10: Amen

Helena slowly climbed up the steps to her apartment. She carried the strap of her overnight bag on one shoulder and the handle of Gordo's carrier in the other hand. Once she reached the top of the stairs, even the few short feet to her front door felt like a wide canyon. Her body swayed, mostly with lack of sleep, but eventually she was able to unlock her apartment and step inside.

After closing the door behind her, she dropped her bag on the floor and let Gordo out of his carrier. The cat mewled for attention, rubbing himself along her calf, but she felt numb and unable to focus on the dark, familiar quiet of her apartment. She felt…wrong.

Trudging through the living room, she found her favorite "Spice Up Your Life" mug on the coffee table and absently picked it up, aiming to go dump it into the kitchen sink. Until she realized exactly which mug it was, and who had given it to her for her 16th birthday with a homemade batch of her famous double chocolate-chocolate chip cupcakes.

Gripping the mug tightly, until her fingers ached, Helena then hurled the mug across the room. It shattered against the far wall on impact, but she crumpled into tears even before the pieces fell.

Yesterday.

Helena took the proffered business card from Grace Mallory with numb fingers. The older woman was better dressed for the crisp fall weather in a wool coat and scarf, comfortable-looking but expensive. From the conservative pearl earrings set in gold, Mallory was either from old money, or simply was the kind of rich that was too wealthy to care about showing it too much. Helena had spent enough time in the company of rich assholes to know instinctively that this woman was not one of them.

Even so, Helena didn't know if she could trust her. After today, she probably would never trust anything again. Not even her God.

"Just say the word, and we'll get it done," Mallory said.

Helena pocketed the card, offering a hesitant nod. It was taking her longer than usual to process the words someone had said to her, but she soon got her dry mouth to form a reply. "I'll let you know."

Her voice sounded foreign, even to her own ears. She followed Mallory's gaze beyond the small parking lot to the edge of the forest, where Billy Butcher and Ryan were sitting together under a large oak tree beside a river. Helena unconsciously looked past them, staring into the picturesque vastness of trees and scattered leaves.

She had been driving home when she got the call from M.M. which almost made her rear-end a family of four on the highway. She had broken no less than five traffic laws to turn back, even though she could barely see the road signs through the blur of tears. All the while, she couldn't stop imagining this. The forest, and what Becca must have looked like at the end.

And the guilt, Helena thought, watching as Butcher and Ryan finally stood to make their way back to the parking lot. Can't forget that.

Guilt, that she wasn't there. When Ryan had lasered Stormfront into unrecognizable mutilation, and Becca had been accidentally caught in the crossfire, bleeding to death on the cold forest floor.

Well, Helena had never been there when Becca really needed her, it seemed, so why shouldn't it be like this in the end?

"All right," Butcher said, once he and Ryan were nearly to the black SUV that a woman, one of Mallory's, was holding for him. "Remember what I told ya."

Ryan looked up at him with a face that was pure Becca.

"Don't be a cunt," he replied.

Butcher gave a hint of a smile, and he shared a moment with the kid that mercifully took Helena out of the horror scene in her imagination. At least, Butcher had come to understand what Becca really wanted. He loved her enough to honor what she asked of him with Ryan. Helena wasn't sure if Butcher liked him, but according to M.M., Butcher had protected him from Homelander. There was a kind of father in him just now.

When the SUV eventually peeled off with Ryan, reluctant and sad in the backseat, Mallory said what Helena couldn't.

"William, I'm so sorry," she said.

Butcher just watched the SUV, until it turned a corner and disappeared. "Vought's gonna want him back."

"Let me handle Vought," Mallory replied. Helena watched a reluctant, but necessary question form on the woman's face. "You think he'll turn into his father?"

Butcher turned back to join them, though his gaze fell again on the river.

"Becca didn't think so," he said.

Mallory shook her head. "I pray she's right."

Helena felt like one of Mallory's hired hands standing by yet another SUV: an unnecessary third party in the conversation. But she wasn't here because of Mallory. She just had the least to lose in sticking around, unlike M.M. and the rest of the crew, who had to go back into hiding.

But Mallory's next revelation nearly brought new tears to Helena's eyes: Butcher and everyone else had been entirely pardoned, of all crimes—both real and fabricated by Vought.

The White House had finally funded an Office of Supe Affairs, predictably headed by Victoria Neuman. She was the new funding power behind Mallory's next project: a team that would keep track of supes from here on out. It sounded ideal for Butcher, in theory, and Helena could admit, it was exactly the kind of thing she'd been down for before…well, before.

Butcher never answered Mallory's offer. Instead, he donned a pair of shades and started down the path to his piece of shit car down at the end of the parking lot. But Helena couldn't help herself. Her worry overran her common sense of leaving him be.

With a parting nod to Mallory, she followed Butcher on the way to her own rental car. He probably sensed her behind him, or maybe he'd expected her to follow, because he slowed to a stop at the sidewalk separating one half of the parking lot from the other. Helena didn't know what it was she wanted to say.

I'm sorry was fucking stupid, and would be hollow coming out of her mouth.

"Going back to work?" Butcher asked.

"I'm due back a week from Monday," she admitted. She shifted on her feet, hands clenching unseen in her pockets. Eventually, she gained the courage to look up at him and say what she really wanted to say.

"Wherever you go, whatever you decide to do…" She paused, knowing just as well this could be the last time she spoke to him like this, truly once in for all. He was a free man. His Homelander vendetta aside, he turned down Mallory's offer, which meant there was no telling where he was going to fuck off and disappear to. Maybe even get himself killed, like he'd planned to from the beginning of his crusade.

Taking a breath, Helena purged the rest of that from her mind. She needed to focus on right here, right now.

"You took care of Ryan, made sure he was safe," she said. "It's time you did that for yourself."

She couldn't see his eyes behind the sunglasses, but she heard the dryness in his tone when he drawled, "Is that right?"

She frowned. "Your anger is going to kill you. You think Becca would've wanted—"

"It's none of your fuckin' business what I do," Butcher cut her off, dismissively, with steely anger underneath. She wasn't afraid of him, not anymore, but the forcefulness on her frayed nerves and exhausted emotional state still made her flinch.

Helena sighed. She didn't have the energy to volley with him like she usually would, nor did she want to. She didn't know what he was thinking, but she could imagine what he was going through, torn to shreds inside, as she was, and likely so much worse. Butcher had walls—concrete walls reinforced with electric barbed wire—around his heart, but Becca had lived inside them for such a long time…

"Fine. That's fine," Helena said. Her eyes roamed his face for any sign of his thoughts, but again, she found nothing. She rested a hand on his arm and squeezed it gently. Then, she walked away from him without looking back.

Helena flattened out Mallory's business card, crumpled from the pocket in her jeans, and set it down on her desk. While she waited for her laptop to boot up, she couldn't help but glance over at the picture frames propped on the left side of her desk, backlit by a small lamp.

One picture was taken at eight years old, the first of many trips to Disney World with her parents. The second was her and Becca at high school graduation, big cheesy smiles and eyes full of stupid dreams. The third was taken four years later at their college graduation. They wore different colors for their caps and gowns, but they had the same smiles on their faces.

Helena took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. With her laptop finally booted up and logged in, she started by crafting her resignation letter from Vought.

Six Months Later.

It didn't happen often, but Mallory found herself blinking in confusion while glancing up at the security footage. She knew before her frantic assistant called her office to tell her that Billy Butcher was on his way, not bothering with the small decorum of waiting at reception.

Mallory sighed, but this in itself didn't surprise her; nor the fact that he had found her secluded wing of the building, which was not listed on any public or government directory (for more than one reason). What did surprise her, was that Butcher was at the Office of Supe Affairs at all.

She pressed the buzzer before he even knocked on the door, allowing him to breeze his way in with his usual devil-may-care stride. He offered Mallory a grin, more restrained than usual.

"'Ullo, boss," he greeted.

"Not your boss anymore," she wryly replied. That didn't stop him from leaning his arms on the guest chair in front of her desk. She didn't bother asking how he found her. She was more focused on the bruising around his eye, small cuts on his knuckles and cheekbone. His black overcoat looked worn and washed too many times, and had probably been through most of his scrapes over the past six months.

Mallory also didn't waste her breath asking what he'd been doing all this time—not only because it was obvious, but because she already knew, all too well.

"I know you prefer to do things your own way," she said, "but at this point, wouldn't it be easier just to join my fucking team?"

"Didn't work the first time, don't see why it should be any different now," Butcher said. He gestured around the office, to her new bookcases and filing cabinets, to the whole operation. "It's gonna be a shitshow, and don't count on me to be there when you realize it."

Mallory fought not to roll her eyes. "I swear to God, it's one step forward, three steps back with you," she said. "Why are you here then?"

"Where's Helena?" he asked.

Interesting, Mallory noted. Out of everything he could've asked of her, that was rather low on her list. Though she supposed she should've considered it, after the little scene she witnessed in the parking lot six months ago.

"She's not at her apartment?" Mallory said. She watched Butcher push off the back of the chair and slip his hands into his coat pockets. A stance of nonchalance that didn't distract her from the guarded look in his eyes.

"You fuckin' know she's not. Her phone's disconnected too. Both of 'em."

"Why're you trying to find her?" Mallory asked.

He didn't answer her right away, which piqued her interest even more. This was a man who knew how to get the information he wanted without having to reveal his own cards. His motives, which not many could predict, unless they knew him as well as Mallory thought she did. But Butcher also knew her well enough that her stubborn patience could outlast his reluctance to just tell her the truth. He eventually caved.

"Need her to do a little reconnaissance on her slimy boss. Make sure he's not keeping tabs on me," he said. "I appreciate bein' able to hit the local dive bar as much as the next felon-free man, but it's hard to get properly wasted knowing Black Noir might be lyin' in wait when I hit the pisser."

Hmm. Also interesting, Mallory thought, that while his reasons had to do with Vought, it wasn't an admission that he was looking for a new angle to bring down the juggernaut company. But, she remembered that young woman's words to Butcher on that day: "Wherever you go, whatever you decide to do…"

No; maybe reconnaissance was worth this trip to Mallory's office, but she had a suspicion it was a clever excuse, whether Butcher realized it was one or not. Though she also didn't want to tell him, not yet at least, that Vought was sure as hell trying to keep tabs on him. Her team was thus far successful in keeping them off Butcher's scent.

As long as he didn't do anything stupid, Vought shouldn't have a reason to try and silently snuff him out. Singling out Butcher again would only distract Homelander, now that Vought had him exactly where they wanted him: focused on his public persona and rebuilding their credibility after the PR nightmare that had been Stormfront's Nazi past revealed. With Starlight's (undercover) help, they'd mostly been able to shift media focus to memorializing Translucent's death.

Honestly, it was fucking annoying how easily Vought had managed that. But in a way, it had given Supe Affairs the time and cover they needed to organize, and keep digging—with, Mallory could admit, the help of Helena Flores.

So, it was easier in this case to tell Butcher the truth.

"The less she sees of you, the better her relocation works," she said. By the look in his eyes, she had just confirmed Butcher's suspicions.

"She gave you intel."

"All she could spare. It was safer for her to resign in the aftermath of Becca, while Vought was too busy with damage control to care too much about her leaving. Still, she was able to blame the trauma of the congressional hearing."

Mallory recognized the cogs in his mind turning, digesting that information, and deciding if he wanted to do anything about it. Mallory felt compelled to offer what she knew to be the best solution.

"She's done, Butcher," she said. "Best thing you could do for her is leave her alone."

Butcher's gaze flicked up to hers. "Maybe I'm done too."

Mallory smiled wryly.

"We both know that's a crock of shit," she said. When Butcher only continued staring at her, like he was still trying to decide how hard he wanted to push the issue, she sighed. "Let me show you something. If you still want to find her afterwards, I'll give you the address."

"What is it?" he asked.

Mallory felt something in her relent, the longer she looked at him. She softened with a more patient look.

"Just sit down."

Butcher didn't know what to expect when he drove four hours across upstate New York. The house was too big for one person, he thought, but it was tucked neatly between some of the larger houses in the quaint little suburban community. It reminded him a lot of his Aunt Judy's neighborhood, but a lot more uptown. He couldn't picture Helena living in a place like this, so far from the city, so uppity, so…

Not her, he thought. This was a woman who would rather eat leftover Chinese for a week past its expiration instead of "wasting her hard-earned cash" by tossing it out.

Shaking his head, Butcher stored that thought away when he got out of his car and climbed up the few steps to the front door. He noticed, approvingly, of the small security camera in the corner above the door. With a house as nice as this, likely there were side and rear cameras as well. Smart.

She came to the door shortly after he knocked, opening it slowly, blinking at him like she'd never seen him before. Or, more accurately, like she never expected to see him again.

"'Ullo, love," he greeted. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

It was one of those rare moments when he really didn't know what to say next, much less do. His last words to her hadn't been pretty. Plus, he knew he was intruding on her life.

Well, yes, he'd been intruding on her life from the beginning, but this was the first time it had felt more wrong than right, less justifiable in his mind.

"How did you find me?" Helena said, finally.

"I can fuck off if you like," he replied. And surprisingly, he meant it. Why the fuck am I here, anyway?

She hesitated, but eventually she said, "No. Come in."

Helena led him inside, and to his small relief, it was the simple kind of taste he remembered from her apartment. Some things were the same, like her couch and comfy chair in the spacious living room. Other things were new, like the wood floors and the large kitchen and breakfast bar, complete with four stools. There was a hallway leading to what he assumed was at least one guest room, while the staircase leading up to the second floor likely had the master bedroom. It was big enough though that there were probably more rooms than that.

"Nice digs. Mallory set you up with this place?" he asked.

"She helped me scope it out, but I own it," Helena replied.

Butcher made an impressed sound, raising his eyebrows as he smirked. "All right, big spender."

She finally cracked a slight smile at his familiar teasing and went into the kitchen.

"Tea, coffee?" she offered.

"Coffee's good," he replied, though with the "warm welcome" he received, he was surprised she was offering him anything. He tensed at the feeling of something brushing up against his leg, but looking down, he found another familiar face.

"Ey, Gord." The cat mewled in greeting, arching its back as Butcher pet him from head to tail. He was as fat and fluffy as ever. "Still livin' well I see."

"Yeah, he acclimated pretty well when he saw how many new places there were to hide my socks," Helena said dryly. He started the coffee maker and left it to percolate, returning to join him on the living room couch. She looked comfortable in a pair of yoga pants and an old college shirt, and bright yellow fuzzy socks.

In the far corner was a paint-stained tarp covering the floor, where an unfinished painting sat on an easel surrounded by paint tubes scattered around. In front of the large TV was a yoga mat, evidence of what he'd likely interrupted. Again, he knew he shouldn't be here.

"Takin' up Pilates?" he couldn't help but remark. "Really embracing your inner suburban mum, aren't ya?"

Her mouth twitched again, but her eyes were laced with something heavier, despite how she was trying to seem more upbeat.

"You know, trying to stay busy. It's a lot quieter here than the city…I came here to get away, get out," she confessed. "I didn't really have a plan other than that, so…I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to do next."

Oh, how Butcher could relate.

"I get that," he said. She looked at him with a measure of surprise, and maybe a hint of suspicion. The coffee maker dinged, giving him some reprieve when she got up to get the coffee. After asking how he liked it (black with sugar, no cream), she returned with two mugs and handed him the darker one. Hers was nearly white with how much cream she'd poured in there. She then sat down, putting some measured distance between them on the sofa.

"Why did you come here?" she asked. The million-dollar question.

He could do what he did best here, and lie. He could ask for names of the big shots she had to schmooze for Stan Edgar, so Butcher could take a crack at them for information. He could make a half-assed attempt at recruiting her for Supe Affairs, even though that was the last fucking thing he came here to do.

If he was going to do what Becca asked of him, from the very beginning, to try to be better (even if he was a lost cause), he would have to be a more honest man. He could start with this.

"Sold the house," he said. "So, been on the road for a while."

Helena's eyes widened. Even she recognized that selling the house he'd shared with Becca was strange for someone who couldn't let shit go.

"And…her things?" she asked.

"Gave 'em to her sister," Butcher said, taking a long sip of coffee. It was strong as hell, but he needed it. His fingers still felt cold from the fall weather outside, and four hours with the non-existent heater in his car.

Now that he thought about it, there was something he could give her. He fished through the inside of his coat pocket and pulled out a simple silver lighter. He offered it to Helena, who curiously took it from him.

"Believe you two got a lot of mileage out of this," he said. "Ate your weight in Doritos, I reckon."

A slow smirk spread across Helena's face, and she pocketed the lighter.

"You came all the way here for that?" she asked. "You must be tired from the drive."

"I am fuckin' tired," he admitted. In more ways than one, and he knew she probably sensed it.

"Need a little lie-down?" she said, imitating his accent a bit. Butcher gave her a weird look, even with a smirk curving his lips. It wasn't the first time someone had mocked his Britishness, but it was the first time he found it amusing. His good humor faded all too quickly though. Maybe that was why he was here. He needed a rest. For once his path forward wasn't so clear, and that was fucking with him.

"What're you thinking?" she asked.

He met her gaze, noting how she was watching him intently. She wanted to figure him out like most people couldn't. M.M. probably got the closest of anyone, and more recently, Hughie. The difference was, Helena didn't just want to understand him. She wanted to help him.

"I need to kill him," Butcher said, setting his mug aside on the coffee table. He knew he didn't have to spell out who the fuck he was talking about. "I've written out every single thing anyone's ever tried. I've read every one of Vogelbaum's files I can get me hands on. And then I remember why she left."

Helena shook her head and put down her own coffee. "Billy—"

"She chose to leave because of me. I know she did, 'cause she didn't trust me. Because she knew I couldn't be trusted," he said. "And that's on me."

"That wasn't your fault," she said.

"Don't," he warned her, fighting the well of anger that lived in his blood, always just under his skin. "Don't bother sayin' that shit."

"I knew her pretty damn well too, you know," Helena snapped at him. "She was scared, and wanted to save her kid from Homelander. But more than anything, she wanted to save you."

Butcher didn't have a ready retort for that. Mostly because Becca had told him as much before, at least about protecting him. Ryan was a given.

Helena sighed, and she moved closer to him on the sofa. They were close enough for their knees to almost touch. Reluctantly he looked into her eyes again, an honest brown.

"I know I'm never going to change your mind," she said. "You're not going to change mine either."

Butcher's begrudging acceptance of that came out in hunched shoulders, and a curmudgeonly scoff. "You're a moron."

Her expression withered a little.

"And you're an asshole." She sighed. "Come 'ere."

Even knowing it was coming, he still stiffened when her slender arms slid around his, her hands resting comfortingly on his back. He didn't deserve this, didn't want it, but when she made no move to pull away even seconds later, he could feel the moment she tensed to pull away. His hands unconsciously found her waist, stopping her. He relaxed a fraction as he held her against him. The familiar curve of her body felt good in his hands. Even though the pain in his chest felt like drowning in shallow water, she was warm and soft and fit right in his arms.

That feeling overruled every warning that screamed in his mind to let her go and put some distance between them, back where it belonged.

Instead, his hands moved up her back, fingers curling into her hair as he pulled her tighter against his chest. He didn't realize his arms were shaking until he felt one of her gentle hands on the back of his neck. Her fingers carded lightly through his hair. Somehow, that small thing allowed him to let out a long, steadying breath. It felt like the first breath he'd taken in six months.

He didn't entirely know what he was doing when he pulled away the slightest bit, enough to look down on her face—long lashes and full lips, her stubborn chin. Leaning down, their noses nearly touched by the time he felt her hand splayed firm on his chest.

"No," she breathed. It stopped him immediately.

"It's not me you want right now," she added, a wry, if sad smile quirking her lips.

His disappointment was tinged with anger (at himself). He offered the same kind of empty grin with a small nod of acceptance before letting her go entirely. While she moved away, reinstating the same distance between them, Butcher got up to his feet. He wasn't one to overstay his welcome when it didn't suit him, and this was definitely one of those times. His hand twitched at his side, aching for a cigarette to hold.

Left the pack in the car, he realized. Well, now it was a surefire reason to head out now. He crossed the living room to the door, but Helena's hand grabbing his sleeve stopped him short.

"Wait. I want you to stay," she said. There was worry in her eyes. "You shouldn't drive like this."

He quirked a brow at her. "I'm fine, Helena."

Her stubborn stance, crossing her arms and frowning up at him, boded no argument.

"Yeah, well, tonight you get the guest room." Her frown turned into a smile. "Now that I have a house, I can finally say it! Mi casa es tu casa."

At the sight of her genuine smile, Butcher relented. He really was tired.

The memory of one of her earlier mocking quips got a hedging glint in his eye.

"Right. Make your little request in Brit for me, and maybe I will," he offered. Helena's smile became embarrassed as she blushed, down to her ears.

"I don't think you want that," she said. She gestured for him to follow her down the hall, where she stopped at a closet to get some fresh linens.

"I think I do." He nodded. The guest room was bigger than he thought, and clean. It was easily nicer than many of the motels he'd crashed at, even nicer than the apartment he was currently renting in the city.

Helena ignored him while she set up the bed with the new sheets, but he spied the smile she was trying to hide. When she finished settling the beige comforter over the bed and a spare towel for the shower, she then tried to head out the door. Butcher let his broad frame take up the doorway, leaning over her as both hands rested on the frame. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Come on with it then, or I'm outta here," he said, smirking. "Take your best shot."

Letting out a huff, Helena finally squared her shoulders and looked up at him.

"You sure?" she asked.

"Bonified Queen's English." He nodded, bending his ear towards her slightly. "Go on then, have a go. What was it you wanted me to do?"

"Jesus Christ. Fine!" Hands on her hips, she pointed back to the guest bed. "Sit your fuckin' arse down 'fore I do your 'ead in. Ya fuckin' slaaag."

Helena met his blank stare for all of two seconds before she immediately crumbled into fits of laughter. Butcher couldn't help his own bemused smirk. He knew it would be terrible, but he had a habit of underestimating this woman.

"All right, Dick Van Dyke."

She tried and failed to smother another wave of giggles. "I said you didn't want it."

"Nah, that was special," he said. "Just sorry I didn't get that on me phone."

She gave him the finger as she slid around him to flee the room. He called after her as she began stomping up the stairs.

"You gettin' the other chimney sweeps, or are they on break back there?"

"Fuck you!" she sang. Her laugh managed to make him smile, without any sarcasm or motive.

So it wasn't the way nights in a woman's house usually ended, but he didn't come here for all that. If only to himself, late at 2 a.m. when his thoughts kept him awake, he could finally admit that he came here to see her.

Just to see her. And maybe, to calm the turbulence in his mind with the certainty that Helena was safe here.

Butcher did stay the night. He also left in the morning, long before she woke up.