Chapter Text
“Your resignation?”
Ashley couldn't quite understand Madelyn Stiwell's tone. Was that surprise? Was that boredom? Was that suspicion? Her face was an astonishingly neutral, calm, collected sort. The only thing that indicated emotions at all was the slight tension in her jaw, the redness of her blue eyes. She was flawlessly put together, from her meticulous blowout to the cut of her skirt suit. Not a single baby hair, nails red and ready to cut a man. Ashley hoped that she was surprised. Or bored . Desperately. She would rather not have Stiwell sick Homelander on her for thinking she knew something she wasn't supposed to.
Because.
Oh boy, did she know a lot she wasn't supposed to.
“I'm afraid,” she said, going for formal, “With my Medical circumstances, I am unfit to perform my duties. So yes, Ms. Sitwell, I am resigning. Effective immediately.”
Sitwell just kept looking at her, blue eyes red and puffy. The finest of lines at her mouth shifted. She kept her poker face.
“I don't understand,” her voice was careful, still neutral, “I just offered you the opportunity for a trial run for a real position in Hero Management. I'm three weeks from my maternity leave. Ashley, you're throwing away an opportunity for your career. We can work around your medical needs.”
She also thought that the woman wouldn't care enough to come in person. To demand an explanation from her. By her own estimation, Madelyn Sitwell had no reason to give a fuck about her. Ashley was tired of not thinking too hard about what it meant that Sitwell was her only emergency contact.
Was it a mentorship situation? Was it the slightest of affection?
Or did Sitwell not want to scramble for an assistant so last minute?
“I still resign, ma'am.”
The woman jerked. Slightly. Head back. Blinking quickly.
“Ashley-” Here her voice finally shifted. Not concerned, but a very good proximity to it.
Sitwell was good. There was a reason she manipulated Homelander for nearly a decade. If Ashley didn't know better, she'd think that she was actually worried for her. But Ashley didn't trust this woman. Because, well, anything Vought-associated was highly suspect at best.
Ashley Aguilera didn't dance with Nazis.
Or.
Well.
Ashley Barrett now.
But in the very innermost thoughts, she would remain Aguilera. She wasn't this body, even if all of her official documentation, her very DNA declared her some pasty, nasty white lady working for Nazis. But, well, at least she got white privilege now? By default?
Sweet Jesus.
“If you won't mind reading my chart, ma'am?”
Stiwell gave her a vague look of complete confusion. Pulled the chart her way. Flipped into it. Ashley caught the moment she read her diagnosis, the exact moment she understood.
Because Madelyn Sitwell wobbled in place. Placed her spare hand onto the swell of her very pregnant belly.
“ Amnesia ?”
She looked up. Her eyes flickered to the thick bandages around her head. The damage had been so severe that she had to have her head shaved for surgery. So she was rocking some wicked reconstructive scars and a Sinéad O'Connor look; she didn't hate it. Barrett's face was a pretty one, with large, pouty lips and bright, clear blue eyes. With the right accessories, the shaved head could look gorgeous. In her real body, she would never have felt enough courage to shave her head. She tried not to think that the original Barrett pulled her hair out and was bald, too.
Cause.
Canon event. Don't like that.
She also tried not to think about the fact that she was woken up in Barrett's apartment, severely injured in a way that was decidedly not canon. In suspicious circumstances. That Vought could have caused it.
Her only evidence otherwise was the fact that the damage hadn't been fatal. She hadn't been very lucid when she came too, only knew enough to grip Barrett's ancient iPhone and call emergency services. She didn't know what had made her fall and given her severe head trauma, but Barrett was lucky her body wasn't dead.
Or maybe that's what happened.
Barrett, unless they suddenly switched bodies, was dead.
Dead as door knob.
Wait. That was Jacob Marley. I'm getting my evil white people mixed up.
“I-” Sitwell seemed genuinely startled.
Ashley shrugged helplessly. In a sort of c'est la vie sort of way. She felt... Small. Sitting in a hospital bed with a fictional character, very obviously heavily pregnant, staring at her in disbelief. At least that gave her some semblance of a timeline. Season 1 of ‘The Boys’ hadn't started. Yay?
Sitwell sagged into the nearest chair. Gripped desperately at her son.
Teddy .
“...I accept your resignation, Miss. Barrett. I'm going to make sure you get severance,” she answered after a moment.
And there.
Was that sadness?
Or was it a mask of sadness to hide what she really felt?
Didn't she fucking fire Barrett? Why is she being so nice? Hormones ? Why?
She had personally brought flowers. Obnoxious, bright patriot,ic and no doubt expensive, flowers. Ashley had honestly thought that would be the end of it. But then she had started talking about work and recovery time, and Ashley couldn't stand the thought of setting foot in Vought.
She did not have a fucking death wish.
One brush with a truck, and she was good.
Oh my God, I got Truck-kuned.
“That's nice. Is it good?”
Sitwell blinked quickly at her.
“Yes. Vought has some of the highest severance in Fortune Five Hundred companies in the United States.”
Well, you would have to. Killing so many fucking people- Oh my God. It's blood money.
Nazi blood money.
Ashley made a mental note to donate as much as possible. To several minority charities. She would find herself a comfortable restaurant- Ashley Barrett's degree was likely in fucking marketing or communications. Not exactly useful to her real ambitions. Ashley felt something in her wither. Her four years of culinary school, her six years as an apprentice to several restaurants around the city were gone.
Fuck me, she thinks, unkindly. Mulishly and a fraction closer to hysterics.
Because she had worked her ass off. She was one of the best patissiers in the city- or well, would be.
Wait.
Am…
Am I a person in ‘The Boys-Verse? ’
Her head hurt. It was, according to the TV, 2018. She, if she existed in the universe, was almost out of culinary school.
“Do you-” hesitancy. A fraction of real emotion, from Sitwell, causes Ashley to jolt out of her thoughts, “Do you remember anything?”
Ashley could lie. Really. Really well. The Theater Kid in her could not be denied.
So she did .
“I- I actually don't? I mean, I don't even know who you are, other than obviously my boss. From… Vought? Like, the Superhero company?”
Madelyn Sitwell, whatever she was, maybe felt something for Barrett after all. Her expression crumpled for a fraction of a second.
“Jesus. My name is Madelyn. Madelyn Sitwell. Yes. I’m Vought's Senior Vice President of Hero Management. You're my personal assistant.”
“Nice to meet you.”
The woman blinked quickly.
“I'll get my staff to clear your desk. Send your personal items to your apartment. I assume your recovery is long?”
Death flag down. Fuck you Nazis.
“Months. I believe my discharge is pending. What with my broken hip and the way they reconstructed my skull... I'll get my address from my paperwork. Thank you, Ms. Sitwell, and I apologize for the inconvenience during your pregnancy. Congratulations, by the way.”
Madelyn stares at her.
"I'll arrange it," Madelyn said firmly, “And a car service for your discharge. God, you'll need a lawyer for your accounts-”
Ashley frowned.
“Excuse me, but how close were we?”
Sitwell’s lips pressed into a firm line. She took a breath.
“I was a mentor to you. A-” She sighed, “I would call myself your friend.”
She blinked at her.
What bull shit is this?
“... Right,” she smiles, tries for genuine and happy, “The flowers are lovely. Thank you, Ms. Sitwell.”
“Please, call me Madelyn.”
She wants to eat glass before she gives this woman any sense of a relationship. But if she’s suspicious, I have to play nice.
“Alright… Madelyn,” she replied, a fake smile on her face.
The woman looked back with a tentative smile on her face. Ashley wasn’t sure if she was imagining the relief on the older woman’s face.
Either way, she hoped she would never see her again after Sitwell got what she wanted out of this interaction and realized she was a harmless, unknowing civilian.
Hopefully, it was soon.