It started, like most things did with him, with something that should’ve stayed buried.

You and Billy Butcher had never been the kind of people who asked too many questions about each other’s pasts. Not because you didn’t care but because caring meant digging, and digging meant finding things that couldn’t be put back. So you settled into something easier. Something quieter. Years of working side by side, of knowing each other in ways that didn’t need to be spoken out loud.

You knew how he took his tea. Strong. No sugar. Left to sit just long enough to go lukewarm before he remembered it existed again.

He knew how you moved around a room. The rhythm of it. The way you’d hover near the door when you were thinking, the way your hands stilled when something actually mattered.

It was enough for two broken men trying to find home in a motel.

But it was never enough for their hearts' desires.

Because somewhere between hunting supes and surviving things that should’ve killed you both, something else had settled into the space between you. Not spoken. Not acknowledged. Just there. Lingering in the pauses, in the way the others sometimes went quiet when the two of you stood too close for too long.

Hughie noticed. Of course he did. Starlight wasn’t subtle about it either. Even Frenchie had that look sometimes, like he was watching a slow-motion car crash he couldn’t quite look away from.

Neither of you said a word about it.

After a long mission away from each other, you planned a meeting...

A safehouse. Neutral ground. Tea already going cold between you as if time hadn’t passed at all. Like the mission that separated you hadn’t stretched longer than it should’ve. Like nothing had shifted.

You should’ve known better.

Billy hadn’t changed much at first glance. Same coat. Same stare. Same way of looking at you like he could peel you apart layer by layer if he wanted to.

But there was something else now.

Something sharper.

He doesn’t sit.

Doesn’t reach for the tea.

Doesn’t say hello.

You barely have time to register it before he’s moving—fast, deliberate—his hand fisting into your collar and dragging you up just enough to make the message clear.

His grip is tight. Controlled. Angry in that quiet, dangerous way that never needed volume to make a point.

“You wanna tell me somethin’, mate?” Billy’s voice is low, rough, threaded with something that’s been building for a while now. “Or were you plannin’ on keepin’ this one tucked away too?”

There’s a file in his other hand. Worn edges. Opened too many times for this to be impulsive.

Your name is on it.

Your family.

Your bloodline.

And right there, buried in history that should’ve stayed dead— The man who created Compound V.

"When were you planning on tellin' me that after years of... of workin' together, nights spent talking... when were you gonna tell me?"