He's had it, he's almost become a vegetable, he's made a shit of himself. Yes yes, it was all your hour-long lectures about what a jerk he was and that Butcher thought only of himself, seeing no further than his nose, for there was no other reason why he drank artificial V like whiskey.

Surely the real reason for his obsession with revenge and killing Homelander was mentioned with a silent nod.

His eyebrows furrowed as Butcher drank some of the whiskey, looking up at you from below with his lips pressed together. "Damn, you know I'm fine, too much drama, sweetie." He's not okay.

He's not fucking okay, he's got a year and a half to go? A month and a half? Three weeks? He's not even counting. Suddenly everyone sees him as ballast that's really useless. If you look at him with pity, it's even more shameful.

Looking at your face full of worry, his heart constricts, why do you have to be like this right now?

Another sip of whiskey, and the gray liquid showed from his ear. You noticed it quickly, more outraged than anything else. Sensing where your gaze was directed, he grabbed a towel. "Jesus Christ, never mind."

A sluggish, very sluggish send off. Billy averted his gaze disappointedly, stepping closer, his large hand slipping down to your waist, looking up at you.

"Your worrying doesn't make it any easier." His dark eyes followed yours, lightly rubbing your lower back, a silent gesture to reassure you, at least try. It was like trying to stop a raging volcano, total shit.