[ When he spots Butcher, his chest seizes, though with what, he couldn't really say. It's not anger, nor delight, nor fear — maybe it's just recognition, the shape of it made strange by the decision (made for the second time tonight, already) that the masks mean fuck-all, that Billy fucking Butcher is his prey and that nobody will care if he kills him in these woods, that it won't even matter because he'll come back within a week, to be killed again and again and again and– ]

You should know: what's yours is mine.

[ And if Billy doesn't recognize Homelander out of costume, dressed instead in black pants, a white button-down, and an eagle mask (though maybe that's the giveaway), he's sure he'll recognize his voice. ]

Wife, son, prey. Though, speaking of which—

[ His mouth splits into a toothy grin. Despite the flood of Temp V that had suffused the mansion last month, there's none of it at hand, now. Unless he's sorely mistaken, the man standing before him is just regular, squishy Butcher, without any of his dumbfuck pals around to help save the day, looking absolutely fucking ridiculous with those ears growing out of the top of his head. ]

I think you're mine, catboy.