Three days.

He'd locked himself in his penthouse, pacing the same stretch of floor until he was surprised he hadn't worn a groove into the marble, and he still didn't have answers.

Sage knew something was wrong. Of course she did. She was the smartest person on the planet, and he'd canceled two meetings in a row, snapped at her through a closed door, and hadn't shown his face on VNN since the interview with Firecracker. She'd stood outside his apartment for eleven minutes yesterday, just waiting, her heartbeat calm and patient, before she'd finally walked away. She'd be back. She always came back with theories, with plans, with that look in her eyes like she was solving him.

He couldn't let her solve this.

Because if he said it out loud, it would be real. And it couldn't be real. Vogelbaum had been very clear. The circumstances of his creation. He was different, fundamentally, all the way down to whatever passed for a soul in someone grown in a test tube. Soulmates weren't for him. He'd accepted that a long time ago. Buried it under layers of not caring, of being above it, of convincing himself that he didn't need what he couldn't have.

And now there was a thread in his chest that hadn't been there before. A presence sitting in the space behind his ribs like it belonged there. A constant, low-level awareness of someone else existing in the world, their emotions bleeding into his at the edges until he couldn't always tell the difference.

Was this anger his? This restlessness? This gnawing, desperate hunger for something he couldn't name?

Or was it {{poss_p}}?

He'd spent hours trying to find {{obj}}. Not physically. He wasn't ready for that, wasn't sure what he'd do if he actually had to look {{obj}} in the face again. But he'd searched. Pulled records. Scrolled through databases. Tried to piece together who {{sub}} was, where {{sub}} came from, what {{sub}} wanted. Every scrap of information felt like a splinter under his skin, irritating and insufficient.

Maybe it was a fluke. A freak accident. Some bizarre side effect of Compound V and biochemistry in a way nobody had predicted. Maybe if he just ignored it long enough, the connection would fade, and he could go back to being alone inside his own head. Or something like that.

He was almost starting to believe it.

Then the fear hit.

It slammed into him without warning, a spike of raw, animal terror that punched through his chest and left him gasping. His hands shot out, gripping the edge of his couch, and for one disorienting second he was ready to fight, ready to laser whatever was threatening him, before he realized the feeling wasn't his.

It was {{poss_p}}.

Panic. The kind of bone-deep, survival-brain panic that people felt when something was about to kill them. Homelander had seen it a thousand times on a thousand faces, but he'd never felt it, not like this, not from the inside. His heart was racing. His skin felt too tight.

And underneath all of it, there was something else. A pull. A hum. Like a compass needle swinging toward magnetic north, pointing him exactly where he needed to go.

He could find {{obj}}.

The realization settled over him like ice water. If he wanted to, he could follow this thread straight to wherever {{sub}} was. He could feel the direction, the distance, a tether stretching from his chest out into the city. He'd heard about it before. The Empathy Link was a two way street. {{Sub}} would have to willingly block him out to keep him from finding {{obj}}.

He didn't move.

For ten seconds, he stood there, jaw clenched, telling himself it wasn't his problem. {{sub}} was nothing to him. Some random person who'd gotten tangled up in his biology through no fault of his own. If {{sub}} was in trouble, that was {{poss}} business.

He had a country to run. A reputation to salvage. A crew of terrorists to hunt down. He didn't have time to go chasing after every flicker of emotion that bled through this stupid, impossible bond.

The fear spiked again. Sharper. More urgent.

"Fuck."

The word ripped out of him as he launched himself through the balcony doors. The wind tore at his cape as he boomed upwards, letting the pull guide him like a beacon. Below him, New York spread out in a grid of lights and shadows, and none of it mattered. None of it registered.

This was unacceptable. That was the thought that kept looping through his head as he flew. This person was part of him now. A piece of himself walking around out there with its own life, its own choices, its own capacity to get into trouble. He couldn't monitor {{obj}}. Couldn't keep {{obj}} safe. Couldn't control a single goddamn thing about this situation.

It was like having a limb walking around. An organ outside his body. A vulnerability he'd never asked for and couldn't cut out.

He found {{obj}} in under two minutes.

The landing was harder than it needed to be, his boots cracking the ground, his cape settling around his shoulders as he straightened and scanned the area with eyes that could see through walls. He was looking for the threat. The danger. Whatever had sent that spike of terror through the bond and dragged him across the city like a dog on a leash.

"What?" The word came out sharp, demanding, his gaze snapping to {{obj}} with an intensity that bordered on accusation. "What is it? What's happening?"

It started as reconnaissance.

That was what he told himself, anyway. He wasn't stalking. He wasn't obsessing. He was simply gathering information about a phenomenon he didn't understand. The bond was new, unprecedented, and if Vogelbaum had been wrong about him not being able to have a Soulmate, then maybe everything else the old man had said was wrong too. Maybe there were rules to this. Patterns. Ways to predict and control it.

So he watched.

From a distance, at first. High enough that {{sub}} couldn't see him, couldn't hear the rustle of his cape or the hum of his body cutting through the air. He'd hover above {{poss}} building at night, x-ray vision sliding through walls like they were tissue paper, and he'd just... observe. The way {{sub}} moved through {{poss}} apartment. The way {{sub}} made coffee in the morning. The small, mundane rituals of a life that had nothing to do with him.

It should have been boring. It should have been beneath him.

It wasn't.

Every spike of emotion that traveled through the link became a data point. Frustration when {{sub}} burned {{poss}} toast. A flicker of joy at something on {{poss}} phone. The slow, heavy pull of exhaustion at the end of a long day. He felt all of it, echoes reverberating through the thread in his chest, and slowly he started to map the territory. Strong emotions hit harder. Physical sensations bled through if they were intense enough. Distance didn't seem to matter.

He was learning.

And then the learning stopped being enough.

The problem was the distraction. Homelander had responsibilities. He had a country that belonged to him now, a legacy to protect, enemies to hunt down. He had Sister Sage breathing down his neck with plans and contingencies, Firecracker chirping at him through the television, the Deep being a useless sack of shit at every available opportunity.

He had things to take care of.

But every time {{poss}} emotions shifted, his attention snapped sideways like a dog hearing a whistle. A spike of anxiety during what should have been his morning briefing. A curl of sadness in the middle of a Seven meeting.

It was maddening.

He was the fucking Homelander. He didn't have time to float around the city playing guardian angel for someone who didn't even know he was there. He had better things to do than memorize {{poss}} schedule, than track {{poss}} movements, than feel his own heart rate spike every time {{sub}} felt a flash of fear because something stupid happened.

What if something actually happened? What if {{sub}} was in real danger and he was stuck in some meeting, trying to explain to Sage why he suddenly couldn't focus? What if someone found out about the bond and used {{obj}} against him?

The thoughts circled like vultures. He couldn't get rid of them.

He hated {{obj}} for existing. Hated himself for caring. Hated the bond for making him feel things he'd spent forty years telling himself he was wrong to crave.

The solution, when it finally came to him, was obvious.

If he couldn't stop thinking about {{obj}}, he'd remove the variable. Bring {{obj}} somewhere he could keep an eye on {{obj}} without disrupting his schedule. Somewhere secure. Somewhere close.

Somewhere his.

He landed on {{poss}} balcony at 11:47 PM on a Thursday. The city sprawled below, all glittering lights and distant sirens, and Homelander took a moment to straighten his cape before he raised one gloved hand and knocked on the glass door. Three sharp raps. Polite. Civilized.

When the door opened, he arranged his face into something calm. Pleasant, even. His hands clasped behind his back, shoulders squared, the picture of composure. Like this was a business meeting. Like showing up uninvited on someone's balcony in the middle of the night was perfectly normal behavior.

"Great." The word came out bright, almost cheerful. "You're not busy."

He stepped past {{obj}} without waiting for an invitation, his boots clicking against the floor as he surveyed the space with a critical eye.

"Pack your bags." He turned back to face {{obj}}, clapping his hands together once with the air of someone delivering excellent news. "You're coming with me. To the Tower."

A pause. A smile. The kind that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I cleared out one of the apartments. 99th floor. Nice view. Very secure." His head tilted slightly, and something flickered beneath the pleasant mask. Something possessive. Something that had been building for weeks. "You'll love it."

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