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walkingnearfoxes · 12 days ago

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The Space Between the Lines (Homelander x Reader) - Chapter 1

2.4k words. Teacher Reader. Homelander in an undefined part of the canon timeline. SFW.

There are a dozen teachers who would kill for this job. You’re just not sure that you’re one of them.

(This is so self-indulgent and also my first time sharing any sort of fanfiction with the world. Hope it brings someone some joy :) )

The penthouse is unsettling. Something about the furniture arrangement, the way the bright windows reflect off of each piece and refract off one another, feels very fake. You wouldn't be surprised to see this exact setup in a magazine if not for the obsessive amount of American memorabilia surrounding it. The massive flag covering half the windows gives an ominous warning rather than patriotism; it casts half of the space into shadow. To keep yourself from turning and running out the door, you decide to focus on a single portrait of the many spanning the walls. You can pretend to be in an art museum, immersing yourself in your country's history rather than standing in this nationalist shell of a home.

Your eyes land on a painting of George Washington. It comes with a golden plaque on the bottom to detail the year of completion and the artist. Charles Willson Peale. You don't recognize the name, but you know you've seen the painting a dozen times over in your history textbooks. George casually leans against a cannon, a ghost of a smile on his lips to celebrate his victory in the Battle of Trenton. There is something about his posture that catches your attention. While he stands with authority, he is a bit slouched. Is he leaning against the cannon to show us his power, or is the man just exhausted?

You are no art expert, but it certainly looks authentic. Curious, you pull your phone out of your pocket and search for details on the piece. Sure enough, you find an article describing Vought's agreement to take the piece off the Met's hands - for a mere 21.1 million dollars.

You huff a quiet laugh at the number. "Jesus Christ."

"Not quite."

Your stomach lurches into your mouth. With a squeak at a pitch you didn’t even know you could reach, you spin on your heel. You usually are quite vigilant to noises around you, but this smooth voice crept up on you without a single warning. Then again, you had never had a super try to sneak up on you - let alone the most dangerous one.

The Homelander in all of his red, white and blue glory. You grew up seeing his sharp grin in every corner of your childhood. Vought movie marathons with friends, posters along the city streets, even on the lunch boxes of your old students - the blue-eyed hero was everywhere. Seeing him in person was something else entirely. He wasn't quite as tall as you imagined, but he made up for that in his stature. He stood with his hands folded behind his back, his posture perfect, a curious smile on his lips. Everything about him was pristine - almost too pristine. It made him look right at home.

You took a moment to let your pulse slow and find the ability to speak. "I'm so sorry, sir."

His grin grows, and you can't shake the image of a shark from your brain. "Please, Homelander is fine.”

Is it?

You tighten your grip on the heavy backpack you brought with you. The shaking Vought assistant that found you in the lobby and directed you to the penthouse had done little to settle your frazzled nerves. She was very good at telling you what you weren't supposed to do but had forgotten to tell you what you should do upon meeting the Homelander - hence your wandering around the artwork. You swallow and gesture awkwardly at the wall of paintings. "This is an amazing display."

"You like it?" He takes a step forward with his hands still clasped behind him. His eyes drift along the walls and he sighs proudly. "It's come together over the years. Think I'll need to add some more recent ones."

You glance back at the rest of the apartment. "Does Ryan like history?"

He looks at you from the corner of those bright blue eyes. "Right to business, huh?"

Your spine stiffens. "Oh, I didn't...I just meant-"

"Relax," He chuckles with a wave of his gloved hand. "I like it. Take a breath. Your poor heart is overexerting itself."

Before you can react, his fingers press under the strap of your backpack. He slips it off of you like he is picking up a piece of paper, and not a bag weighing you down with three separate textbooks, two novels and a packet of paper. Still, he chuckles. "Damn. You bring the whole library with you?"

Relieved of the backpack that undoubtedly left an indent in your skin, you rub carefully at your shoulder. "I wanted to make sure we had options."

He hums in acknowledgment and places your backpack on the small table at the center of the living room. He opens it without looking back up at you - your hand twitches at your side - and he analyzes your collection.

"Interesting..." He murmurs, and you have a hard time deciphering whether that's a good or bad thing. “All of these are Vought approved?"

Before you can answer, he snorts a laugh and pulls out the hefty social studies curriculum Vought had given you. It’s a mess of highlights, notes, and underlines you blessed it with over the last few weeks. "Well, someone has done their homework...no wonder they picked you."

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Picked" is a strong word. Sure, you had noticed the web postings for private teachers at Vought, but your red flag censors had gone off immediately. For one, the salary was absurd. It was more money than a dozen teachers at your old school made combined. It was a tempting fantasy until you read the rest of the post. Something about it was concerningly vague. While most of the postings read as a regular teacher job, it never explained who you would be teaching. As far as you knew, Vought wasn't starting up schools; they had enough control over kids through every other avenue. So who, exactly, was this lucky rich teacher going to educate? Your instincts flared, and you clicked off to another posting.

But then Vought found you.

You were selected for a teacher's award the past fall, granting you an unexpected spotlight. It proved to be a very mixed blessing. It gave you a stipend to keep up the rent payments - a teacher attempting to live in Manhattan was no easy feat - and a fancy trophy to impress your family, but it also put a target on your back. Teachers with decades more experience than you gave shifty stares along with their congratulations, and it wasn't long before you felt ostracized enough to turn down your school's polite offer to return the following year. Vought was there in moments with a phone call and a salary that was suddenly hard to refuse - and when you made the mistake of talking to your mother about it, it was all over. It was only after taking the job that you were told you would be privately teaching Ryan Butcher - the Homelander’s son. And here you were.

You smile politely. "I'm told I wasn't the first teacher, sir."

He arches a perfectly blonde brow.

"...Homelander."

"There ya go," His smile never fades as he puts your hefty collection of books down on the table, adjusting them to make a perfectly straight tower. “But you're right. You're not the first. Or the tenth."

You blink. "Oh...may I ask why?"

He looks back up at you and says nothing for a moment. You get the impression that he is analyzing you, and you do your best not to shift. You were never enough of a Vought fanatic growing up to remember the full extent of his abilities, but you vaguely recall that he could see through anything except zinc. What exactly was he looking at with you?

He seemed to approve of whatever it was, for he saunters towards you with a smile. "Ryan is...brilliant. Brilliant," He explains - and you note that when talking about his son, there's a sparkle in his eye that's real. "But...therein lies the problem. It only took about a lesson or two before I could see it wasn't a good fit."

So he watches the lessons. You file that away before replying, "He was too smart for them?"

He raises his hands as in those perfectly red gloves. "I am in awe of what teachers like yourselves can do," he says with a chuckle. “You're the real heroes, slaving away to mold the brains of our next generation."

"...but?"

"But the lessons these people come up with," He says with a laugh of disbelief. "You wouldn't believe the bull-...the stuff they tried to tell my son. I finally had to step in and fix it up."

That explains a lot, and you resist the urge to look at the curriculum stack. You can feel his stare and if you didn't know any better, you could swear there was a challenging twitch to that sharp grin.

"...if I may ask. With such a...specific curriculum, why not teach him yourself?" You ask.

He tilts his head. "You're the one with the credentials. Not me."

There is a long moment of silence. You hear the wind pushing against the floor-to-ceiling windows - the ones not shrouded in the American flag. You forget the level floor of this apartment, but it's high enough that you can only see clouds from here. Does he enjoy that loneliness? Or does he use it to look down on the people below?

"Question for you," He says suddenly. "Forget that stack of papers for a second. How would you introduce the American Revolution to my son?"

The American Revolution - the first unit in the Homelander-made curriculum. America simply did not exist before the colonies.

He sees your hesitation and waves his hand again. "Come on, no wrong answers. Tell me what you'd do."

You take a breath and fold your arms across your chest. "I'd probably start with some immersion."

He blinks a few times. "Immersion?"

"Well, I'd ask the students what they would do if they were in the same position as the colonists," You explain. "How would they feel if they had to pay more for everything without anyone asking what they thought."

"Interesting," He nods his head slowly. "So you side them with the patriots right away. Love that."

"Not necessarily."

He frowns at that, his brows drawing together. "Not necessarily?"

"There's always at least one kid who wants to be the devil's advocate," You say, a small smile on your lips as you recall past students. "They ask why they're asked to pay more money. Is it for protection? The Revolution lets them explore different perspectives."

"Does it now?"

You nod with a growing smile. "Not to mention the kids become complete Hamilton geeks."

"Interesting."

You blink, a bashful smile growing on your lips. "Thank you."

"Oh, not what you said. There's a lot we'll need to workshop there," He says with a chuckle. "But your heart accelerated when you were talking about this. You really care about all of this, don't you?"

You can't recall another time where you had felt so aggravated and complimented at the same time. Still, remembering this man's talent at lasering people in half, you settle for replying, "I do."

A wide grin settles on his face. "Then I think this will work perfectly."

The way he purrs that final word gives you a shiver of warning. You unconsciously rub at your shoulder again, sore from the backpack's work on your muscles. "I...hope it does."

He suddenly claps his hands, and you manage not to jump. "Well, let's have you come by tomorrow at nine o'clock—the same time as today."

You frown. "Am I not starting today?"

"Ryan’s filming a commercial today. Something about a video game. Or a book?" He shrugs and settles his hands on his hips. "Buddy keeps a busy life. But he'll be ready tomorrow."

Your teacher instincts cringe at the idea of a kid missing learning on a Monday, but you know better than to comment. You just nod. "I'll be here tomorrow, then."

He grins, all tooth and no warmth. "Wonderful."

The Homelander says nothing further, and you cautiously reach for your backpack. When the hero continues to watch you and not say a word, you become eager to leave as quickly as possible. You take your backpack, leave the books behind, and turn to go.

Only when you have your back to him does his hand fall onto your shoulder.

You barely stifle a gasp, your entire body straightening. In the choice between fight or flight, you settle on freeze.

"Your poor shoulder," He murmurs, his voice dangerously close to your ear. "These muscles are tight."

Before you can reply, he presses. His palm slowly pushes into your muscles in a way that is remarkably not human. You've had massages before, and very few of them could make any progress with the tangle of knots that were your shoulders. He instantly applies the pressure needed to unlock them, and the relief forces a pleased sigh out of you.

His deep chuckle from behind you is nearly enough to make your heart stop. "Better?"

Your face feels hot. You swallow down and nod. "Y-yeah. Thank you."

The Homelander's hand slowly slides off your shoulder, and you watch as he walks to stand in front of you. "Any time, teach," He winks and then saunters forward. "Come on. I'll walk you out."

You follow him to the exit, your backpack resting on your very relaxed shoulder. The Homelander opens the door for you, giving a small bow with a hand to the hallway. His eyes never leave you.

"See you tomorrow," He says as you walk past him.

You turn to face him fully and nod. "See you then."

He blatantly looks you up and down, then gives you a playful salute before shutting the door.

As you slowly turn on your heel and head for the elevator, you half expect the walls to turn purple or lobsters to crawl across the ceiling. That whole interaction with the Homelander was undoubtedly some strange dream where reality twisted; there was no other explanation for what just happened.

The ding the elevator makes as it opens sounds surreal and distant, and you exhale as you step inside.

What kind of deal had you just made?

#the boys #homelander x reader #homelander x you #fanfiction #teacher reader #my writing #homelander #ryan butcher #x reader #female reader #someone please fix my shoulders

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