Summary: As Madelyn Sitwell's personal assistant, Helena Flores finds herself caught between protecting her job, and more importantly her life, or helping Billy Butcher bring down the supe who killed her best friend, Becca.
AN: So I freakin' love this show, and this idea has been rattling around my brain for a while. Hope you enjoy the ride! This first chapter takes place in season 1x05.
And So It Goes
1: Sasquatch & Chili Cheese
The Believe Expo, contrary to popular belief, was one of Vought's most important events of the year. Bringing all the supe-worshipping Christians together at a steaming hot fairgrounds served to solidify their conservative base, tote out some Americana via Homelander's appearance, and put on the show to end all shows up on that stage.
Now they had Starlight to complete the look—the doe-innocent persona giving off Virgin Mary vibes. Helena rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses.
Ugh. Fuck me.
Helena Flores had grown up Catholic, like most good little girls in a Hispanic household. Even now, for how long she'd been a party to this overpriced scam and hypocrisy, it still made her a bit sick to watch Ezekiel to stand above all these starry-eyed idiots and claim superheroes were ordained by God.
She maintained a different view: all supes were whores.
Once the opener came to a close and the next B-list supe with actual, goddamn angel wings took to the stage, Helena noticed a red and blue blur flying overhead and heard the distant thump of a landing. Sighing quietly, she held her clipboard and tablet closer to her chest and made her way back to the staff-only tents, raising her sunglasses to the top of her head. Homelander was right on time, which meant she had to plaster a more neutral expression on her face before he came thundering in.
And thunder he did, with Ashley trailing quickly (and nervously) behind. Homelander's expectant gaze met Helena's the moment he was inside the tent.
"Grab Madelyn," he demanded from her. "I need to talk to her about these fucking talking points."
Ah yes. Helena noticed the single page in his hands that no doubt held the speech Mr. Edgar had prepared for his final address at the convention. He'd always had an issue with the CEO putting words in his mouth, but it was becoming more of an issue in recent weeks.
Helena shot a thin look at Ashley, who stood by the tent's exit like she couldn't wait to bolt. Useless bitch.
"Miss Stillwell isn't here today," Helena said, shifting her gaze back to Homelander. "Would you like Ashley to go through the talking points with you?"
But Homelander was already raising a finger, talking over her. "Helena."
The way he approached her, using his full height to deliberately intimidate her, only lit her blood with anger. Though her spine and muscles did tense up as he somewhat invaded her personal space, and he looked down with clear annoyance. Her fingers curled tightly around the tablet. She let nothing show on her face, save for polite patience. But she knew—and he knew—the act she was playing.
"Where is she?" he asked. She steeled herself, quickly counting backwards from ten in her mind and taking a calming breath through her nose.
"She's taking her son to the pediatrician," she answered, "but you know I'm here to help make sure the Expo runs smoothly. I'm here to help you."
The words were acid on her tongue, but in the ten long years at Madelyn Stillwell's beck and call, she'd learned to adopt the woman's serene professionalism and subtly manipulative, ass-kissing tone.
Homelander's lips pursed, nostrils flaring a bit as he huffed and stormed out of the tent. Relieved of his presence, Helena let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and turned to Ashley.
"You didn't tell him?" Her voice was harsher than she meant to be, but it had the desired effect.
Ashley flinched. Her eyes grew wide and apologetic. Helena knew the younger woman was just covering her ass, and her obvious fear. "I—I forgot."
Helena scoffed and checked her tablet for the schedule of events. Starlight's talk with the teens should be over by now, which left Ezekiel's private gathering and a few meet-and-greets with Starlight and the lesser supes before the final show. No doubt Homelander was already half-way across town to stalk a pediatrician's office.
She couldn't help but feel slightly guilty for that, but it was Madelyn's problem. Homelander would always be Madelyn's problem, and that was her own damn fault as far as Helena was concerned.
Even so, she sighed and pinched between her brows.
"Now thanks to your little fuck up, Madelyn's gunna be up my ass," she snapped. Looking up from her tablet, she leveled Ashley with a terse glare. "Make sure Starlight is prepped for her five minutes on the stage. I don't want any more surprises for the rest of the day."
Ashley couldn't hide the way her face twisted with annoyance, either at having her wrist slapped, or being ordered around by someone who wasn't technically her boss.
Helena didn't give two shits. Right now, she was the boss, and they both knew full well that Helena's report to Stillwell of today's events would be more than thorough.
This is why I can't fuck off these five pounds from Christmas, she thought, mid-bite of shoving practically half a burger into her face. Aside from committing mass murder, or worse, running her mouth, filling it with food was the best course of action she'd found. Nothing else quite destabilized the stress that came with unsavory encounters with Homelander. And they were never not unsavory.
The urge to let out a button of her pencil skirt reminded Helena of her binges in the last six months since Christmas. Yeah. More like ten pounds.
What-fucking-ever. If her hips and ass had to pay the price of keeping her "Vought Face" in check, then so be it. But maybe she was a little self-conscious of her less than ladylike appetite as she chewed, scanning the passerby of guests around her for any undue staring.
Among the throng of excited chattering supe-lovers, she paused on someone who didn't look like he was enjoying himself. His placid frown was noticeable, even with the thick black beard. The more Helena stared, the more something tugged in the back of her mind. There was something familiar about those furrowed brows, the shape and line of his shoulders in that Hawaiian shirt—oddly colorful for someone who frowned so deeply.
His head turned, and before she could look away the line of his gaze claimed hers, holding her there with a shrewd intensity that surprised her.
"Oh! Miss Flores, is that you?"
Suddenly a middle-aged woman was standing in front of her, talking eagerly with Starlight in tow. Helena recognized the resemblance immediately and set her burger aside on a nearby crafts table, offering Mrs. January her mostly undivided attention.
"Having a good time, Donna?" she asked, smiling politely as she grabbed a napkin and wiped her hands.
Donna nodded and touched Helena's arm more familiarly than she was comfortable with, but she ignored that to keep her smile in place. "Of course! I just had a couple questions about Annie's meet-and-greet."
Helena took the time to smooth over Donna's worries that her daughter wouldn't have time to personalize signatures for every single one of her adoring fans. After which, Helena's chronic headache started to tingle between her eyes. She ignored it, downing a diet coke because there was no booze at this (pun intended) God-forsaken convention.
She donned her sunglasses again and did what she did best: dissolved into the crowd to observe, add to her notes that she'd later deliver to Madelyn and input another successful event to their records. All while she watched t-shirts and Ezekiel merch being sold and barbeque eaten, she couldn't get Mr. Hawaiian Shirt out of her head. Fucking pink flamingoes and blue palm fronds, dark beard and hair and eyes watching her like he could see straight through her, and not in an x-ray vision kind of way.
She didn't see him again, not even when the meet-and-greet lines finally petered out and people returned to the stage seating in droves. It was time for the big finale, and she watched impassively while Ezekiel and Starlight took her places on the stage, with Ashley and Donna January not far behind. The crowd's cheering raised to earsplitting levels once Homelander rose up onto center stage, his smile charming and boyish to match his confident swagger.
Helena tapped her clipboard, a bit anxiety in the tick. She knew he wasn't happy about his talking points, but for fuck's sake, she thought, stick to the goddamn script.
It started off well. He addressed the tragedy of Flight 37, the memory of which still churned her gut terribly. Then, as he paced the long stage, Helena's spine began to tighten.
"We were attacked. America was attacked," he said to the crowd, then stared down the barrel of the cameras capturing him from every angle. "Some people…they want me to come out here and speak empty platitudes to you all. A little bit of corporate talk…but I don't want to do that. I can't do that. You want to know why?"
You asshole. Helena grit her teeth. A few more expletives rattled off her tongue, and not all of them in English; there was nothing she could do at this point. There was no turning off the cameras, especially with how he was working the crowd into a frenzy. By the time he was done, she suspected they'd be frothing at the mouth. He proceeded to use the "God told me to" premise to rationalize his sense of American justice, which would've been horrifying on its own. But by no means was he finished.
"But no, no, no, apparently I have to wait for Congress to say it's okay," he snarked. "I say, I answer to a higher law. Wasn't I chosen to save you? Is it not my God-given purpose to protect the United States of America?"
She had to hand it to him.
He knew his audience well.
"I can't apologize enough, Madelyn," Helena spoke into her cell as she walked up to her apartment building. She greeted one of her neighbors with a tired smile as the young woman and her boyfriend came off the elevator with their dog.
A rare sigh came from the other end of the line. "It's not your fault."
Helena nearly tripped on her way into the elevator. She expected a verbal forty lashings, not understanding from her boss. Not knowing what to say, she kept quiet, waiting for Madelyn to continue.
"He's trying to prove a point to me," said Madelyn. She sounded as tired as Helena felt, but no less calculating. "I'll handle it. Thank you for your report on Starlight."
"Of course," she said. "See you in the morning."
Ending the call, she got off on the third floor and headed for her apartment unit.
Helena's lips thinned as her headache pulsed, full force. She didn't want to know what kind of clusterfuck Starlight's hefty confession of sexual assault and agnosticism on stage would bring tomorrow, but thankfully, that wasn't her problem either. It was Ashley's.
She already hated herself for thinking of how this would affect her own job first, before considering what Annie January had been going through without Helena knowing. An ignorance she was sure Madelyn Stillwell couldn't claim to have.
It reopened a slew of old wounds, and Helena was wholly unprepared to deal with a single one of them tonight. With a heavy sigh, she stabbed her key into the lock and stepped through her apartment door. It was dark inside with the curtains closed, and she took some solace in the familiar peace of her home.
Still, she broke the quiet by kicking off her heels as hard as she felt like, satisfied by the loud thump one of them made while crashing into the living room coffee table. A sharp scree from her cat freaking the fuck out offered her a twinge of guilt. His black and white fur was all puffed out when he eventually came to rub up on her calf in greeting.
"Sorry, Gordo, but you should be used to it by now," she said. She wouldn't be surprised if there was a new dent in the wall. "Hungry?"
A vocal meow answered her, and she smirked, bending down to run a hand over Gordo's back and chubby sides. No matter what she did, changing his food, limiting treats, putting him on a diet, she couldn't get the damn cat to lose one pound.
"You're a fat fucking cat, you know that?"
Helena dumped her purse and phone on the kitchen counter before flipping on the kitchen light. She opened up a can for him, but skipped opening up the fridge for herself. Somehow, she had lost her own appetite.
She didn't even bother turning on the lights in the living room as she sat down heavily on her couch, resting elbows on the top of her thighs and head in her hands, wishing this wasn't her life. Now that she was alone in the dark, anxiety coiled hotly in her chest.
You can't quit, she reminded herself. You can't, you can't, you can't.
A knock on the door startled her. Not just because it was intruding in her solitude, but because she almost never had company. Work was firmly kept at work, her family didn't live in New York, and she wasn't friendly enough with any of her neighbors to warrant a visit.
Huffing in annoyance, she got up and went to the door. Instinct told her to check the peephole.
She really should've listened to that instinct.
She opened the door to none other than Mr. Hawaiian Shirt, or more accurately, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Grinning down at her just on the wrong end of pleasant.
"Evenin', Helena," he spoke, and the minute his East London accent washed over her, recognition hit her like a mallet on the head.
"Billy?" she asked incredulously. "Billy Butcher?"
"Been awhile." One of his eyebrows rose, making his grin a little more charming. She couldn't help but stare blankly at him, until the air between them eventually turned awkward. He gave an expectant look.
"Gunna invite me in, or we just gunna stand here all night fuckin' long?"
The shock of his presence must have been short-wiring her brain, because she stepped aside without resistance and let Billy Butcher into her apartment. She hadn't seen him in…well, roughly eight years now.
"Dark as fuck in here," he remarked, flipping on the lights in the hall as he passed the kitchen.
"My God," Helena shook her head, coming out of her daze. "I didn't recognize you with the Sasquatch beard."
His smirk kicked up on one side as he glanced at her over his shoulder. He then took a comfortable seat on her couch and watched her with those dark eyes of his. She could assume he had seen her at the Believe Expo and sought her out, but why?
"I think you recognized me just fine," he said. "Know how to pack away a burger and chips smothered in chili cheese, don't ya?"
She fought a blush of embarrassment, crossing her arms, then her legs after she sat down at a lounge chair beside the couch. It was her favorite chair—ugly and brown, but comfy enough to envelop her frame almost as good as a man. "What can I do for you, Billy?"
Glancing at her bare legs and feet, his eyes dragged up until they met hers, shifting with something more serious. Something that evoked faint alarm bells in her mind.
"You've been workin' at Vought for a long time," he said. "Since before we met, you've been kissin' Madelyn Stillwell's asshole."
He leaned in towards, one hand bracing on the couch cushion. She couldn't look away from his face, made of steel and fire and knowing.
"Tell me about Compound V."