[Fucking seriously? Drinking in bed, straight from the bottle, when he's already more than drunk enough?
No, no, no. That's not happening.
There's a flare of red before Homelander restrains himself and reaches to grab the bottle out of Billy's hand instead. Mr. Tough Guy can't really compete with super strength, now can he?]
[It's not the real reason he's objecting to this, but it might as well be. He doesn't want to fight Billy, but he's sitting up anyway, wincing as the wounds on his back make sure to remind him of their presence.
He keeps the bottle out of Billy's reach, more than ready to toss it out the window if it comes to it.]
[He should let him go, but when has Billy ever made good decisions when he's pissed-- at the world in general, when he's had too much to drink?
When Homelander is fucking involved, no less.]
Oh, I'm the one who's the fucking cunt here, huh? You're the one who left, but I'm the cunt.
[Ridiculous.]
Lie down.
[Because he's the one getting up. Maybe he'll go for a little walk around, or maybe he'll make it as far as getting his trousers back on and find the couch.]
[Thanks for that, mate. He's barely coordinated enough to get into his own trousers back here.
The shout and the sound of wood splintering startles him enough that he drunkenly fumbles in his attempt to turn around and ends up just sort of clumsily falling back into the nearest wall. He makes him wince, his shoulder taking the brunt of it.]
Oi-- what the fuck? [Ugh, what a mess... there's wood and whatever was inside that bloody thing all over the floor. The lamp is destroyed.
Not his problem. This isn't even their actual place. But that doesn't mean Homelander is escaping his glare anyway.]
[He's not especially bothered by the glare. At least there's the relief of releasing some of the pent up pressure inside him, and then Princess scurries over to him in startled tears.
Homelander lifts her up before she can get splinters from the debris and sets her down on the bed, then settles down next to her.
Billy did tell him to lie down, so. There you go.]
[Terror seems-- oddly used to violent outbursts and drunken fumbling around. There's a curious perk up from the dog bed in the corner, a grumbling growl, but he's not freaking out the way Princess seems to be.
Ugh, now that pig ugly thing's gonna get its tears and snot all over the bed. Homelander's changing the sheets tomorrow.]
If you're so fuckin-- pissed at me, why don't you stop being a little fuckin' poof and come over here.
What'd that matter anyway? Just come back tomorrow with a bit of an annoying hangover...
[Probably more than a bit, but whatever. It's insulting in a way Billy can't articulate right now. The way Homelander's dismissing him, calling him out like he's got any higher ground to stand on here.
He does at least manage to get his footing back enough to start towards the door.]
[He winds up on the couch, half-on, half-off, at least. He realizes belatedly that he forgot the whiskey in the bedroom somewhere -- either on the remaining nightstand or dropped on the floor after that little outburst.
Maybe he'll just pass out and wake up with a frustratingly annoying hangover in the morning at least.
At least he didn't give into the urge to keep prodding at Homelander, insult him until he got whatever fight he was itching for. Wouldn't have ended up all that great for him, probably.
[Yeah, no... he might end up puking, yeah. Bacon might be a little bit better than his morning Hot Pocket but not when it feels like his head is in a vice.]
[Well, he's gonna have to educate Homelander about hangover cures if he wants something better than bacon.
The bed is still full of squonk and snot, the bedside table is still in pieces, if Billy is looking for anything to remind him of last night. Homelander is sitting in the dining area, still shirtless, sipping coffee.
There was no milk.]
About eleven.
[Time for Billy to take a fucking shower is what time it is. Does he not smell himself?]
[He passes by the bedroom, stopping to stare for a bit. He can-- vaguely remember all that shit last night. Bits and pieces anyway. The squonk at least isn't actively sobbing into their sheets, but... ugh. Disgusting.
The smell of the bacon is making his stomach turn, so-- maybe he'll come back to that.]
Who patched up your back?
[Ugh, he can already feel the burning in his throat, the way his stomach rejects the idea of even coffee. He somehow manages to swallow a handful of pills he finds in one of the cabinets. It'll either kill him or make his head stop pounding. He's fine with either one.]
[Just some guy. He's not all that worried about the demon, but he does turn to look Homelander over. No new damage and he's up walking around -- the guy can't have been that bad at patchwork at least.
The apology gets a shrug out of him, not sure what to do with it.]
Forget about it.
[It's done now, and it isn't like he doesn't get it. The comment gets a snort and a roll of his eyes.]
I'll live... always do. Think I'm gonna go grab a shower before I try to eat though.
[Yeah, well... he's not planning to forget about it. It sort of implies that his presence means something to Billy, doesn't it? That's worth remembering.]
That's a good idea.
[On a different occasion, he might've offered to join him, but he doesn't need his wounds aggravated... or to be puked on.]
You can--check my back later, if you want. When you're feeling better.
See if anything weird's grown there.
[He flashes a little smile. That's not a weird thing to offer, right?]
Yeah, right-- should probably change the bandages anyway.
[He pushes a hand through his hair before he starts towards the bathroom. There is definitely going to be puking -- and another handful of pills. But at least when he finally emerges, he'll look a little more human.
He doesn't forget to scrub his mouth out before he comes back out, towel wrapped around his waist. He'll dress later.
[The puking would be hard to ignore even without super hearing, and with it... yikes. The whiskey can't be worth that, can it? Homelander drops the bacon onto a plate and toasts some bread, hoping that'll better accommodate Billy's stomach.
It's a relief to see him emerge in one piece, and once he's close enough, Homelander reaches to touch him, thumb brushing up the nape of his neck, just under his hair.]
[You'd think it wouldn't be worth it. But then you get to the bottom of the bottle and you just can't stop, it becomes an old friend and all that pathetic shite you hear old drunks down at the pub spewing like it excuses anything.
Butcher's just stopped caring about excusing anything. He's in Hell and he might as well embrace his vices.
Although part of him wants to hang on to being petty and angry at Homelander - and he doesn't even really know why. Or want to dissect the reasons more precisely. Even he realizes being a little fucking cunt isn't going to help. He still needs the baby supe in his back pocket.
Besides, he knows trauma when he sees it, knows trauma responses, and all that shit.
He sighs at the touch to his neck, tipping his head forward briefly. The comment gets a quiet, amused snort out of him.]
Yeah, yeah... I got it. You don't like the smell of whiskey.
[There's no heat behind the words, or at least no more than usual.]
[Not that Billy doesn't often carry a whiff of it, but his nose has gotten pretty accustomed to the pub-like atmospheric flavoring. In larger quantities, though, it's just overwhelming and obnoxious.
Since Billy isn't jerking away from him, he runs his hand further up, fingers pushing through messy, damp hair.]
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No, no, no. That's not happening.
There's a flare of red before Homelander restrains himself and reaches to grab the bottle out of Billy's hand instead. Mr. Tough Guy can't really compete with super strength, now can he?]
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[There's a hard glare at that. No, he can't really hold on to the bottle when it's Homelander yanking at it. That doesn't mean he's not pissed.]
Give it back and don't be a fucking cunt. Why aren't you sleeping anyway?
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[It's not the real reason he's objecting to this, but it might as well be. He doesn't want to fight Billy, but he's sitting up anyway, wincing as the wounds on his back make sure to remind him of their presence.
He keeps the bottle out of Billy's reach, more than ready to toss it out the window if it comes to it.]
Do you want me to leave?
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[He smells fine. Probably. He had to shower all the blood splatter off when he got home anyway.
The question has him giving an incredulous look.]
What are you talking about?
[He just wants his bottle back.]
Just want another drink before bed.
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...Fine.]
Whatever.
[He hands the bottle back and moves to get off the bed. He'll be better off on the couch after all. He can't stand the fucking smell.]
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When Homelander is fucking involved, no less.]
Oh, I'm the one who's the fucking cunt here, huh? You're the one who left, but I'm the cunt.
[Ridiculous.]
Lie down.
[Because he's the one getting up. Maybe he'll go for a little walk around, or maybe he'll make it as far as getting his trousers back on and find the couch.]
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He wants to apologize, he wants to--to--
A cry rips out of his chest as he lashes out with his arm, crushing the bedside table into splinters.]
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The shout and the sound of wood splintering startles him enough that he drunkenly fumbles in his attempt to turn around and ends up just sort of clumsily falling back into the nearest wall. He makes him wince, his shoulder taking the brunt of it.]
Oi-- what the fuck? [Ugh, what a mess... there's wood and whatever was inside that bloody thing all over the floor. The lamp is destroyed.
Not his problem. This isn't even their actual place. But that doesn't mean Homelander is escaping his glare anyway.]
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Homelander lifts her up before she can get splinters from the debris and sets her down on the bed, then settles down next to her.
Billy did tell him to lie down, so. There you go.]
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Ugh, now that pig ugly thing's gonna get its tears and snot all over the bed. Homelander's changing the sheets tomorrow.]
If you're so fuckin-- pissed at me, why don't you stop being a little fuckin' poof and come over here.
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Why, so you could annoy me into killing you?
[That strikes him as the most likely outcome, and he likes it better on the bed, cuddling Princess.]
Go the fuck to sleep, Billy.
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[Probably more than a bit, but whatever. It's insulting in a way Billy can't articulate right now. The way Homelander's dismissing him, calling him out like he's got any higher ground to stand on here.
He does at least manage to get his footing back enough to start towards the door.]
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Homelander doesn't say anything, curling up closer to Princess and squeezing his eyes shut. Billy can do whatever the fuck he wants.]
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Maybe he'll just pass out and wake up with a frustratingly annoying hangover in the morning at least.
At least he didn't give into the urge to keep prodding at Homelander, insult him until he got whatever fight he was itching for. Wouldn't have ended up all that great for him, probably.
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Billy will have the smell of coffee and frying bacon to accompany his hangover when he wakes up -- and if that makes him puke, then... good.]
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What time's it?
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The bed is still full of squonk and snot, the bedside table is still in pieces, if Billy is looking for anything to remind him of last night. Homelander is sitting in the dining area, still shirtless, sipping coffee.
There was no milk.]
About eleven.
[Time for Billy to take a fucking shower is what time it is. Does he not smell himself?]
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[He passes by the bedroom, stopping to stare for a bit. He can-- vaguely remember all that shit last night. Bits and pieces anyway. The squonk at least isn't actively sobbing into their sheets, but... ugh. Disgusting.
The smell of the bacon is making his stomach turn, so-- maybe he'll come back to that.]
Who patched up your back?
[Ugh, he can already feel the burning in his throat, the way his stomach rejects the idea of even coffee. He somehow manages to swallow a handful of pills he finds in one of the cabinets. It'll either kill him or make his head stop pounding. He's fine with either one.]
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[He fills up a glass of water. Billy looks like he's about to have the top half of his skull fall off.]
I'm sorry I took off, I wasn't...
[He trails off, not really having the words to explain where his head was at the time, only knowing Billy was upset with him for it.]
You look like shit, Billy.
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[Just some guy. He's not all that worried about the demon, but he does turn to look Homelander over. No new damage and he's up walking around -- the guy can't have been that bad at patchwork at least.
The apology gets a shrug out of him, not sure what to do with it.]
Forget about it.
[It's done now, and it isn't like he doesn't get it. The comment gets a snort and a roll of his eyes.]
I'll live... always do. Think I'm gonna go grab a shower before I try to eat though.
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That's a good idea.
[On a different occasion, he might've offered to join him, but he doesn't need his wounds aggravated... or to be puked on.]
You can--check my back later, if you want. When you're feeling better.
See if anything weird's grown there.
[He flashes a little smile. That's not a weird thing to offer, right?]
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[He pushes a hand through his hair before he starts towards the bathroom. There is definitely going to be puking -- and another handful of pills. But at least when he finally emerges, he'll look a little more human.
He doesn't forget to scrub his mouth out before he comes back out, towel wrapped around his waist. He'll dress later.
He's going for the coffee first.]
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It's a relief to see him emerge in one piece, and once he's close enough, Homelander reaches to touch him, thumb brushing up the nape of his neck, just under his hair.]
You smell much nicer.
[Positive reinforcement is important!]
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Butcher's just stopped caring about excusing anything. He's in Hell and he might as well embrace his vices.
Although part of him wants to hang on to being petty and angry at Homelander - and he doesn't even really know why. Or want to dissect the reasons more precisely. Even he realizes being a little fucking cunt isn't going to help. He still needs the baby supe in his back pocket.
Besides, he knows trauma when he sees it, knows trauma responses, and all that shit.
He sighs at the touch to his neck, tipping his head forward briefly. The comment gets a quiet, amused snort out of him.]
Yeah, yeah... I got it. You don't like the smell of whiskey.
[There's no heat behind the words, or at least no more than usual.]
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[Not that Billy doesn't often carry a whiff of it, but his nose has gotten pretty accustomed to the pub-like atmospheric flavoring. In larger quantities, though, it's just overwhelming and obnoxious.
Since Billy isn't jerking away from him, he runs his hand further up, fingers pushing through messy, damp hair.]
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