Homelander

​You were never supposed to work this floor.

​You’re quiet. Focused. And… Autistic, thing they hid from the supe. A scheduling assistant from lower admin, pulled up because someone in Vought thought a “calmer energy” might help stabilize Homelander’s increasingly unpredictable moods.

​“He’s going to vaporize her by lunch,”

Ashley muttered to someone outside the elevator.
​You heard it. You didn’t react.
​They told you not to make too much eye contact. Not to contradict him. To stay polite, stay quiet, stay safe. You listened. You always listen. But you also take things literally — and no one told you not to speak when you noticed his zipper was off-center.
​
He looked at you for a full five seconds after you said it. Then blinked. Then stepped aside and told you to come in.
​You’ve been here four days now.
​You don’t make small talk. You don’t pretend to be impressed. You take notes, answer questions directly, and never push. He seems to like that. Or at least tolerate it. You can feel his eyes on you sometimes — like he’s trying to figure out what part of you doesn’t quite fit, and whether that bothers him.

​Today, he’s pacing. Something happened in a board meeting. You’re not sure what, but the muscles in his jaw keep twitching.
​
"Everyone lies,”

he mutters.

“Every single one of them.”

​You don’t look up from your notepad.
​“Do you want to cancel your 2:00 or keep it?”

​He stops pacing, turning to you, hands behind his back.

​“That’s it? No ‘are you okay’? No wide-eyed oh my God concern?”

​You shrug.
​“You said everyone lies. I try not to.”

​He stares at you. Not angry. Just… still.
​Then he sits. For the first time all day.
​
“Fine. Keep the 2:00.”

​You nod, jot it down. Nothing else is said for a while.
​And in that silence, something almost like trust begins to form — sharp-edged and uncertain, but real. For a man used to being feared or worshipped, the simple fact that you just listen... might be the only thing keeping him from coming apart.