And So It Goes
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6: Best Laid Threats: Part I
The sentiment could not be understated: Helena really hated her fucking job.
By 4pm, she caught a short break between a litany of meetings and slumped over half of a paltry chicken salad. Eventually she got sick of chewing the bland food and left it aside, sitting back in her desk chair. The large flatscreen TV across the office played the news on mute—more about Compound V, the rise of supe terrorists, and Stormfront's latest "rage against the machine" rant against Vought.
Even though the threads of Vought's public image were fraying now that people knew about Compound V, it was Helena's job to keep those seams from busting apart.
Secretly wanting Vought to fail wasn't making much of a difference. She had to try to put out the proverbial fires, to kiss-ass to stockholders and investors and pay off government officials and whoever else Stan Edgar told her to butter up. But it was exhausting, and honestly, taking a toll on her conscience.
She hadn't truly slept in weeks.
Not to mention, she hadn't been able to move an inch in locating Vogelbaum. Aside from Becca's location, Helena was willing to bet he had other useful information about Vought, and possibly how to cripple it.
However, she couldn't reach out to the CIA either. Her cell phone, provided by Vought, was most definitely chipped according to a Facetime chat with Frenchie and Hughie via her 007 phone. Though Butcher had already swept her apartment and her car for planted bugs, she didn't want to take a chance that Vought was watching her in other ways.
That, and Butcher had expressly warned her to leave finding Vogelbaum to him.
Helena sighed. She took out the little red stress ball (circa early 2000s though it was) from her desk, squeezing it hard, until her fingers ached. Between Butcher being a pain, Vogelbaum evading her search, and Mr. Edgar busting her ass, she was starting to feel drowned by the very air she was breathing.
Her office door suddenly opened, making her jolt in her seat. Homelander smiled a little, she thought in satisfaction from catching her by surprise.
"Homelander," she greeted, forcing the wryness out of her voice. "What can I do for you?"
He paced the common area for a moment, letting his heavy boots on her carpet whittle away at her patience. Then he gathered his gloved hands behind his back, and turned to her. His grin fell.
"You can tell me what the fuck you're actually doing in this sparkly new office," he said.
Good. Off to a great start, she wanted to sigh.
"Eating your fucking salad and squeezing that damn ball," he snarked. He then approached her desk, leaning close enough for her to resist leaning back in her chair again. She would try to ignore that he'd been watching her through the walls of her office like he once had with Stillwell.
"What do you have to be so fucking stressed about?" he said. "I'm the one who's losing points for no goddamn reason."
Ah. So that was what this was about. His damn ratings.
Well, his public image was certainly suffering as of late. Stormfront seemed to be picking up all the slack that the recent memes and social media posts were lacking in his favor. But that was not Helena's fucking problem. It was Ashley's, and his.
Very fortunately, Mr. Edgar pinged her phone with a new meeting, starting in five minutes. Gathering a notepad and some files she meant to bring him this morning, Helena stood and offered Homelander a nod.
"I understand your frustrations," she said. "Unfortunately, I do have a meeting with Mr. Edgar. If you'd like to walk with me, we can continue this conversation."
Scoffing derisively, he allowed her to pass by him on her way out of the office. That he followed her didn't surprise her, though she'd hoped he'd find that portrait of himself in the hallway more interesting than hashing out his complaints.
"As for your stats, we have the entire PR team working on a new campaign for you," she started, but a hand, stronger than any vice, gripped her arm and shoved her against the wall hard enough for her skull to smack against the plaster.
The air was knocked from her lungs as she stared up at Homelander, wide-eyed and stunned and inwardly pissed.
But also, fucking terrified.
He looked down at her coolly. Even with her heels, he stood roughly a foot over her.
"What the fuck are you doing here at this company," he grated out, "if my numbers don't matter to you?"
His fingers moved from her arm up to her neck. His thumb gradually put more pressure on her trachea until it became painfully impossible to breathe, and she scraped at the wall with her nails, blinking against the well of frustrated, panicked tears. Don't let him see. Don't let him see you're afraid.
Homelander gazed up at the heavens, letting out a sigh of exasperation.
"Don't give me that bullshit tone," he said, "like you're trying to handle me. Be honest, Helena."
An echo of a memory filtered in her mind, from the day this all started with Butcher forcing his way into her life. Give us the truth, now, he'd said.
The gears of Helena's mind turned frantically, grasping for something to say that would get her the hell out of this. Homelander wasn't a complete idiot. He knew she wasn't like Ashley, or even like Edgar.
But…shit. That's it, she thought, her face going numb and her nails biting uselessly into the hand around her throat.
She saw it. The truth, now that he'd resorted to intimidating her physically. He was trying to figure her out.
What would you give to read my fucking mind? she wondered, studying the way he watched her. He released his thumb from her throat enough for her to suck in a proper breath, and then eventually speak.
"The truth is, you lasered an innocent young man when you went rogue outside of U.S. borders," she said, with difficulty. Her voice was hoarse as she paused every now and then for wheezing. She tried to show nothing on her face when his twisted up, both angry and petulant.
"And in a public assembly in front of our building, you implied there were other cases like this in the past. We're doing everything we can to mitigate the damage." Helena gently massaged her aching neck. "But we're less than credible right now, the way Stormfront's pulling Vought through shit any chance she gets. Is that honest enough for you?"
Maybe there was a part of her that really had a death wish.
Homelander's hand replaced hers and the pressure on her throat returned; she had a feeling he was going to put her head right through the fucking wall. But then he leaned in, letting his body cage her into the wall more than his goddamn hand. Her eyes flitted past him and tried to connect with anyone passing by, but there was no one in sight. The hallway was empty.
"You act all cold and stoic, but I can hear your pulse racing every time we have our little chats," Homelander said, tilting his head as his brows rose and a smirk spread across his face. "Do I make you uncomfortable, Helena, or is it…something else?"
Oh, you fucking—
It took everything she had not to spit directly into his eye hole. He was revoltingly close, and his touch was harder than a whale's dick. She met his eyes.
"I assure you," she managed out. "We're working on your numbers."
Much longer and her lungs and heart were going to give out. She could see darkness and spots on the edge of her vision.
But, with a final annoyed grunt, his grip released and the air in front of her was blessedly empty. She gripped the wall to try and stop from falling hard on her knees (didn't work too well). Meanwhile, she all but hacked out one of her lungs.
By the time she could look up with a wet and bleary gaze, the flash of his cape was gone.
While getting out of her black sedan, Helena glimpsed her own face in the rearview mirror. Her normally tan skin was pale, her eyes red. She gingerly stretched her neck in the reflection and saw the beginnings of a yellowish-purple mark. Clearing her throat, wincing at the pain, she shook her head and grabbed her purse.
No cooking tonight, she decided. She didn't have the energy. It would be ordering in from her favorite Chinese restaurant, complete with eggrolls, dumplings, and crab Rangoon. And the cold beer in her fridge was already calling her name.
Smiling a little at her plan, she unlocked the door to her apartment and found the lights were already on.
She stilled in the doorway. Her smile fell as fear crept up her spine…until Butcher came into view, pacing across her living room like a circus tiger waiting for his chance to bite into some tender ass. And not in the human fun way.
"I'm not in the mood today, Billy," she snapped. She dragged herself through the front door so she could dump her stuff on the kitchen counter.
"Can't say I am either, love," Butcher said. "But, Christ…I don't know. Everything's fucked." He didn't really look at her yet, even though he stopped his pacing.
Helena sighed. He was riled about something, but she just didn't have the energy to care like she usually did. She made a beeline for her chair, intending to remove her heels and simply exist in a vegetative state for a while.
Until one of her bruised knees twinged, and her ankle wobbled.
Butcher caught her fast by the arms before she could fall. His hands were warm, and his grip wasn't painful in the slightest, just firm and steady. It still made her gasp, and on some terrible reflex, she flinched just for a moment in fear.
Butcher noticed. Immediately he let go, though his hands remained hovering over her arms in case she toppled over again. Her heart lurching, she avoided his furrowed brows and hazel eyes and continued to her chair.
"What happened?" she asked. "Something's obviously up, or you wouldn't be here."
His head tilted as he watched her with a calculating look. She waited with bated breath. Please…don't ask.
As if answering her prayers, the intensity of his gaze eased away from her and he sat opposite on the couch. For a couple of silent minutes, he didn't speak. She waited, knowing he was working himself up to something.
"I found Becca," he said. Helena's eyes grew wide. Gripping the armrests, she practically hauled herself to the edge of her chair even though it was hard working her way out of the deep back and cushion around her.
"What?" she hollered, still half-consumed by the chair.
"I found her," Butcher repeated. "I was…with her."
Tears pricked at her eyes, and a few even fell. She knew there was more to it, as he was looking down at the coffee table rather than her. "Then why isn't she here, Billy?"
It took him a moment, but eventually he was honest. Becca had a son. Homelander's son, and she refused to leave without him. She refused Butcher, forced him away.
Helena couldn't fathom it.
"Tell me," Butcher said, "What the ever-living fuck was it all for then?"
She had no answer for that, as it was the same question turning over and over in her own mind. She felt dizzy with confusion.
"You offered to get Ryan out too?" she asked. He nodded, though his eyes were dark.
"For all the good it done me."
Helena frowned. That right there. She knew then what might've held Becca back, but Helena didn't have the heart to condemn him. If she had been in his place, or even in Becca's for that matter, she didn't know if she would be strong enough, or kind enough to care for her rapist's son.
Butcher finally met her stare with a shrewd one of his own. He rested his elbows on his knees and gestured at her. "Why'd you come in here all huffin' puffin' mad. Supe spat in your coffee?"
For once, she didn't appreciate his teasing. Her fingers curled around the armrests of her chair a bit tighter.
"Let's just say being Stillwell is harder than I thought…" She leaned down and brushed her hand over her cat's back and tail when he came to nose at her ankle. "I don't know how much more I can take."
With her eyes cast down, she didn't notice how Butcher's narrowed on her, his frown deepening at her darkened, uneasy demeanor. He wasn't used to her being the more worrisome one between them.
"Something happen?" he asked.
Her insides chilled at the question, but she tried her best to brush it off. Conceal, don't feel. Be a fucking kid's cartoon if you have to.
She didn't want him to think she couldn't handle this. Literally her one job in this whole operation against Vought, was staying at Vought, being their eyes and ears in the company. If she couldn't do that much…
"Just the usual bullshit," she said, and got up so she could find the old Chinese takeout menu she kept in one of the kitchen drawers. "I'm getting some orange chicken and house fried rice. Want anything in particular, or—"
Butcher's gentle, but firm hand on her shoulder stopped her. "Wait a fucking second."
She gasped as his free hand came up and stopped just shy of brushing her neck. His eyes were dark and damn near furious, zeroed in on the stark bruising along her throat. "Have a brawl with the car door, did we?"
His tone was dry, but his gaze warned her not to lie. Give us the truth, now.
A knock at the door saved her. She lowered her gaze and stepped out of his pseudo-touch, and away from him. To her, his concern seemed almost brotherly, and she didn't want to think about why that irritated her. Not again, anyway.
Knowing Butcher was waiting somewhere behind her, she braced herself an opened the front door. There stood the uncertain faces of Hughie Campbell and Mother's Milk.