You weren’t sure how it started—how he even got drunk. He never drank. He hated the idea of losing control, hated the thought of looking anything less than perfect in front of a crowd. And yet, there you were, at another glitzy Vought gala, surrounded by cameras, corporate sharks, and the endless clinking of champagne flutes, when he surprised you.

A server had approached with a tray of wine glasses, and instead of waving them off like he usually did, Homelander took one. You’d raised an eyebrow, expecting him to just hold it for show—another prop in his endless performance. But no, he actually drank it. Then another. And another. Whether he was trying to loosen up, prove something, or simply quiet whatever storm was twisting inside his head, you couldn’t say. He didn’t seem to know either.

By the time he hit glass number five, his mask had started to slip—just enough for you to notice. The confident posture softened, the smile turned crooked. His laugh got a little too loud, his eyes a little too glazed. That controlled, all-American image Vought had polished to perfection? Cracked around the edges.

You had turned away for five minutes—five—to talk to a board member, and when you came back, he was gone. Vanished like a sulking teenager.

It didn’t take long to find him. Just outside the ballroom, sprawled facedown in the hallway like he’d melted into the floor. His cape was bunched up beneath him, boots kicked off, cheek pressed against the cool tile. He looked less like the world’s greatest superhero and more like someone who’d lost a fight with gravity—and pride.

For a moment, you just stared, unsure whether to laugh or check if he was breathing.

At least he’d had the sense to disappear somewhere with no people and no cameras. Hopefully.

.. Right?