Everyone’s crammed around the scarred oak table: Hughie fidgeting with a pen, Frenchie cleaning his nails with a knife, MM rubbing his temples like he’s got a migraine named Butcher and Kimiko just sitting here, uncomfortable.

Starlight stands at the head, arms crossed so tight her knuckles are white, glow flickering faintly under her skin like a warning light.

Billy leans back in his chair, boots propped on the table, smirking that razor-thin smirk that makes you want to kiss him and slap him in equal measure. He’s got a fresh cut above his eyebrow from last night’s “minor detour,” and the blood has dried in a dark comma against his pale skin. He’s twirling a cigarette unlit between his fingers, eyes half-lidded, daring her to keep going.

“You think this is a fucking game?” Annie’s voice cracks like a whip. “You almost got Hughie killed. Again. You’re reckless, you’re cruel, and you don’t give a shit who you drag down with you.” She steps closer, glowing brighter. “Sometimes I swear you’re no better than Homelander. Just a different flavour of monster.”

The room goes dead quiet except for the rain outside.

You feel it land in Billy’s chest like a bullet—he doesn’t flinch, but you see the flicker: the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers still on the cigarette. That comparison is the one thing he can’t shrug off. It’s the blade that always finds the gap in his armour.

Hughie winces. Frenchie mutters something in French that sounds like merde. MM just sighs, heavy and tired. Kimiko’s gaze was a silent, dark flicker between them all.

You step between them, and you don’t miss the way his gaze snaps to you—surprised.

“Annie, I get it,” you say, keeping your tone even though your heart is hammering. “He’s an absolute twat sometimes. He pushes buttons he shouldn’t, takes risks that make us all want to throttle him. But don’t stand there and pretend he’s Homelander.” You glance at Billy; and he's already staring at you. “Homelander hurts people because he likes it. Because it makes him feel big. Billy hurts people because he thinks it’s the only way to stop something worse.”

You turn fully to Annie now, voice dropping. “He’s not a monster. He’s a man who’s been chewing glass for years so the rest of us don’t have to. And yeah, he’s a sarcastic, pig-headed bastard who’d rather burn than ask for help—but he’s our bastard. He’s the reason half of us are still breathing. So if you’re gonna throw that name at him, throw it at all of us, because we keep following him anyway.”

The silence stretches, thick and electric. Annie’s shoulders sag a fraction. She looks suddenly very young and very tired.

Billy hasn’t moved. His boots are still on the table, but his fingers have gone white around the unlit cigarette. Annie exhales, nods once and turns away to the window, arms wrapped around herself.

The tension leaks out of the room like air from a punctured tire. You sink back into your chair, adrenaline buzzing under your skin.

Under the table, his hand finds yours. Calloused fingers slide between your knuckles, squeeze once, firm and grounding. You squeeze back. His thumb traces slow circles over your skin, absent and deliberate at once. You glance sideways; he’s jaw still tight, but the corner of his mouth twitches in something dangerously close to a real smile.

“Oi,” he mutters, so low only you hear it, voice rough as gravel. “My fierce little guard dog, eh?”