The infirmary is dimly lit, the only window looking out onto a concrete courtyard enclosed by barbed wire, where a group of prisoners is playing basketball. Ryan can hear their shouts and a monotonous thud of the ball, interrupting the steady hum of medical equipment. He shifts his gaze from the window to a single bed at the right wall. His vision flickers, briefly obscured by the steel of the closed door, and he has to lower his eyes and take a deep breath before continuing.
Even though it is exactly as he expected, his stomach still tightens. There he is, his biological father — a pitiful shadow of a once powerful figure who took a sharp and short fall from America's number one hero to its greatest enemy, weak and despicable, like a snail oozed from its shell. Ryan hadn't seen him since the day of the trial. He never expected to see him again. His appearance reminds Ryan of deflated helium balloons the morning after a birthday party. All skin and bones, silver streaks in shortly kept hair, unhealthy, earthy-grey complexion. His body is strapped to the bed with belts, bandaged wrists resting on top of the blanket. Ryan swallows hard.
"Ready?" the guard asks him kindly.
"One more minute, please."
No, Ryan isn't ready, and all the hours in the day wouldn't be enough to prepare him. What is he even doing here? The call from MCC came during breakfast; he was just pouring milk into a bowl of fruit loops, telling Janine some nonsense about a school trip to a horse-breeding farm when the answering machine kicked in, and a restrained voice asked Mr. Milk to return the call at his earliest convenience.
"Marvin Milk speaking," Ryan jumped to the phone, beating Janine to it. He knew what MCC stood for.
"Mr. Milk, your name and phone number are listed as the emergency contact for John Gillman. On behalf of Metropolitan Correctional Center, we would like to extend our deepest apologies. Last night, John Gillman attempted suicide. As per our protocol, prisoners are given disposable razors for shaving before entering the shower room, which are then confiscated by the guards at the exit. Somehow, Mr. Gillman managed to smuggle a blade, and…"
"Is he dead?" Ryan whispered, realising he had gripped the phone too tightly when it shattered in his hand into a jumble of wires and microchips.
"What happened?" Janine's panicked gaze darted between him and the broken phone. "Marvin! Marvin!"
Ryan didn't wait for his sleepy Uncle Marvin to appear in the hallway and send him back to his room to call MCC. Ignoring Janine's screams, he rushed to the window, jumped onto the windowsill, and soared into the air, feeling the cold of the pale October morning reaching his bones.
Everyone at MCC knew who he was, and if anyone still doubted whether it was a good idea to allow an unsupervised minor supe to see his infamous parent, he made sure to remove those doubts. Ryan hated resorting to threats, but he had long realized that whenever he wanted something, people were more willing to cooperate when he prompted them with a touch of red glimmer.
Now, standing in front of the infirmary door, he regrets his impulsiveness. He should have let Marvin make the return call and learn all the details before rushing here. His father's life isn't in danger, the guards arrived in time—besides, who can kill themselves with safety razors?—so Ryan can calmly go back home, to his breakfast and morning classes. He can still make it on time for the mid-term in Physics. He doesn't need nor want to be here. He's almost ready to leave when his father suddenly opens his eyes behind the door.
Ryan flinches. He has to remind himself that Homelander no longer has superpowers and can't possibly know he's there. But logic falters when the prisoner turns his head, and Ryan can't shake the feeling that his dad is looking directly at him, his gaze tired and hollow. The gaze of a wax figure. There used to be one like that, a full-length Homelander figure in Times Square, all smily and shiny in its glory, installed by some batshit-crazy local artist to ritually melt at the end of the trial. (He never got to do his performance, the angry public destroyed the figure before the proceedings even started, Ryan saw the images of the crippled statue on the news, cold-eyed but unceasingly smiling while the crowds teared it apart).
"Well?" the guard prompts him. "Are you going in or not?"
Ryan nods silently.
"You've got fifteen minutes."
Ryan grips the handle and takes a hesitant step into the room, wincing at the nauseating smells of medication, disinfectant, and dried blood.
His dad's eyes widen in surprise, a shadow passes over his face, but he doesn't say a word.
"John?" Ryan calls uncertainly. He doubts he'll ever be able to call him "dad" to his face again.
The muscles in his father's forehead and the corners of his mouth twitch, but almost immediately the hurt expression is replaced by a contemptuous sneer:
"Ryan, how nice of you to find time for your old man. Come in, don't just stand there. I heard you're living with Mother's Milk now? How's he doing, still wiping all the doorknobs twice before touching them?»
"Everything's fine," Ryan replies, his voice strained, eyes glued to the empty bedside table. He doesn't know how to behave. Conflicting emotions tangle him up as he desperately searches for a thread to pull himself out of this mess. He should have left when he could. He still can.
Homelander nods impassively, feigning amicability:
"Fine is good… How's school? Friends?»
The question briefly transports Ryan a year back, to a time when his dad would curiously ask about his day. He loved heart-to-heart talks, loved lecturing and giving advice, but all of it always felt a bit forced, as if his dad were pretending, like the girls in elementary school who played house. Ryan shakes off the memory and meets his father's gaze.
"Why did you do it? You could have died."
Homelander smirks, an icy expression filling his eyes, his bandaged hand clenching for a moment:
"And why do you care? Isn't that what you all want? To finally get rid of me for good? But what a pity, I failed even at offing myself. Have you ever heard a more pathetic story?"
"I…" Ryan's throat goes dry, and he swallows hard. His voice sounds hollow. "I don't want you to die."
He looks at the floor as he says this, squeaky clean tiles white like the first snow, and the words come out with difficulty, but he knows it's true. His nose tingles, and he has to take a sharp breath before continuing:
"Even if you deserve it."
"Nice to hear," Homelander chuckles bitterly. "You must hate me a lot for not letting me die with Butcher back then, instead turning me into this… wretch. Can I ask you, what did I ever do to you?" His voice vibrates with rage, eyes flicker, and Ryan hunches his shoulders, sensing the imminent storm he was so afraid of. "Was I such a bad father? Did I not love you enough, did I not give you enough? A-train, Ashley, Sage... What they did I could understand, I wasn't always nice to them after all. But YOU, my own flesh and blood? After all that I've done for you? How could you be such an ungrateful little brat?"
Ryan takes a step back, each unjust accusation feeling like a slap. He wants to say that he saved him not because he wished to condemn him to a worse fate, but because he couldn't let him die. There was a bond between them, resonating like a tightly stretched string that Ryan couldn't break. Flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood, their destinies were intertwined, and his father's fate became his own, his father's salvation his own salvation. But he remains silent, knowing that Homelander wouldn't understand. Ryan will have to accept that his father is destined to spend the rest of his days as this black hole of pain, drawing everything into its impenetrable darkness. It's not Ryan's fault, they all tell him, it never was. His dad's fate is a consequence of his own choices. And some people just refuse to be saved.
Ryan reaches for the door handle, and Homelander, forgetting about the straps, jerks, trying to rise from the bed.
"No!" he shouts in panic, and then repeats more quietly, his face contorted with pleading: "No. Don't go just yet. Please. I didn't mean it. These last months have been… difficult. You have every right to hate me."
"I don't hate you," Ryan says cautiously, lowering his hand. "I hate what you did. But after all... you will always be my dad."
Whether I want it or not, he adds to himself.
Homelander nods, the corners of his mouth twitching in a weak attempt at a smile.
"I keep up with the news," he changes the subject, his face brightening a little. "Last week all the main papers wrote about those terrorists from the Dragon's Ring and how you single-handedly neutralised their leader and freed up the hostages. Good job!"
"Thanks," Ryan replies tersely. "Actually, there were three of us…»
"The papers only mentioned you," dismisses Homelander, his voice suddenly warm with pride. "You know, I'm not allowed a phone in here, so I haven't seen all the ratings and footages. What's the media response?»
Ryan shrugs:
"I don't know."
Homelander looks at him skeptically:
"Don't know? You mean you don't check the ratings, don't follow the reviews? But that's like half of the job. How many followers do you have?"
"I don't have social media. I don't care about marketing and all that. I just want to help people."
"No social media?" Homelander snorts. "You think you can be a superhero in the twenty-first century without it? All those rescues, all those snotty winy children returned to their forever grateful mothers —the world needs to know about them. Or do you want to give up your spotlight to some fish-talking degenerate? Otherwise, what's the point?"
"For the people we protect," Ryan replies gently. "To make the world better."
Homelander rolls his eyes:
"Oh, I see living with Mother's Milk has practically turned you into a baby Jesus. No ratings, no likes. What's next, a costume with no logo?"
"Maybe," Ryan replies dryly.
"Let me give you a piece of advice," his dad starts patronisingly, "I've been in your shoes for many years, and I know exactly that..."
"I'm not you," Ryan interrupts, unable to hold back. It's surprising that despite everything, his father still feels entitled to judge him. "And I'm… honestly, I'm so damn glad about that."
"Suit yourself," Homelander pouts, the condescending warmth of his tone gone, replaced by icy bitterness. "If you don't need my advice, then tell me, why the fuck are you here? What is it that you want from me?"
Ryan sighs. What he really wants is for his father to repent, to take at least some responsibility for the hurt he caused to others instead of playing the victim. He wants him to become better. He wants him to see that being a mere human it not at all that bad. But he knows he's asking for too much. His father was programmed for self-destruction, and each year his internal entropy only grew until it reached a tipping point. And just like in the Second Law of Thermodynamics that he studied for his mid-term, there was no coming back.
"I want you to promise me that you'll never try to take your own life again," Ryan says quietly.
"Oh, that," Homelander waves dismissively, feigning boredom. "Sure. I solemnly swear to continue the agony of my non-existence at MCC until one of the guards finally decides that beating the crap out of me isn't enough and puts me out of my misery for good. Scout's honor."
"They're beating you?" Ryan's voice trembles as he struggles not to think about the violence and aggression his father faces in prison, where he's likely as unpopular with the inmates as with the guards. He recalls the businesslike voice from MCC informing him of the incident, and in hindsight, Ryan suspects there was a hint of satisfaction in it.
"Beating me?" his father smirks. "Of course not. We're all good pals in here. You know, baking chocolate chip cookies together between the classes of anger management and pilates."
"I'm so sorry."
Homelander laughs sharply, his laughter harsh and bitter.
"You're sorry for me? Damn it, Ryan, you really are a saint. Want to save me, the world greatest superhero?"
Ryan flinches, his throat tightening in a spasm. He, who the press calls "the hope of generation", who just last week fought a dangerous criminal band and won, is suddenly feeling small and helpless. There is nothing he can do here. He never could.
"I… I just don't want you to die."
He tries to hold back, but tears well up in his eyes. He wipes them away furiously with his sleeve, trying not to show weakness. He knows his father got what he deserved, but a treacherous voice inside whispers that he could have gotten his father out of prison if he really wanted to. Hasn't his father suffered enough? Ryan could even sneak in some Compound V for him — isn't that what a good son would do?
"You know, Ryan," Homelander begins with sarcasm, but a note of softness unexpectedly creeps into his voice, "you really are a good boy. Sometimes I forget that you're still just a kid."
Dad looks at him, his eyes softening, as he gestures toward the edge of the bed.
"Come here," he says with a hint of weariness. "Sit down."
Ryan hesitates, his hands trembling, but he takes a few tentative steps forward and sits on the edge of the bed. His father slowly reaches out and places a hand on his shoulder. It feels strangely light as if half of his father being had already dissolved into thin air.
"I'm sorry you have to go through this," Homelander says quietly, his voice breaking for a moment. "But believe me, it's better this way for everyone. This… isn't a life. Without my powers, I don't even know who I am anymore. The whole world hates me."
"You're my dad."
Homelander shakes his head. His features contort, as he covers his face with his palm.
"Ryan," he says through gritted teeth, "I've lost everything. My power. My purpose. Even my name. I don't know how to be a human when I've spent my whole life being something more… or less."
Ryan squeezes his hand, mindful not to accidentally break it, and feeling the tensing string between them, ready to snap at any moment. There it is, his chance to burn bridges with the past and free himself from the monster always hiding in the mirror. To let go of the dead weight of his roots and become the true superhero he always dreamed of being. Unbound, free at last. He is almost ready to leave, when a distant memory surfaces: a summer evening, sunlight falling at an angle, the smell of leather baseball gloves. A flash from his childhood, and the words escape faster than he can think.
«No. You haven't lost me. I'm still here, you see. And I always will be."
Homelander removes his hand from his face and looks at him silently, his eyes full of confusion and pain. Before he can say anything, Ryan leans forward and impulsively hugs him, and hesitantly, as if in slow motion, his father returns the embrace.
The door to the infirmary swings open, and the familiar guard stands in the doorway.
"Fifteen minutes are up."
"If you want to laser him, I didn't see anything," whispers Homelander.
Ryan smiles and shakes his head as he stands up.
"I'll come back soon. I promise."