Billy Butcher is stuck in traffic when he sees the first explosion. There's a bright flash, and a cloud of dust and debris raining down from what's probably somewhere between the tenth and fifteenth floor of yet another half empty office building. This is where supes go to fight these days. Less property damage. Fewer deaths. Legal drama is rare. Everybody wins.

He's not far now, so Billy decides to get out of the car and walk the rest of the way. There's a second explosion, and the numbers on his geiger counter are spiking now. Fucking Soldier Boy and his propensity to blow shit up for attention.

It's all quiet by the time he arrives at the building, except for a handful of spectators. Billy's not usually one to miss a fight, but of course Homelander had to fly ahead and didn't take him with him, not that he would have ever agreed to let that bastard carry him (the supe also didn't offer, he can't help but notice).

Billy quickly ducks around the corner of the buiding and lights a cigarette. He's here now, so he might as well wait for the caped cunt to come out, make sure Soldier Boy didn't bruise his ego too badly, maybe gloat a little, and then drive home. Drive Homelander home, too, in case he got hit by that white chest blast from hell again. It's happened more than once now, and it doesn't really seem to harm him much, except it fries his powers for a few hours.

By the time Billy finishes his cigarette and casually flicks the butt on the ground, all is still quiet, but there's also still no sign of Homelander. Fucking great, now he's got to go look for the cunt in the nuclear wasteland Soldier Boy's left behind. If the Temp V doesn't kill him soon, the bloody radiation will.

This is what he gets for agreeing to this silly little scorched earth team-up make-believe whatever you want to call it.

That's right. The media have latched on to their story, because everything has to be a fucking media spectacle these days, apparently. Vought is trying to sell them as some ridiculous arch enemies to lovers story. The lovers part is bollocks, of course, but the world can't seem to get enough of them. (Their Q-rating is a solid 95, which isn't the best, as Homelander has pointed out, but pretty damn close, not that Billy would give a fuck or know what a Q-rating is.)

Yeah. He's stuck with Captain Cunt now, so he might as well go check up on him.

Billy sighs and enters the building through the side entrance. The elevator is broken after the blast, so he takes the stairs, following the blast damage in reverse. He can tell the room the supes fought in by the way that the door is ripped out of the wall and there's a hole in the ceiling.

"Oi!" Billy calls. "Anybody home?"

Homelander is lying flat on his back amidst the rubble and shredded office supplies, arms above his head, eyes closed. Soldier Boys must have hit him from up close and knocked him out.

Billy steps closer and takes another look. Nah, cunt's awake. He probably heard Butcher coming from a mile away but is choosing to ignore him.

"Oi!" He repeats, bending down to tap the supe's head. "Anybody home?"

Homelander is still refusing to acknowledge his presence, but his face is twitching ever so slightly. And then Billy sees it. Underneath the rubble there's a bloody steel pipe wrapped twice around his wrists, ends slammed into the ground, pinning his hands above his head.

Bloody hell.

It's like Soldier Boy left the cunt here, gift-wrapped, just for him. Ben's got that twisted sense of humor, and the pipe doesn't exactly look like it wrapped itself so perfectly around Homelander's wrists through the sheer force of the explosion. Billy makes a mental note to reciprocate the favor at some point. He and Soldier Boy may be arch enemies now - doesn't mean they can't give each other small gifts every once in a while.

"Well, well, well," he says. "Looks like America's sweetheart got himself trapped."

Homelander's eyes snap open. "Thank you, Captain Obvious. I would not have noticed had you not pointed it out." Billy can't quite tell if he's annoyed or amused or a bit of both. All he knows is the bloody supe's so fucking full of himself it's gotta hurt him physically.

"Told ya not to get ahead of yourself, but you never listen."

"That's all very fascinating, but I need you to stop your lecture and help me get out of here, William," Homelander says, unfazed. "I need to be on set in two hours."

"Yeah, don't think I you're gonna make that, love." Billy smirks. And with that, he's finally got the supe's full attention.

"Ah, okay." Homelander smiles and nods, then drops the smile in an instance. "And. Why. Is. That?"

Billy could tell him that he can't break the pipe because he's got no Temp V in his system. That would be a blatant lie, of course; he wouldn't have headed to a supe fight without it, and Homelander knows it. Or he could tell him that it's not his job to save his spoiled arse, so he's going to have to wait for the Vought crew to show up.

Instead, he squats down next to Homelander and places a finger under his chin. "I just think you look awfully pretty pinned down like this. Think I'm just gonna sit here and watch for a bit."

Homelander has the gall to sneer and cross his legs. "Make yourself comfortable. May I offer you some tea to enjoy with the view?"

He looks just a little too complacent for someone in his predicament. How often has Billy fantasized about wiping that smug grin off the cocky bastard's face. Despite his shitty upbringing, he's got honor though, occasionally at least. It's not terribly honorable to hit a man who can't hit him back. It's not very entertaining either, come to think of it.

Billy's grin widens. Yeah, he knows what he's going to do instead, and he suspects it's going to be just as satisfying as beating the cunt up. Now that he thinks about it, probably more. If he's honest with himself, he's always wanted to try this.

He places one hand on the supe's chest and slowly starts sliding it down.

Homelander rolls his eyes. "You gonna grab a feel now? Really, William? That's low." Billy's move has the intended effect though: his body has tensed up, and his eyes follow the hand as it trails down his suit, tracing the fake muscles.

"Maybe." Billy straddles Homelander's thighs. The cunt sure looks less smug now, making a last ditch effort to twist his hands free. Futile, of course; Billy makes a mental note to send Maeve a thank you before he resumes lightly grazing his sides.

There's absolutely no doubt Homelander can feel his hands even through the thick padding of his suit; he's scrunching his face and trying to wiggle away, all while trying to pretend that absolutely nothing is happening and that Billy hasn't just discovered a pretty fundamental weakness in his natural armor.

This is going to be fucking delightful. Billy feels a flutter in his stomach. He unbuckles the other man's golden belt and starts pulling out the top of his suit, just enough to reveal a thin strip of perfect marble skin.

"Oh for God's sake, William, control yourself!" Homelander protests. He's still trying to hide behind a thick layer of snark and sarcasm, but he's nervous now, and Billy wonders if he knows yet what he's got coming for him.

He slides his hand under the fabric. Homelander's skin feels strangely normal, soft even, not at all like the practically impenetrable suit that it really is. He lightly brushes his fingers over Homelander's belly and gets a brief burst of laughter in return.

"What the fuck, Butcher! What-" There's surprise in the supe's voice, something like anger, and, as Billy notes with satisfaction, a hint of panic. No. The caped cunt clearly did not see this one coming.

Butcher sits back to contemplate. If Homelander has lost his powers that probably means his supe-senses are weaker too. Which is a real shame, Billy thinks, but doesn't really matter because he's quite pleased with the reactions he's getting so far, and this is much less likely to result in death and broken limbs. Let no one ever claim that Billy Butcher can't spot an acceptable compromise when he sees one.

He slides his other hand underneath the dark blue fabric, squeezing both of Homelander's hips at the same time, then watches him struggle to suppress a very childish giggle.

"This is ridiculous." Homelander's voice is strained; his whole body is twisting to get away from the hands that are prodding and probing his waist as they slowly slide upwards.

"You're right, this is ridiculous," Billy agrees. "Your silly costume's too bloody tight, can't even move my hands properly." He rips the suit top open with both hands and pushes it up as far as he can, tearing off a golden eagle in the process, not that he cares. The bloody cape's still half stuck underneath a struggling and cursing Homelander.

Billy thinks for a moment, then rips it out, folds it in half twice and pushes it under the supe's head. "Wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable, darling."

"You need help," Homelander says. He's recovered some of his composure and all of his snark. "Your, your obsession with me… it's unhealthy, William, you know."

"You're the one who insists we play lovers for the cameras," Billy points out, "and bait the media with that silly enemies to lovers fantasy Vought made up."

"That's… that's just for the points," Homelander says, a little too quickly.

Billy smirks, watching the supe blush just a little. "Yeah, sure it is."

He takes another look at his work. Homelander isn't half as muscular as his now shredded suit would suggest. Half naked, arms pinned above his head, strands of blond hair falling into his face, his head resting on a makeshift pillow of red white and blue… the cunt looks pretty ridiculous. Grotesque, really, distractingly grotesque. Butcher definitely doesn't find him attractive. Absolutely not.

Fine. So what if he does?

"Right." Billy snaps out of his thoughts to refocus on the task at hand. He pulls Homelander's pants down just enough to reveal red briefs (red bloody briefs, god, is there no end to this man's tackiness?). Then he lazily runs a single digit along the line where red fabric meets pale skin, back and forth, watching as Homelander's facial expression changes from annoyed to uneasy to actively distressed.

"Fuck! Will you stop that, you fucking pervert!" The cunt may be hurling curses at him, but his voice is cracking now, and Billy knows he's very close to completely cracking him open. All of this with just a single finger; he's got to make sure to remember that spot. The thought of seeing that bloody marble statue of a body writhe and twist underneath him is fucking electrifying. He hasn't felt this alive in years.

"Stop!" Homelander cries.

"Oh, but I'm only gettin' started." Billy leans forward until he lies comfortably on top of the supe, his legs pinning his thighs, one elbow pressing down on his shoulder, his own head right next to Homelander's. It looks quite obscene, probably. If someone were to walk in on them now, they'd have questions.

"Mmmmmhhh. Where'd that smile go?" He gently cups Homelander's face with one hand while the other moves playfully across his armpit, his belly, his sides. He can't see where his hand is going, so he's navigating entirely by the responses he's getting. "Oh, you are going to smile for me, love." That, and so much more.

Homelander is whimpering softly now, shaking his head, kicking his legs, pressing his lips together, clenching and unclenching his hands, trying anything really to distract himself. He's not protesting anymore; he probably knows full well that any sentence he starts now is going to end in uncontrollable laughter.

Billy's hand has found Homelander's belly button and is drawing light circles around it before pushing his index finger in and wiggling it around. ("If you were poured out of a tube, how come you got this, love? Ah, maybe they made you with a belly button just so I can tickle you to pieces!") He's now using both of his hands, moving up and down Homelander's body, tickling him in two different places at the same time. ("Oh, you're just loving this, aren't you. You've been waiting for this. Trapped yourself, I bet.")

Maybe it's the teasing, maybe it's Butcher's relentless fingers, but Homelander finally breaks. He throws one last "Fuck you!" in Billy's face before he dissolves into helpless giggles. He's squirming and twisting, and Butcher is beginning to have trouble pinning him in place, but, hell, he'll find a way just so he can keep listening to that sweet sweet laughter.

He bends down again until his face is uncomfortably close to the struggling, panting supe's.

"This is going to be fun," he whispers in his ear.