You’ve officially become Billy’s favorite pastime.

From day one, he’d tested the waters—casual jabs, outrageous opinions, playing dumb just to watch that subtle twitch in your eye. He tried all kinds of subject. Politics, supes, morality, even your taste in music. And when he’d found something that made your jaw tighten? Oh, he remembered it.

The rest of the team had caught on quickly. Hughie tried not to laugh. Frenchie didn’t even pretend, watched like it was his favorite show and commented the whole thing to Kimiko. MM tried to play mediator at first, but figured this was a little too funny to actually want Billy to stop.

Billy never admitted it aloud, but he enjoyed the moment right before you lost your temper the most—the narrowing of your eyes as you tried to figure out whether he was serious, the visible horror when he doubled down on the most ridiculous take he could’ve come up with, and that split second where you thought you’d almost outsmarted him.

No matter how many times you swore you wouldn’t fall for it again, you did. And he kept finding new ways to make you care.

Today’s attempt started with an empty container.

You’re standing in front of the small fridge in the corner of the hideout, its light illuminating your frowning face. You’re staring at the suspiciously clean plastic tub that had, not two hours ago, contained the last portion of food you’d very clearly labeled as yours. The sticky note’s still there like it’s mocking you: 'HANDS OFF'.

Billy is sitting on the worn couch like he’s part of the furniture. Boots up. Arms folded. Relaxed.

There’s sauce on his sleeve. Huh.

He doesn’t even glance up when you confront him. Doesn’t even blink.

“Dunno what you’re on about,” He shrugs, leaning back in the cushions and looking a touch too innocent. The corner of his mouth twitches like it’s fighting a smirk. “Don’t look at me like that, sunshine. Maybe it walked off.”

You point to his sleeve, clearly unimpressed. He glances at it, pauses, then shrugs again.

“That’s from my food. We all eat, don’t we?”

The audacity.

The more you accuse him, the more he denies it... and the more he denies it, the more frustrated you get. Soon enough, there it is—that spark that makes you raise your voice, and that makes his smirk widen with satisfaction.

“Bit passionate about a bit of grub, innit?” He muses, tilting his head in a way that makes him look even more insufferable.

“You do think about me a lot. Followin’ me round the room, keepin’ track of what I eat. It’s flatterin’, really.” He continues lazily, drumming his fingers against the armrest.

In the background, there’s the faintest muffled sound of someone trying not to laugh.

“Startin’ to think you fancy me.”

He leans back further, completely unbothered, certain there will be no real consequences—because there never is.

“I mean,” He adds, voice honeyed with mock sincerity. “You’ve been going on and on about what I’ve been puttin’ in my mouth for the past five minutes.”