And So It Goes
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3: Helen Flowers
Billy Butcher couldn't be asked to remember all the names of his wife's friends, but he remembered meeting Helena Flores well enough. She had been at the wedding and all that, but for him, there'd been only one woman worth looking at that day.
It was about a year later, upon their recent move to New York City. She'd invaded his house on a Saturday and, together with his wife, filled the living room with ever-jarring Spice Girls hits while he tried in vain to work in the office with the goddamn dog. But he'd promised not to meddle in Becca's girls' day, so he'd kept himself busy. It hadn't taken long for the pungent smell of weed to coil up under the door and hit him secondhand.
When the Spice Girls mercifully changed to some girly romcom, he finally tempted fate and crept out the office, feeling a bit peckish. There he found the kitchen pantry was in a right state.
All the crisps in the fuckin' house, he grumbled. And all the beer, he noticed, upon peering around the corner at the display of empty green bottles on the coffee table. Three each, a whole pack of Presidente's between them and two whole blunts, evidenced by the roaches in the little glass ashtray.
Jesus. His girl was a menace.
And so was her friend, talking and laughing louder than the fucking movie they clearly weren't watching. Billy leaned in the gap between the kitchen into the living room, just to check on things.
They'd pushed the coffee table out to the middle, making room for them to sit on the floor in front of the couch, with their spread of Cool Ranch Doritos (his, goddamn it), tortilla chips and salsa, remnants of a frozen pizza, Oreos, and other junk spread around them. Becca was painting the other woman's toes, clearly with less precision than she thought she had.
"I know you remember, Hel," Becca pressed, giggling as she missed a toe completely and painted a long red strip on tanned ankle. "High school, junior prom."
"Look at what'ch you're doing! For fuck's sake," Helena shouted through a fit of laughter. "I'll never forgive you. Setting me up with that weird guy from…from…"
"He was my partner in Honors Chem," Becca supplied. "He really liked you!"
"Psh," Helena snorted. "He kept calling me Helen Flowers. You didn't help, by the way."
Another giggle from Becca, and she started on the second set of toes. "I might'a told Jen over in Yearbook to keep that going."
"God, what a bitch," Helena bemoaned. "My parents were very confused by the captions on my yearbook pictures…what was th' guy's name? I swear, I can only remember our last year of college. Also your fault, by the way."
Billy rolled his eyes. These broads are fuckin' crossfaded.
"Poor guy," Becca said, smiling impishly. "He was a Scott Pilgrim fan."
Helena huffed a laugh. "Yeah, a fucking nerd with Star Trek briefs."
Billy silently maintained that he sort of liked Star Trek. The original though. Not that poncey blonde twat in the newer films.
"Ye be not to cast the first stone, oh Helen Flowers," Becca said, even though her voice wabbled with laughter and inebriation. "You still let him do you with those Star Trek briefs. In the back of your car."
"Ya know what? Star Trek got down, I'm not even gunna lie." Helena laughed through her admission, pressing her forehead into Becca's shoulder to keep herself upright. She wiggled her newly painted toes in front of their faces. "That boy was a gamer, he had dexterous goddamn fingers."
Billy couldn't help his own amusement, scoffing quietly to himself. With a shake of his head, he returned to his office cave with his wife's favorite secret stash of peanut butter cookies—in retaliation for his Doritos.
"It's a bad fucking idea," M.M. said, effectively knocking Butcher out of the memory. He stared back at M.M., raising a brow in silent question.
"She may work for Vought, but she's basically a civilian, Butcher," M.M. argued. "If she gets caught with a connection to us, especially to you, she's gunna get killed. Then they'll kill us."
"Wait, you think they'd kill her? She's one of their…people," Hughie blanched. He always got nervous at an idea if M.M. was against it, especially if it risked getting someone killed. Butcher understood that, even kind of preferred that quality in the kid. M.M. just stared at him in a tired father sort of way.
"Obviously."
Even Frenchie gave Hughie a pitying look. "Have you not learned, petit Hughie?"
"Just, ya know what? Stop calling me that." Hughie raised an annoyed hand at Frenchie and cast his worried Bambi eyes back on Butcher.
"She knows the consequences," Butcher said, "and she's on board. I'm not about to look a gift horse in the bloody mouth."
By the knowing look on M.M.'s face, he didn't buy the she willingly offered to help bullshit, but he wasn't going to say it. Frenchie also knew better, and just looked resigned. Soon Hughie would fall in with the plan, like he normally did, and then they could get to business as usual. Maybe part of him did feel reluctant to put the girl in harm's way, but she had her own demons to soothe, just like he had his to help him burn until the end of this.
"What you got her doin' exactly?" M.M. asked.
Helena combed through yet another set of restricted files, finding nothing of value. There were no official records of Compound V. Their many labs scattered throughout the country were invoiced for pharmaceutical research, sure, but for painkillers and other nonsense, not for an unknown drug using human infants as guinea pigs.
Helena forced herself to calm down and breathe evenly, before she vomited her breakfast right here in this dusty, glorified storage room. Any records she might've found of Compound V on her own computer had been erased at some point, without her permission.
Which means that someone had rooted through her computer before, and had potentially seen her favorites bar: lately filled with single-serving Pinterest recipes. In her defense, it wasn't like she cooked for anyone other than herself, and she didn't like wasting food.
"The fuck are you doing in here?" Ashley barked from the doorway. If that wasn't startling enough, the woman had angry tears in her eyes and a death grip on her phone, like she was waiting to chuck it like a projectile at any moment.
"Jesus," Helena muttered, calming a hand over her heart. "What's the problem? What the fuck happened to you?"
"Like you care," the other woman spat. "Oh, and Stillwell wants to see you. One more favor before I officially 'exit the premises.'"
Helena's mouth opened in shock. "She fired you?"
With a final sound of frustration, Ashley spun on her heel and slammed the door closed behind her. Helena heard the loud clacking of her shoes until she reached the elevator. Closing up the files she'd opened, Helena left the archive and made her way up to Madelyn Stillwell's office. She hesitated outside her door, smoothing a hand over her hair, blouse and slacks before she entered. A tendril of unease worked its way through her chest and stiffened her spine, even as she greeted her boss politely and sat in one of the guest chairs in front of the large desk.
"I'm sure you know by now, Ashley has been terminated," said Madelyn. Her smile became somewhat tight. "I've spoken to Starlight as well."
Ah, Helena nodded. They very well couldn't terminate Starlight as well, no matter how much Madelyn clearly wanted to. And apparently Annie January was smart enough to understand her position. Blowing the Believe Expo was one thing, but admitting she'd been assaulted (and implying the guy was someone inside Vought), gave her the leverage.
"I want you to take up Ashley's duties in PR," Madelyn said, disrupting Helena entirely from her thoughts. She stilled, unable to keep her mask of neutrality in place.
"What?" Helena stammered. "But-but I can't! My experience, and my skillset, is in administration, not supe PR."
"Which is why I need you to administrate, Helena. You've been here long enough to know what we need from our heroes, and they know you," Madelyn countered. "I fully trust that you can handle their schedules, just for the next couple of weeks while I search for suitable candidates to replace Ashley. You can help me with that too, if your own schedule allows."
Sure. Meaning Helena would have to make time for that too. But the sooner they find someone to fill the head PR position, the better for Helena and her mounting daily migraine.
Three days later, she didn't even have the energy to kick her heels across the room. She turned on the kitchen light first, leaning heavily against the counter so she could strip one four-inch platform shoe at a time from her aching feet.
Her kitchen had a small breakfast bar. It provided a large open space between the fridge and the pantry on the far right, from which she could see her dark living room—and an unknown shape sitting on her couch. Cocking its head, it stood and started heading towards her.
Sucking in a breath, she grabbed a wooden spoon from a decorative pitcher and hurled it as hard as she could.
"Fuck me," the shape growled, batting the offensive object away from his head. Raising a tremulous hand to her heart, Helena finally recognized the unwelcome intruder.
"Billy!" she shouted, both in outrage and relief. She leaned against the counter again with a sigh, releasing a slew of muttered expletives. "Why the hell did you break in?"
"Couldn't exactly lurk outside, could I? That would look a tad suspicious."
A moment later, the man appeared around the corner with her spare key dangling from his fingers, smirking in spite of her glare.
"Get smarter, Helena," he said, more seriously. "Don't leave your fuckin' key under the mat like a bloody amateur."
"Lesson learned. Gimme," she said, holding her hand out for the key. He grabbed her hand, pulling her towards him just a little before he dropped the key into her hand. His warm, heavy fingers curled over hers for a moment before he pulled away, and she looked up at him warily. She didn't like the coil of nerves his touch sparked, fluttering in her stomach like she was some high school girl again. His dark eyes were dangerous, in a whole new way, and she couldn't deny that she was getting a bit lost.
Her cat's hungry mewling gave her an excuse to look away, stepping back from him to grab a can of pate from the pantry. Still, she felt his eyes on her back as she puttered around the kitchen. All the while she wanted to shake herself. What the fuck is wrong with you?
This was her dead best friend's husband. He was here because she agreed to help him bring down Vought; not for anything else, no matter what his teasing suggested.
Gordo meowed more insistently, his tail swishing by his food bowl. Butcher's brow arched.
"That's a fat fucking cat."
Helena rolled her eyes and sighed. "Not even my apartment's safe anymore. What do you want, Billy?" She opened the can of cat food and emptied it into the bowl, then nuzzled the back of her hand along the kitty's purring face. "There you go, Gordo."
"Gor-do," Butcher echoed with a snort. His accent didn't quite compute with the Spanish language, but it sounded endearing coming from his mouth. She smirked.
"Means fat, innit?" he mused. "More of a dog person, me-self."
"Gold star for you," she mockingly praised. "I'll repeat my question: what do you want?"
"Right." He brightened a bit and reached into his pocket. Another object he deposited into her hand, but this time their fingers barely brushed. She looked down at the old-fashioned flip phone, then back at him, unimpressed.
"A burner phone," she said wryly. "What am I supposed to be, 007?"
"You know many ways Vought is tracking your supes," Butcher said. "Could make your eyes cross. What makes you think they ain't checkin' up on you?"
"I leave everything at work," Helena argued.
"Your cell phone," he pointed out. "Your personal computer. Fuckin' hell, woman, they could have this whole place bugged if they wanted done. And how would you know?"
Helena pursed her lips, but he was starting to make enough sense for her to doubt. To worry. She understood why they'd want to bug the supes. They were a product, in Vought's eyes, and they consented to the tracking devices at least. But she was a low-level Vought employee. Why would they care about her?
Probably for moments like this, came the more logical thought. She looked down at the burner phone and flipped it open. It had Butcher's number, along with a couple others she didn't recognize. This was serious, she realized, and she was in this now. For better or worse.
What happened to Becca shouldn't happen to anyone else, ever again, she resolved. For once in her life, she would do the right thing.
"What've you dug up so far?" Butcher asked at last, earning back her attention.
"After three days?" She scoffed. "I was able to wrangle up a few digital files from the archives that may point to something, but I haven't had a chance to look at it…I won't bore you with the details, but Stillwell's got me working more directly with the supes for a while."
Butcher eyed her in a way she couldn't figure out; either suspicion, or worry.
"With Homelander?"
She nodded and opened her fridge to grab a few ingredients. Some defrosted chicken, cilantro, and a few other herbs and vegetables. "With all of the Seven, making sure they attend all the bullshit they're scheduled for, say and do what they need to for the cameras."
"Fine. Let's get to those files then," he said.
"Uh-uh." She held up a finger. "Unless you want me to pass out, I need to eat."
Butcher sighed in annoyance. She heard him come closer and stopped him before he could take the bag of white rice out of her hand. "Look, if you're gunna keel over, call a fuckin' Dominoes. We ain't got time to be muckin' about like Betty fuckin' Crocker—"
Helena pressed a hand to his chest (a firm wall of a man. Jesus.) and glared up at him.
"I am going to make this chicken. You're gunna shut the fuck up and chop this bell pepper for me while I peel some garlic, and then we're gunna sit at that dining table like adults and have a proper homecooked meal," she said. "Then we'll buckle down and take a look at those files. You got a problem with that?"
Butcher blinked down at her, his lips twitching with amusement. The moment he opened his mouth to speak, she beat him to it.
"Good," she said, and placed the pepper in his hand. "Chop, chop."
She could tell he didn't want to admit it, but her food was delicious.
"Better than cheap pizza?" she prodded. He rolled his eyes. Meanwhile, she watched him pile more rice and black beans onto his plate for a third time. She knew for a fact that Becca had done the cooking in their relationship.
She'd read his CIA file before. He'd been an accomplished man before his fall from grace, and still was, technically. Former SAS, working with the CIA, reading people better than ever, yet giving almost nothing away of himself. Yet Hellena had a feeling the extent of his culinary knowledge didn't extend past the microwave and boiling pasta.
"Who cooks over there at...whatever basement you guys are living out of?" she asked. He'd told her about his allies, his friends, whatever they were. She couldn't see any of them handling the domestic shit, except maybe Marvin. He sounded like he had too much to lose to be mixed up with Butcher and the rest of these characters.
"Eh, maybe Frenchie," Butcher said. Then there was an amused glint in his eye. "M.M. can make a decent fish. Mostly it's frozen shit and fast food. Cheap and easy."
Helena hummed in response. She didn't like the environment he was painting. Living in close quarters, among drug dealers and gun runners, never having security or safety, or even something simple as a decent meal.
"That's a far cry from the cozy house I remember," she said, though she regretted it upon impact. Butcher's face sparked with irritation just under the surface. But eventually it dissipated into sadness, however briefly, until he came back to stoic. He'd let her see it though.
"Yeah," he acknowledged.
Maybe her own melancholy showed on her face, because Butcher changed the subject soon after while he polished off his sautéed chicken.
They learned nothing more from the files she found. At least, nothing Butcher didn't already know. She was able to find invoices from the labs where the infants were injected with Compound V, helpful evidence that Butcher could use. He finally told her what he'd found out just today: that Vought had somehow given the V to random terrorist groups. The Female he and the boys had saved a few weeks ago, well, she had been a recruit from a terrorist group in the Philippines. Her name was Kimiko, and she had been separated from her brother after being stolen from their village in Japan.
"Dear God, what next," Helena groaned, rubbing that aching spot between her eyes. "Can't you take this to the CIA? Who's in charge now, Susan Raynor?"
"Raynor isn't going to back us," Butcher said. Her brows furrowed in confusion.
"Why? You have the V sample. You've got hard evidence here of what they're doing in the labs…"
The way he looked at her then, there was a shred of vulnerability she hadn't seen before. It looked a lot like the truth, perhaps one he hadn't been willing to admit.
"What?" she pressed. "What could she possibly object to—"
"She won't prosecute Homelander," he said.
Helena closed her eyes for a moment, deflated and angry. Then what's the point of this? she wondered. But the more she thought of Homelander actually being arrested, it finally dawned on her.
"I understand her fear. They have no way to control him if he resists arrest, or just goes berserk," she admitted. Then she groaned. "Fucking shit. I have a shoot with him tomorrow."
Not for the first time, Butcher's soulful eyes stared back at her while he frowned.
"Try not to do anything stupid then," he said.
She was touched by his concern. Even this was a leap from just days ago, practically pinning her against the wall and accusing her of selling her soul to Vought. She was glad he could see her for what she was, not what she had to pretend to be. Of course, that was her own fault, wasn't it?
Pushing away that sobering thought, her smile warmed a bit. "Now you care about my wellbeing all of a sudden?"
Butcher smirked, but it soon fell. "I just needa get him, Hel. Ain't no other fucking way for me."
She knew. It was half the reason she agreed to help. She was risking her job, and more importantly, her life. But she realized that Billy Butcher didn't care about what happened to him, as long as Homelander and Vought went down.
"Just don't get killed," she told him. My God. She wouldn't have wanted this for you.
Just like that, the cheshire grin made its reappearance. "Now look who cares, eh?"
Her face felt warm, and she disguised it poorly with a frown. Checking her phone, she saw it was past 2am. She had to get up for work in just a few hours. "Ya know what? Fuck out of my apartment already."
She tossed a couch pillow at his smirking face and grabbed the rest of the leftovers from the table so he could take it with him.
She then shooed him off, despite his teasing and cajoling to lighten up, you tossin' me out on the street already? She handed him the container full of leftovers wrapped neatly in a plastic shopping bag. She pointed at him with the dirty spoon that once nearly made a dent in his thick skull. "Remember to share."
"For how long I had to suffer your smart mouth to get these spoils?" He held the bag protectively to his chest and treated her with a wink. She flushed hotly, despite her deepening frown. "Not a chance."
From there she all but shoved him out the door, muttering all the while. "Pendejo desesperado."
"Oi, Helen Flowers." He met her honey brown eyes over his shoulder, with that maddening smirk of his. "I don't mind you cursing at me, 's long as it comes with subtitles."
She shut the door in his face, despite her smile. "Asshole."
For the record, I don't share Butcher's views. I fucking love the AOS Star Trek movies.
Also, translation:
"Pendejo desesperado." – "Hopeless, stupid man," or "Hopeless asshole."
"Flores" - Flowers