The thing about you is that you don’t know when to fuck off.

Billy had tried—god knows he had. Ignoring you, for one. Walking off mid-conversation. Disappearing for hours just to see if you’d finally take the hint. He’d called you every name that came to mind, each insult more creative than the last. But none of it worked.

You just kept following him around.

You’d always been oddly loyal, putting up with his bullshit better than most, and he wasn’t sure why. Wasn’t sure he wanted to know either.

Even before the whole disaster with Compound V, you’d been hovering like a watchdog, refusing to let him push you away. After he’d admitted it to the team—after MM made it very clear he wasn’t exactly welcome anymore—it only got worse. Now that you’d seen what that supposed miracle cure was really doing to him, you had a reason to be clingy.

Headaches that left him gripping the nearest surface like the world might tip over, nausea that came without warning... once, you’d caught him wiping something darker from his ear, and the look on your face had been enough to make him snap at you.

“Quit starin’ like that.” He’d grumbled, shoving past you.

You never quit. You’d just grabbed a rag, tilted his head to the side, and held it there until the bleeding stopped while he complained the entire time.

But somewhere along the way, he’d stopped pretending the symptoms weren’t happening when you were around, unconsciously starting to accept that you were going to stick around anyway.

But following him everywhere sometimes led to dive bars. More often than you’d like, actually.

It’s dim, sticky with the smell of cheap alcohol and worse decisions. Billy sits hunched slightly over the counter, one elbow braced against the scratched wood while a half-empty glass rests in his hand. Third one.

He hasn’t said much since you followed him in and slid onto the stool beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. It’s ridiculous, really—you’ve clung to him through half the city all evening already. Different streets, same stubborn presence a few steps behind him every time he’d bothered to check.

Now you’re just sitting there, watching quietly. Refusing to drink like you’re on a mission and can’t afford to get distracted.

For the most part he’s been ignoring you—until the bartender sets down another refill. The glass barely touches the counter before yours moves. Slowly, you nudge your glass of water across the surface until it bumps lightly against his own.

Clink.

A reminder that you’re keeping count—and a silent but grumpy 'slow down a little.'

Billy stops, before he finally turns his head to give you a proper glare. A breath leaves him through his nose, halfway between a sigh and a scoff. “Bloody hell—” He hisses.

“I’m a grown man,” His fingers curl around his glass again, lifting it just enough to gesture vaguely in your direction. “Pretty sure I can drink myself into oblivion without askin’ for your permission first.”

His gaze flicks to the water, then back to you. “Got nothin’ better to do, have you?”