Chapter Text
What a day.
You took a measured look around your office—former office. The bookshelves were bare and no degrees hung on the wall behind protective glass frames. The space was no longer yours, and it was bittersweet to say the least. It was bitter how you arrived there, but sweet to think about where you were going. Vought’s job offer came on the heels of your particularly contentious divorce, giving you a perfect chance to pack your bags and move back to New York City. Your mind was a thousand miles away from your relationship status, the call of bloodthirsty professionalism echoing in your skull. You wanted power, and Vought was the perfect place to get it.
None of your coworkers came to wish you goodbye or safe travels; you couldn’t blame him. The phone call from Stan Edgar, offering you a job, had came in the middle of the night, and you came into the office to dump your clients on them and pack your shit. Ah, c’est la vie. You weren’t going to overlook any more opportunities than you already had, and those instances were few and far between. You had established a reputation as one of the best caliber talent managers after only ten years in the industry. That’s why Stan Edgar had called you, anyway.
The redhead—Ashley—her hair was falling out in clumps.
You raised an eyebrow as she scurried past you, shaking, one of her palms full of her short, auburn tresses. That must be the current manager , you balked. She was a few years younger than you, but you were confident you could have handled the stress much better than she did. Supes, celebrities—they were the same. If you had experience with one, you had experience with both. Edgar saw that. You strode into his office, seeing him looking as serene and disaffected as you expected he would be. Being a consummate professional was one thing, but Edgar was the closest thing a businessman could be to a monk. You assumed it was because he was one of the introspective, ivory-tower types; he probably hated the superhero business, but was more than willing to use it as a convenient cover for unethical practice. If that was the case, though, Vought itself was a bit much .
Edgar greeted you pleasantly by your first and last name, attaching the appropriate prefix; a picture of professional formality. “Good to see you,” he said, and you smoothed down the front of your pencil skirt to sit in front of his desk. “I’m glad you agreed to come aboard.”
“With a salary like that? I’m crazy, not stupid ,” you grinned dryly at him, and he smiled at your expected sense of humor. “It sounds like you’re in a predicament.”
His lips took on a tight line, and he halfway shrugged his shoulders. Of course he was in a predicament, but you’d never catch him dead admitting that. Ever since that terrorist guy, Terry Kutcher, or whatever his fucking name was (you didn’t pay attention to what you didn’t care about) decided to off former CEO Madelyn Stillwell, who also served as a direct manager of the Seven, Vought was in a shaky place. A high-profile official had been killed in a terrorist attack in her own home; Translucent, one of the members of the Seven, had been killed as well; The Deep had been sent on a sabbatical to Ohio after admitting he sexually assaulted Starlight as a hazing ritual; and their biggest product, Homelander, was dropping in poll ratings. “Shaky” was actually a poor descriptor—the company was on fucking fire, and the inexperienced redhead weeping her way down the hall was a hindrance, not a help. “You may have heard—“
“—about Stillwell? Who fucking hasn’t,” you laughed, crossing your arms. “She’s bit the dust and now your Supes are spiraling. I think a blind person can see it, you know. And that girl who replaced her? Mm, she’s in over her head.”
Edgar nodded along with you, refusing to verbalize any of the words that you were speaking, never letting you get the satisfaction of knowing he was under serious pressure. “And you’re going to fix it.”
“For the price tag you’re promising, and the perks? Fuck, I’ll be Homelander’s personal therapist for a sum like that.”
“Be careful or you will be,” he remarked sharply, giving his eyebrows a curt raise like he was providing you the best advice you’d ever get. It sounded ominous, though, like Edgar was implying that even your cushy salary wouldn’t be compensation enough for that task. “He’s a real piece of work.”
You scoffed. “Aren’t they all?” There was a part of you that hated Supes, and a part of you that respected them, and a part of you that pitied them. “Aren’t they all…”
As a newly-divorced woman with no friends and no intention of making any, you spent the days before you were introduced to the Seven setting up in your new apartment on 98 and doing your homework. You weren’t going to show up to your first day on the job without knowing what or who you were going to be dealing with. You had become such a well respected talent manager by applying your hard-earned knowledge of psychology into your job. If you knew someone better than they knew themselves, they became much easier to handle.
A few of them were pretty easy to understand—Starlight, Maeve, A-Train. One was a blank canvas—Black Noir. One made your skin crawl when you looked at her, but you couldn’t understand why—Stormfront. And one, the most important one, was a fucking powder keg, ready to light itself ablaze with even the slightest provocation—Homelander. If you had to guess, he was going to be the most problematic of the group, if not for his position as the leader of the Seven alone, but for his horrendous past. The classified pages of his biography, only given to you because of your specific position, played out like a Stephen King novel, growing more terrifying with each turn of the page.
Homelander, otherwise known as John, was involved in a horrific accident when he was a child, resulting in the death of his parents. The orphanage he lived in after was funded by Vought, and they were quick to take him under their wing, explaining that he was one of God’s chosen few, granted superior powers above most when his talents started to manifest. By the time he had figured out how to fly, Vought had groomed him to be their most valuable asset, their prized product. If there was any truth to that, it could never get out; it would paint Homelander as a victim, emasculate him, and make him feel inferior. He didn’t even have a goddamn last name—the bullheaded “I’m the best” attitude he projected in his television appearances was so intertwined with his identity that it couldn’t coexist with victimization.
If you had any records of their psychiatric evaluations, you would have a better idea of what to be prepared for. Strangely enough, these reports weren’t included in their individual files, and no mention was made of them anywhere else. You wondered if Vought required regular mental health checks for their Supes; perhaps that was a touch bureaucratic, but it was necessary. The idea of Supes with unchecked bipolar or schizophrenia or depression worried you, predominantly because of how deeply it could impact their quality of life. After all, Supes had feelings too; that was why they were so loved. They were powerful enough to be extraordinary, but still relatable enough to be seen as human. If their quality of life went down the tubes, it went without saying it would manifest in their career–poorer poll performance, potential increase in collateral damage…the list was endless. It wouldn’t surprise you, though, if this was another corner that Vought cut. Perhaps you would take it up with Edgar.
Glancing at the clock, you let out an exhausted sigh. It was midnight, and if you were lucky enough to fall asleep five minutes after you shut your lights off, maybe you could squeeze in a good six hours of sleep. With a yawn, you rested your head against the pillow, feeling relaxed and content. It was validating to be sleeping in a comfortable, luxury penthouse in Vought tower only months after your ex-husband informed you that what you did was not a job . Oh, how wrong he was.
You blinked a few times, staring at the enormous doors that opened into the Seven’s conference room, overlooking the vast expanse of concrete and steel that built New York City. Ashley was behind you, fidgeting anxiously by twirling a lock of hair around her finger; you were surprised she still had any there to fidget with at all. She looked at you like she wanted to ask if you were ready to enter, but shrank back when you gave her finely raised eyebrow and cut your eyes over to the door.
She scurried to have it opened, and the panels parted to reveal the Seven ( Six , in this case) seated in their office chairs around the V-shaped conference table. At the apex sat Homelander, all bright blue eyes and pearly white teeth. You noticed the point of his canines first, wondering if he knew that sharp teeth probably had a subtle impact on his poll ratings; it wasn’t like he couldn’t afford the change. Ah, to be so wealthy you could alter a perfectly good smile for temporary poll ratings. “Everyone, this is–”
Ashley had opened her obnoxiously incompetent mouth to introduce you, but you simply held up a hand to silence her in her tracks; you kept your eyes trained on Homelander’s, enjoying the stare-off. You could watch the wheels turn in his mind as he assessed you, an unknown figure who silenced Ashley’s pathetic muttering in a single gesture. It reminded him of the only think he liked about Madelyn Stillwell, which was the way she could easily force respect and obedience from anyone she met. “No need,” you said serenely, “I’m well capable of introducing myself.”
You ignored Ashley’s splutters of apology. You gave your proper name and prefix, indicating that you preferred to be referred by as such. As you constantly reminded yourself–you were a professional. “I’ve been hired to step into a new role created by Vought,” you explained happily. “Not everyone can be Stillwell,” you said, throwing some shade towards Ashley that seemed appreciated by Homelander and Stormfront; but Starlight rolled her eyes in annoyance, “but perhaps if Ashley manages the clerical side of things and I manage the social aspect, we’ll be good, right?”
The Seven sort of looked around, back and forth, between one another. You picked up on how everyone seemed to shift their focus to Homelander, their muscles tensed like they were bracing themselves for whatever the blonde Supe’s reaction to you could possibly be. You couldn’t tell right off the bat, either; his face seemed to quickly switch between different expressions of emotions, so quickly you couldn’t understand what they communicated. “I’m sure this was another one of…Edgar’s decisions,” he finally inquired, frowning. You saw his eyes shift to Stormfront; must have been added without his approval. He gave you a dry smile, as if to say his hands were tied, and there was only one thing he could do. “Welcome aboard.”
You were pleased with how your first meeting with the Seven went.
Most of them seemed pretty friendly at first glance; but you knew from reading files alone that A-Train had poor judgment, and Starlight did too, for that matter. The only sensible ones appeared to be Black Noir and Queen Maeve, and the former didn’t even speak. You stood in front of your wine bar, pulling down a bottle of malbec from the rack and uncorking it. As you poured a glass, you heard a woosh and saw a flash of red, white, and blue behind your fluttering curtains. “Ah, Homelander,” you said evenly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He gave you a thin smile, stepping out from behind the curtains, clasping his wrists behind his back. “You certainly have a way with words,” he said complimentarily, moving further into your penthouse as you pressed the glass to your lips; you were glad you had it, to calm your nerves and keep you from snapping at someone who could both very easily kill you, likely as a result of untreated delusions. “You’ve got everyone thinking that you run a tight ship and keep a tight lead; Starlight is terrified she’ll do something wrong and fire you,” he snorted, but you didn’t fall for the obvious lie. Those were his perceptions of you, and he was simply projecting them onto Starlight–because he’d rather her look weak than him.
You chuckled, turning around and leaning against your wine bar and taking a lazy sip from the glass. “Mm, let’s cut the bullshit,” you said, licking the lingering taste of your drink from your lips. “You’re the leader of the Seven–you don’t have to sugarcoat things for me, I can handle it,” you smiled. You lifted your wine glass to him in offering. “Want one?”
“No thanks, I don’t imbibe,” he responded curtly. You shrugged your shoulders, choosing not to question further. You were sure he had his reasons–well, perhaps not Homelander himself, but the team that dictated his actions. You let that thought simmer in your mind as you walked to your black suede sofa and curled up on it, jerking your head in the direction of a lounge chair on the opposite side of the room, encouraging him to take a seat.
You took another drink, placing your glass on the table before you. “So, why are you here–unofficially, after hours, and still on work business?” you questioned pointedly. “It must be important if you’re interrupting at such a late hour; I mean, we hardly know each other.” You watched him walk towards the armchair you had singled out, giving him a teasing smile that he returned with a scowl. “What, don’t tell me Stillwell would let you barge into her home without a knock or a call?”
Homelander’s frown deepened, and he didn’t bother to make himself comfortable where he sat; he was visibly unhappy with the tone of the conversation so far, exuding irritation and annoyance so strong it was palpable. “My friendship with Stillwell is none of your business,” he rasped angrily.
You could have continued to poke the bear, to see firsthand what an “episode” of his could look like, but you decided that your safety would probably be at risk in that scenario. You would need a different approach. “Wonderful,” you smiled, like you were happy that was a question he refused to answer. If he wanted business, then business it was. “As I am not Madelyn, it would be in your best interests to not enter my residence without express permission again; that’s a boundary that shouldn’t be crossed again.”
He let out a laugh, shaking his head lightly side to side, the arms crossed over his chest tightening. Homelander, like most narcissists, didn’t accept the boundaries of others as valid; this situation was no exception. “You really think I’d want to come back here?” he chuckled. “No, no no no. I’m not going to need to anymore after tonight; when I leave here, you’re going to let Edgar know that you appreciate this wonderful opportunity, but you just simply aren’t the right person to manage and lead the team; tell him that Ashley should return.”
The wine glass pressed against your lips again to help hide how you were smiling at his demands. It was apparent that he didn’t want any unfamiliar influences involved with his team, unfamiliar people who could call out the dysfunction in the Seven and their administrators and convince the others that, maybe, something wasn’t right with Homelander. “That won’t be necessary,” you said, your tone reassuring as you downed more wine. “You see, I think you’ll quite like what I have in mind for the Seven.”
“I’m sure,” he said bitterly. “See…I don’t think you have as much experience with this team as I do, you don’t know them quite like I do,” he argued, again attempting a more peaceful method of situation de escalation instead of blowing your brains out on the spot. “You have no idea who these people are, what they respond to–”
“Of course I don’t!” you interjected, interrupting Homelander so loudly and forcefully that he stopped speaking, looking at you as though he was unsure whether or not to kill you for interrupting him, or hear you out. You didn’t give him a choice in the matter. “ You’re the one who understands this team,” you said to him, “that’s why you’re the leader of the Seven. My plan? My plan is letting you act like one,” you responded with a hiss.
Homelander sank backwards into the armchair, his eyebrows raised; he seemed willing to hear you out, since it would elevate his appearance. “Go on,” he ordered. “Explain.”
You let out a slow, measured breath. “I’ve spent the last few days evaluating everyone’s files, the standards of procedures, the personnel roster…why are you guys so micromanaged?” you asked Homelander, your eyes pleading like you were looking for an answer. “Particularly you, Homelander. You’re the leader, and yet you’ve never been allowed to stray from your talking points. I think it’s about time that changed, hm?”
“What are you saying?”
“What I’m saying is that I am going to be a manager ,” you emphasized to him. “I’m not the leader of the Seven, or the CEO of Vought, or a pretend mother to a band of feral superhumans. I will take care of my job as your manager—nothing more; do you understand?” you asked, your eyes imploring him to look at the deeper meaning of your words. He seemed to catch your drift, and he smiled lazily as he fully relaxed back into your armchair. The reassurance of his own authority within the Seven was enough to put him at ease with you.
“Crystal clear,” he flashed a dazzling smile at you that would have left you starstruck if you hadn’t been used to his type. “Well, I’m glad we settled that…” he hesitated, like he was wanting to call you by name but needed a refresher; you obliged, and he repeated the words. “You know, this might actually work out.”