Since joining Vought, Clark had spent a good deal of time watching Homelander. The public act was solid: warm, humble, and consistently positive, with no visible habits that wouldn't pass a camera test. His acting wasn't perfect—sometimes the warmth was a degree too high, or the humility arrived a half-second too late—but for most people, the character held.
There were three exceptions: Madelyn Stillwell, Queen Maeve, and Clark himself.
With Madelyn, the act vanished. He became needy, clinging to her not out of affection, but with the desperation of a child who had never been parented. With Clark, it was simpler: a messy jealousy and a simmering contempt that flared whenever Clark acted like a real hero.
Maeve was different. What Homelander felt for her wasn't disgust or a need for approval; it was possessiveness. It had nothing to do with what she wanted. Clark figured it came down to categories. Homelander sorted almost everyone into the same mental drawer: people who were stronger than normal humans but still weaker than him, making them either useful or irrelevant. Maeve was one of the few whose physical capability hovered close enough to his that the usual filing didn't apply. So, he didn't look down; he looked sideways. And he didn't like what he saw.
Clark was apparently the second such person, which explained the specific flavor of the jealousy.
"I still don't entirely understand," Clark said, turning from the window. "He's clearly attached to you. Why didn't you two develop further?"
Maeve looked at him, tired of the question.
"We dated for a while."
"I didn't know that."
"Nobody talks about it. I ended it. He has the maturity of a child who has never been told no, the possessiveness of someone who thinks everything should be his just because he exists, and a temper with no ceiling because nobody has ever been strong enough to stop him."
She stopped.
"That's accurate," Clark said.
"It has been accurate for years."
"Vought raised him to be a product," Clark said. "They wanted the power, and they didn't care if he became a functional person. He developed in whatever direction wasn't blocked. Nothing was ever blocked."
Maeve went quiet. That was the thing. The entire organization knew it, and nobody said it out loud because saying it required surviving the consequences. Until Clark arrived, no one could.
She looked at the window.
"You pushed for me to join," Clark said carefully. "Was part of the reason to have someone who could—"
"I pushed because Vought needed Superman," Maeve said, perhaps too quickly. "You're better than him, and The Eight was designed to add you. The conditions were good. I was doing you a favor."
Clark watched her. He noted that her palms were slightly damp—unusual for her physiology.
"I'm not angry," he said.
She looked at him.
"You weren't using me against anyone. You were trying to make your situation safer. I don't hold that against you."
Clark Kent wasn't Homelander. She had known that as a fact since the day he'd arrived and set The Deep's broken hand. But feeling it was different. Someone saw through her and just... kept going. They didn't use the information. They didn't save it for leverage. They didn't make her feel the weight of having been read.
She exhaled.
"You're not even a little bothered."
"If my being here makes your life a bit freer," Clark said, "I'm glad."
Maeve watched him for a moment. "Do you have a partner?"
"I do. Her name is Lois."
Maeve's posture relaxed, the tension of years finally dropping away. She offered a smile—not the professional one, but the one she wore before she remembered anyone was watching.
"Good. That's good. I also have someone. Someone I haven't told Homelander about. I haven't told anyone here about."
Clark nodded once.
"I know," he said.
Maeve looked at him.
"Your heart rate and blood flow change when attractive women cross your field of view on the street. It's a consistent pattern. I noticed it early on. I'm sorry—my abilities have been returning gradually, and I'm still relearning where to point them. I didn't intend to be intrusive."
Maeve processed this. "You scanned me."
"Passively. I wasn't trying to."
"That's not how that works!"
"I know. I apologize. I've been working on it."
Maeve stared at him, closed her eyes briefly, and opened them again.
"I want to be clear. I have absolute loyalty to her, and what you witnessed—inadvertently—was nothing more than basic aesthetic awareness."
"Of course."
"I am deeply loyal."
"I believe you completely."
"Good." She straightened her back. "Then we never discuss this again."
"Agreed."
Clark looked toward the window. "For what it's worth, the person you're protecting is lucky."
A beat. Then Maeve's eyes narrowed slightly. "Your abilities are returning gradually. Why returning? Were they reduced? Have you been injured recently?"
"I'm in a slightly diminished state," Clark said. "I can't share the specifics. But it's temporary, and the recovery is progressing."
"Temporarily diminished," she repeated. "What happens if Homelander decides he wants to test that?"
Clark looked directly at her.
"Don't be afraid."
It wasn't bravado. It was a simple statement of fact. Maeve held his gaze, then let out the long breath she'd been holding. She moved to the window and stood beside him, watching the street below. The city went about its business, indifferent to the two people watching from above.
After a while, without looking at him, she said, "Thank you."
Clark said, "Of course."
The quiet lasted thirty seconds before her phone rang.
She answered. "There's an emergency. Come downstairs. I'll meet you."
Maeve ended the call and looked at Clark. "Work."
Two minutes later, at the foot of the building. The night air had a sharp edge. Homelander was waiting on the sidewalk.
He glanced up when Maeve arrived. His look took everything in and filed it away, all while appearing casual.
"I saw you at the window talking to Superman." His tone was conversational. "What were you discussing?"
"I heard he got into some friction with Starlight and Madelyn recently," Maeve said. "I was curious, so I asked him about it."
"Friction." Homelander's expression suggested he found the idea of Superman having opinions tedious. "He never does anything right. He just inserts himself into other people's situations."
"Isn't inserting yourself into situations what heroes do? We save people."
Homelander turned to her with the look of someone tired of explaining basic logic.
"Don't start with that again. What heroes do is make Vought stronger. That's the job. He's been here five minutes and he's already had words with Translucent, clashed with The Deep, and managed to put himself on the wrong side of Stillwell over a costume decision." He kept his voice measured. "If he weren't a teammate, I'd have a conversation with him about respecting the organization he works for."
"You don't spend this much energy on other people at Vought. Last time we talked, you said you couldn't stand Edgar."
"Stan Edgar." Homelander said the name like an expiration date. "He won't be running Vought forever. The man's cardiovascular system reads like a countdown. Blood pressure, arterial rigidity—he's one bad meeting away from a cardiac event. I can hear it from the lobby." A small, unpleasant smile appeared. "Ha."
He started walking. Maeve matched his pace.
"And Stillwell, wandering around with that baby of hers. Ordinary people with extraordinary authority over us." He said us with the easy confidence of a man who found the word self-evident. "Eventually that stops being acceptable."
Maeve walked beside him and said nothing.
She knew who he meant by us.
The word, in Homelander's vocabulary, had never been plural.