deep with Vought, and if he could get The Deep stuck at sea then he’d be removing at least one problem. Kevin could have consensual relations with octopuses or whatever and human women wouldn’t have to worry about him. Starlight wouldn’t ever have to encounter him.

“Okay, yeah,” Matt nodded, feeling like he was making a horrible mistake, “It’s a deal.”

“Perfect,” Homelander grinned a shark-like grin, “I’ll tell her right now.”

Matt blinked and Homelander disappeared. He was such a weirdo.

Matt woke up upset.

He had dreamed that Homelander and him were an item, and the dream had been hot as fuck.

He took a cold shower. It was perfectly natural, but still upsetting. Homelander was amoral and strange; a homeschooled test-tube baby with the emotional intelligence of a teenager and the powers of a demon. But he was also beautiful, and the past four weeks had basically been one long hang-out session between the two of them (well, most days they only spent two or three hours together because Homelander had obligations, but still a lot of time together). It was perfectly understandable why his subconscious mind had done that to him.

Matt cursed his brain still. It was out of the question. For one, Homelander did not know how to have a healthy relationship; he already treated Matt like he was his property, and it’d only get worse if they were together. Plus, he was straight as an arrow. Matt knew he was having difficulties with Maeve and Madelyn – not that Homelander had admitted to their sex stuff to Matt yet – because Homelander vented to him about everything including his relationships, but he was still notoriously down bad for women in The Boys. And of course, maybe Matt would have to kill him… or preferably depower him.

He had been thinking about exposing Vought. Not just about Compound V, but also the inhumane experiments and the pharmaceutical conspiracy to supercharge war. There would be fallout inevitably and Matt didn’t want to watch Homelander snap and nuke the world. Vought had made him, and he was still so wrapped up in the company that Matt doubted he knew where the performance ended and he began. Who was he, without Vought? Unmoored, somehow more dangerous. Matt didn’t want to kill him, even if it was possible with Soldier Boy, and he knew if he depowered Homelander then he’d never be forgiven. So, even if Homelander was attracted to him (impossible), and could handle boundaries (improbable), it would still be wrong to date him.

That dream was a message, and Matt decided to listen. He needs to get dicked down by a beautiful man that isn’t his boss.

In her past life, her answer to the hypothetical what would you do if you were a man for a day, was the boring put my dick in everything. But he hadn’t lived up to that yet.

Saturday afternoon, Matt packed some of his apartment away. The movers were coming Monday to grab his stuff and he would be stuck in the tower with his beautiful boss. So, Saturday night Matt dressed up – distressed jeans, a black but sheer top, eyeliner like Gerald Way – and went on the prowl.

He hadn’t been a big fan of one-nights because the first time she had done that, it had been traumatizing, but he had largely enjoyed clubbing in college with friends. He had been familiar with the bars and clubs back home. But he’d only been out on the town as a young woman, and was nervous about going out as a man. At least his chances of being brutalized were lower, being male and having somewhat enhanced strength.

Matt went to the gay club nearest to him. And, to deal with his nerves, he drank. A lot.

He danced. He talked to strangers. He flirted. He drank some more. He didn’t have to hook up with someone tonight, he reminded himself mentally, he was just familiarizing himself with the scene.

An absurd amount of vodka later, Matt was back on the dancefloor. A beautiful short man started dancing with him. Matt let him get handsy and started getting handsy himself.

“Can I kiss you?” the shorter man asked with a heavy accent.

“Please do,” Matt said.

The two kissed, in the sloppy way two people kiss when they’ve met in the club, and Matt was drunk enough not to care about the stubble scratching his face. Matt let the shorter man take his hand and lead him off the dancefloor, out of the bar, and into the alley.

The alleyway had shitty lighting, but it was somehow less dim than the bar, so Matt got a good look at the man’s face.

“Oh shit,” Matt said.

“What is it?” Frenchie said, accent heavy. “Is something the matter?”

Matt was too drunk to deal with this intelligently. He closed his eyes, opened them real slow, “No, no. You’re just gorgeous.”

Frenchie kissed him again, deep and slow, and Matt responded with the same energy. He was going to get dicked down tonight alright.