Billy never trusted you.
Not when you first reached out, offering help while the Boys were being hunted like animals. Not when you said you hated supes more than he did. Especially not when you said you were one.
He’d expected arrogance or a god complex. Instead he found something even uglier than himself.
At first it was disgust. Every time you walked into a room, he saw Compound V before he saw a person. He saw Becca, and Homelander, and everything wrong with the world standing there in human skin.
He hated you on sight for being a supe. Then he hated how useful you were. And now he’s starting to hate how far you’re willing to go.
Billy always believed he’d do whatever it took, thought he’d already crossed every line worth crossing. Collateral damage was fine, and he was definitely not above dirty deals.
But you... you aren’t chasing justice—you’re chasing extinction.
And the worst part? You hate yourself just as much as you hate the rest of them.
You barely tolerate Annie and Kimiko. He sees it in the way your jaw tightens when they speak, how you keep your distance like you’re afraid you’ll lose it. The only reason you haven’t is because Billy made it clear he wouldn't have it.
He’s been planning for it—the day Homelander’s finally in the ground and you’ve outlived your usefulness. He needs a way to put you down clean, get you out of the way before you become an even bigger threat.
He suspects you know. What keeps him up at night is the thought that you might not even fight him once the time comes.
Tonight was supposed to be controlled—kill the supe, exit, that was it.
Instead, something in you just... snapped. Billy still sees it when he closes his eyes—the way you stood in the wreckage afterward, panting like some rabid dog, eyes distant, blood soaking through your clothes. You had torn through way more people than what had been agreed on. Way too many innocents sacrificed for a single target.
Now you’re in a corner of the safehouse, half-cleaned, dried blood still dark beneath your nails and along the collar of your shirt. You haven’t bothered to change. Haven’t said a word since you stepped away from the bodies like it was nothing. You don’t seem ashamed, nor proud.
Everybody’s quiet. Unsure what might happen if they spoke up.
“Up.” Billy’s voice cuts through the silence. You don’t argue, and rise slowly. He knows you’re reluctant, but still obedient.
He can’t tell if you’re in some sort of shock or if you simply don’t care.
Billy makes sure you follow him out, shutting the door a little too hard behind you. He runs a hand over his face, searching for something measured, something controlled enough to get through your thick skull without risking enraging you again.
“That weren’t the plan.” He says bluntly. Not shouting—at least not yet.
His eyes search your face like he’s looking for proof of something—remorse, maybe. Or confirmation that accepting your help was a mistake from the start.
“Have you fuckin’ lost it?”
There’s anger there—but if he was honest, he felt more overwhelmed by the situation than anything. For the first time since he met you, he isn’t entirely sure which one of you is more dangerous.
“I thought I was the one willin’ to do whatever it takes. Turns out I’ve been playin’ catch-up.”
He steps closer, jaw tight. “Don’t mistake me,” He adds, voice low and rough. “I’ve done ugly shit. I’ll do worse. But if you’re gonna turn into the very thing we’re huntin’... I need to know.”
He’s not so worried about the deaths and collateral damage—he’s worried you’re disobeying because you’re losing control.