Healing from having my veins come bursting apart was easier than coming to terms with Billy Butcher agreeing to them giving me ANY dosage of Compound V. The man I love, a man who hated supes in the deep seething way he did, not only allowing them to give the formula to me, but to sign off on it as my power of attorney was simply something that I was finding difficult to understand.
It was a very low dose, as proven by how long it took me to get freed from the IV, feeding tube, and single bed. Two weeks passed, with Billy bunking on what amounted to a high end roll away cot next to my bed. It wasn't close enough to make either of us happy, but it was what we had to make due with, since the tubes and hoses made him curling up with me impossible.
When I was well enough to start walking again, it was another slow going, and I honestly was ready to start screaming. I was tired of it all. The feeling of being so weak, of being inferior and tired, and of being a victim.
"Ronnie," Billy had his arm around me, strolling with me now that my legs remembered how taking steps worked. "I've been thinking-"
Here we go, I thought, he was finally so stir crazy that he wanted out. Back to field work, any work, hell he'd happily wear a fucking bullseye with a "come at me, Homelander" message to get out of this fucking building. In fact, so would I, where could I sign up?
"Once the good doctor gives you the go ahead," wait, what? Clearly I was missing something, so I refocused on the bear of a man who was holding onto me as we took another round along the hallways. "Why don't we start you on some PT?"
"Physical therapy?" I looked down at my slippered feet inching along the tiles. "What do you call this?"
He shook his head and kissed my temple. "I was thinking more along the lines of Physical training, like what you probably did early on in your time in the agency?" Oh, right, actual PT.
"You want to do hand to hand with me?" I pulled back slightly to look up at his grinning face. "Thinking about wrestling with me, Billy?"
"Oh, I think about that all the time, Veronica," damn it, his voice hit that low octave that always made my stomach clench and the heart monitor go crazy. "Careful or they'll put you back on bedrest."
"Whose fault would that be?" I nudged him with my hip. "You really want to train with me? Are you planning on using kid gloves?" I squinted up at him, hoping that he wasn't planning on doing this as some sort of appeasement, to keep me busy and my mind off of feeling useless, because that would do the fucking opposite.
"Course not," he leaned down to rub his nose against mine. "Plan on mopping the floor with you, sweetheart." His lips met mine as my giggles erupted. Billy Butcher was a constant surprise.
It took two more weeks, more light physical therapy, since I had almost fucking died to get the ok to start our training. We had rules from Mallory and the doctor, of course. No blood shed, no bruising, and no broken bones. At least not in the first couple weeks. The last part we negotiated between ourselves. Hey accidents happen.
The building had a gym and a sparing area, because it was a fucking CIA hideout of some sort. I'd been using the cardio friendly machines to get back in less fragile shape over the past few weeks, so once we were both warmed up, Billy and I stood face to face, or at least as close to it as we could get with our height difference.
"Now, I'm not sure how they trained you for the agency," he was saying as I sized him up, looking at him completely different from every other time I stood near him. "Since you're quite a bit smaller than me, your course of attack is gonna be different than mine-"
Aww how sweet, he was going to try to WALK me through it. I would have giggled, but I was too busy ignoring him to plan out my actions. I wasn't stupid, I was still less than 100%, plus he was right I was smaller than him by a foot and a weight difference that I didn't care to do the math on. There were plenty of ways to take down someone bigger than me, also ways to incapacity a larger opponent while also keeping myself free from harm. I was picking and choosing from them while Billy lectured me on the options I had.
"Once I say '3' we'll spar," I nodded my agreement and smiled at him. "Winner gets to pick-" he studied me as his grin grew, dimples peeking out and laugh lines deepening. "Well, we'll negotiate what the winner gets once we have a winner, agreed?"
I bit my lip and nodded. I was dressed in a pair of yoga pants and a fitted t-shirt and he was in a tracksuit that had me nearly undone by how silly it looked on him, but then he got into position and suddenly he didn't look funny anymore.
"One," he moved subtly, crouching a bit more, hands clenching with anticipation. "Two," another slight adjustment, maybe someone less attuned to him would have missed it, the way his legs moved a bit to the side, widening his stance to give him a lower center of gravity and taking away my point of contact in his knees. "Three," and then he struck, fast and quick, but painless. I was on my back on the mat, his arms cradling me so I felt no impact, only the heat of him. "I win, Ronnie." His smile was blinding and I shook my head. "I think I want-" he leaned in and kissed me, tongue and teeth and I didn't give a flying shit that he won the first round, not a single fucking care.
That was our first round on our first day. We didn't spar everyday, but we did spar more than one round every time we did it. Usually an odd number, since we were prone to ties. At least after the first five or six days we did it. I started to feel more myself, throwing Billy around, or at least knocking him off his feet or onto his ass or back. I felt stronger, and more competent, less weak, and most definitely less of a victim.
When the doctor came, after one of our sparring sessions, to tell us they had another antidote to try I felt Billy's entire body tense up. Me? I decided that if I'd made it this far, what the fuck could one more shot do? Kill me?