alotmorehorrible

I'll find a fucking shower.

[Never mind that whatever mangled state his back's in is unlikely to be fixed by a shower.

He's a supe. He'll heal.

As for the clothes, he'll find a pair of pants somewhere. Who gives a fuck?]

[Oh, for fuck's sake...]

Fine.

[Like he fucking asked to get locked in a room to whip Homelander out of the blue. But if Homelander wants to act like a cunt about it, he can go right ahead. What Billy wants to do is head down to the lobby and get a drink, who gives a fuck what time it is. He needs it.

He shrugs out of his coat at least, offering it over.]

Here. Just bring it back in one fucking piece when you come back.

[Getting the blood out of it's going to be a pain, but it won't be the first time.]

[His mouth twitches as he glares at the coat, getting the maddening urge to cry again. He snarls, to stop himself.]

Keep it.

[What good is a smelly coat going to do him? He'll just get an infection or whatever other pathetic thing people get.

He's out the door the next moment, leaving it slammed open with only a trail of blood behind him.]

[He convinces himself it's Princess he needs to check up on, not Billy and his stupid coat.

He slips into their temporary suite late in the evening, when most of the hotel has quieted down. Princess is curled up on the floor by the door, snoring noisily, and she squiggles towards him without fully awakening when he crouches down to pet her.

Billy seems to have passed out already, and the bed reeks of alcohol. There's a pang of... something, in Homelander's chest.

Maybe he's overreacted, taking off like he did. But his famous pride won't let him take it back. It still stings, for some reason.

He strips off his shirt to let his bandaged back breathe, before slipping into bed next to Billy. There's enough space that they don't need to be touching, but he'd rather be close than sleep on the couch.]

[He doesn't care that Homelander left. Of course not. Why should he?

He's drinking-- for many fucking reasons. Hell is shite is top of them. To keep the nightmares at bay might be another. To improve his shite mood is another - not that whiskey ever does that, or drinking like a man who wants to die.

Or at the very least, doesn't give a fuck if he does.

But none of it is to do with Homelander. Absolutely not.

He groans quietly when the bed shifts, but it's a little delayed, and might be because he felt the bed shift or whatever phantoms in his dream are being fucking cunts. Either way, he cracks open his eyes and-- looks to the side.

There's a groggy little grunt at the sight.]

Look who got 'imself patched up.

[The words are a bit slurred together, a bit too drowsy sounding to qualify as properly awake.]

[He's lying down on his stomach, cheek smushed against the pillow, his hand tucked underneath it.

Billy's stirring and comment prompt a small, reluctant smile.]

Look who got himself wasted.

[The words are soft, hushed by the pillow. He tries to sound more teasing than concerned, keeping a bit of a guarded edge.]

M'fine.

[Never mind the half-empty bottle of whiskey within easy reach. He shifts a little bit to his back and enough to kick the blankets down a little further while still maintaining-- maybe a tiny bit of modesty. His dick is still covered at least.

He lets his eyes shut for a moment.]

[His brow crinkles, and he gives a soft, incredulous snort.]

You wouldn't say that if you were.

[He's not an idiot. He could give a pretty good estimate of what Billy's blood alcohol level is at the moment.]

Oh, look who's a bloody expert now...

[And interrupting his trying to go back to sleep to top it all off.]

[He's not interrupting shit. Billy's the one who had to wake up and start his unconvincing mumbling.

He rolls his eyes, not feeling the need to offer up a rebuttal beyond that.]

[Yes, well... he can't sleep through someone climbing into bed. That's how you wake up with a demon fucking-- feasting on you or something.

But the problem is-- he can't fall the fuck back to sleep now. So after a moment, he reluctantly sits up in bed and reaches for the bottle of whiskey.

Maybe if he's quiet though, Homelander will just fall the fuck to sleep.]

[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?]

Oi, what the fuck--

[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?

You smell bad enough as it is.

[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?

Fuck you.

[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.

[Fuck him?

...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.]

[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.]

[His hands ball into fists, shoulders stiffening, face twitching, blood rushing to his head--

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.]

[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.

[A little fucking whatnow? Billy's being so pathetic that it's hard to get riled up by whatever it is he's saying.]

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.

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.]

[Does the bed count as higher ground? Billy's the one who willingly relinquished it.

Homelander doesn't say anything, curling up closer to Princess and squeezing his eyes shut. Billy can do whatever the fuck he wants.]

[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.

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The next night...

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