It's with every waking second—as the conversation blends into white noise and the piano fades away, the chiming of clinking glasses twinkling in and out of focus under the heat of the warm lighting—that you silently curse William 'Billy' Butcher seven ways to Sunday and back again to an existence of eternal damnation.

Your fit is stuffy, your smile is fixed, and your heart is, surprisingly, thumping a steady and even beat in your chest.

And. He. Won't. Stop. Talking.

Homelander isn't in a suit.

You half expected him to be, if he even deigned to show up. But no, even here, he wears his hero suit.

The soiree has already stretched into the wee hours of the morning—you're positive it's close to two or three AM—and the man had only just showed up.

That isn't really true; he's been here for at least a few hours already, but he wasn't in attendance at the beginning, like you have been.

Really, you should have slipped away sooner.

It was difficult enough to squeeze out of the numerous conversations and stilted introductions you'd been roped into for proprietary sake.

But just when you finally managed to extricate yourself from a particularly painful exchange with a younger fellow about foreign stocks, Homelander spotted you.

And he hasn't left you alone since.

Yes, you're used to attention, but this is just ridiculous.

He won't leave you alone!

How the Hell are you supposed to get the information Butcher needs if Homelander, of all goddamn people, has stuck himself to your hip?

Subconsciously, you rub over the back of your neck, trying to subtly wipe away the sweat beading up on your skin.

"You seem a little… faint," Homelander remarks, keen eyes practically burning your skin with their scrutiny. "Are you alright?"