[He's not sure whether to feel relief or disbelief at that; Billy's never lied quite so blatantly, though. Not that he recalls.]
It's not--
[How the fuck is he supposed to explain it? What he is? How there were times when he didn't even believe anything existed outside the walls of the room he was confined to, how he thought that he was only imagining the doctors and the tutors into existence, putting himself through endless trials because the truth of existence was too horrible for any sane mind to bear.]
Vought's all there ever was. God was just... another story. He wasn't any more real than a bunch of ugly dead presidents.
[Vought couldn't have him grow into some God-fearing religious nut. He needed to know the right words to say, the delicate topics to sidestep so that he could connect with the people he was meant to protect, but no more than that. He was never meant to believe it.
He tried praying, a few times. Nobody ever answered, and he always felt stupid afterwards.
God's nothing but a story for gullible children. Billy, though...]
I was trying to tell you to not waste your fucking tears over what these cunts do... just gets all nice and tingly. It weren't disappointment.
[It was the closest thing to a pep talk he'd had at the moment when his own head was swimming with nasty shite, but apparently-- well. Whatever. What's done is done now.]
[Maybe he's primed to feel like a disappointment, expects everybody to see him that way once the flash and the dazzle wears off. A sweet, shoulder-sagging relief settles through him when Billy disputes it. Saliva sticks in his throat, and he swallows before he can speak.]
Yes. Of course I do.
I've... never had someone like you.
[Somebody who doesn't just want to hone him into some distant ideal.]
[He tilts his head curiously. He doesn't seem to have any intention of shoving Homelander off though, putting any distance between them just yet at least.
It isn't so bad, the heat and the weight of Homelander against him.
[He swallows, and spends a few seconds breathing onto Billy's shoulder, looking for an answer.]
You're real.
[All he's ever known were puppet masters and drones acting their part against a backdrop of emptiness. Labs and corridors and conference rooms, full of manufactured smiles and buzzwords.
Billy exists as he is, in defiance of all that, even if it means reeking of alcohol and dejection.]
[He repeats the word quietly, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling. Yeah, well. He's a damn lot more real than Vought and all its pretty little performances, parading supes around like monkeys for entertainment and covering up all the shite flinging behind the scenes.]
Mmm.
[He snorts at the question, rolling his eyes. Is he real?]
Yeah. [He's an ugly fucking mess, but he's real enough, eh? Or maybe Butcher just thinks he's gotten better at seeing under all the bullshit smiles and public persona to know what's underneath.]
You're a pompous fucking cunt, love, but I wouldn't put up with you if there weren't anything underneath.
[There's a slow exhale of relief, a smile hidden in the crook of Billy's neck.
He'll take pompous fucking cunt, and he'll take whatever else Billy sees in him. It means he exists, that he's not just the lack of something -- a blank to be molded, smoke and mirrors and a camera-friendly smile on top of a whole lot of nothing.
He can be himself. All of the broken things he was supposed to shed and shear to become what he was "meant" to be.
He doesn't say anything, just nuzzles Billy's neck in an awkward attempt at showing appreciation.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[He's not sure whether to feel relief or disbelief at that; Billy's never lied quite so blatantly, though. Not that he recalls.]
It's not--
[How the fuck is he supposed to explain it? What he is? How there were times when he didn't even believe anything existed outside the walls of the room he was confined to, how he thought that he was only imagining the doctors and the tutors into existence, putting himself through endless trials because the truth of existence was too horrible for any sane mind to bear.]
Vought's all there ever was. God was just... another story. He wasn't any more real than a bunch of ugly dead presidents.
[Vought couldn't have him grow into some God-fearing religious nut. He needed to know the right words to say, the delicate topics to sidestep so that he could connect with the people he was meant to protect, but no more than that. He was never meant to believe it.
He tried praying, a few times. Nobody ever answered, and he always felt stupid afterwards.
God's nothing but a story for gullible children. Billy, though...]
I--I do care what you think.
no subject
[It was the closest thing to a pep talk he'd had at the moment when his own head was swimming with nasty shite, but apparently-- well. Whatever. What's done is done now.]
Hmm... [He arches a brow at the reassurance.]
Do you, now?
no subject
Yes. Of course I do.
I've... never had someone like you.
[Somebody who doesn't just want to hone him into some distant ideal.]
no subject
[He tilts his head curiously. He doesn't seem to have any intention of shoving Homelander off though, putting any distance between them just yet at least.
It isn't so bad, the heat and the weight of Homelander against him.
At least right now.]
What do you think I am?
no subject
You're real.
[All he's ever known were puppet masters and drones acting their part against a backdrop of emptiness. Labs and corridors and conference rooms, full of manufactured smiles and buzzwords.
Billy exists as he is, in defiance of all that, even if it means reeking of alcohol and dejection.]
Am I... real to you?
[Does he matter?]
no subject
[He repeats the word quietly, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling. Yeah, well. He's a damn lot more real than Vought and all its pretty little performances, parading supes around like monkeys for entertainment and covering up all the shite flinging behind the scenes.]
Mmm.
[He snorts at the question, rolling his eyes. Is he real?]
Yeah. [He's an ugly fucking mess, but he's real enough, eh? Or maybe Butcher just thinks he's gotten better at seeing under all the bullshit smiles and public persona to know what's underneath.]
You're a pompous fucking cunt, love, but I wouldn't put up with you if there weren't anything underneath.
no subject
He'll take pompous fucking cunt, and he'll take whatever else Billy sees in him. It means he exists, that he's not just the lack of something -- a blank to be molded, smoke and mirrors and a camera-friendly smile on top of a whole lot of nothing.
He can be himself. All of the broken things he was supposed to shed and shear to become what he was "meant" to be.
He doesn't say anything, just nuzzles Billy's neck in an awkward attempt at showing appreciation.]