Billy hears it, but he doesn't really grasp the weight of those words. He was so desperate to keep that wall up, to hold it all in, that he missed that tiny bit of praise that he always longed for. It was just words. He nodded in response to confirm he'd heard it, but said nothing. He just drove. They were almost home.

Inside the house, Billy tossed his jacket over the back of the couch. Usually so chatty, especially once they were clear of any danger, he hadn't uttered a word. He pried his shoes off by the couch and left them there. Not even bothering to make they neat and tidy as he usually did.

"I'll be in the shower..." he managed, terse and rushed. He didn't look at Mike. Didn't say anything else. He was focused. Very precise and deliberate. Hall. Stairs. Landing. Stairs. Bathroom. Door. Shut. Water. Hot. Suspenders down. Shirt untucked. Sleeves down. Buttons...

He got three buttons undone before his resolve finally gave. The wall cracked beyond repair. He couldn't take it down piece by piece and control it all. The blood, Whistler, the woman in the tub, the cleaning crew, Mike's behavior, the house, the alcohol, his hands on that man's face. It hit him all at once. He staggered back in an attempt to stay upright and his back hit the door. Slowly, he slid to the floor. His head in his hands. Was the mission really worth all this?