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When Teddy suggests that they visit the New York Super Hero Museum, Billy does not say that he’s been there four or five times a year since he was six years old. He does not roll his eyes and claim that he can quote the plaques for more than half the exhibits from memory (he can) or recommend a different museum, perhaps something new.
What he does is say he would love to go, finds them a date where their schedules don’t conflict, kisses Teddy with enthusiasm, and pulls him into the bedroom for a good, thorough make-out session away from any prying eyes, claiming that it’s to celebrate the arrangement of their tenth date. Not an exceptional milestone to most people, perhaps, but for a couple who risk their lives almost daily for the sake of the public, it means a great deal. And Billy Kaplan will never squander an excuse to make out.
He does this because he’s realized that he enjoys spending time with Teddy a great deal, and in the end it doesn’t matter that much what they do or where they go as long as they’re together.
When Teddy suggests that they visit a very old pizza place on the way, Billy does not tell him that he’s heard complaints and concerns from his upper-middle class neighbours about the restaurant, how the bathrooms aren’t fit for rats, how the owner is supposedly a greasy and unsanitary foreigner and that they’ll probably get some horrible disease from the cutlery. He doesn’t fight when Teddy assures him that the owner is the sweetest man alive, and he’ll give them a great deal for what he insists is the best pizza in New York City. He doesn’t say it isn’t kosher- not that that would work as an excuse to avoid it, since his family isn’t exactly the most strict about that, as Teddy well knows by now. Bless the reformed church.
What he does is take Teddy’s hand, fingers entwining, and tells him to lead the way, that he’ll give it a shot even if he finds the best-pizza-ever claim pretty dubious, especially since he’s never even heard of the place before. He feels light on his feet, his heart fluttering like a school girl's (so sayeth the cliché simile) at the sight of Teddy’s smile. He tries the most bizarre topping combination imaginable at Teddy’s insistence, somehow takes the first bite without gagging, and is surprised, rather pleasantly, when he discovers that it isn’t disgusting, or diseased, or even particularly bad. And while he might not say that it’s the best pizza in New York City, he does agree that it is a hidden gem.
He does this because he trusts Teddy completely, with his life or with his taste buds, and Teddy has never steered him wrong.
When Teddy pulls him through the museum, clutching his hand and dragging him from exhibit to exhibit like a small child tugging at the grasp of an amused parent, Billy doesn’t tell him to relax, to slow down, to stop being ridiculous. He doesn’t tell Teddy that they won’t be able to see all of the displays before the museum closes for the day anyway, so he may as well not even try. He doesn’t say that it isn’t that impressive because the costumes have gotten dusty in the last four months or so, which is the last time he visited the place, and who is maintaining them, and maybe they ought to complain to a manager or something?
What he does is follow Teddy without complaint, without so much as a frown. He reads each and every plaque along with Teddy, studies every costume, every intricate design, every piece of the rich history of New York’s finest super heroes. He smiles when Teddy points out the incredible hand-stitching of Captain America’s original uniform, the awkward plating of Iron Man’s armor, and the deceptively delicate inscriptions on the replica of Mjolnir. He watches the joy grow increasingly bright as they wander through the museum, finding his boyfriend's enthusiasm familiar, warm, and contagious, knowing that it’s very likely that Teddy and his mother couldn’t afford to visit as often as he had during his own childhood, a right he realizes he’s taken for granted until now.
He does this because Teddy’s smile is breathtakingly sweet, like a child seeing it all for the first time, and with him, Billy feels like everything is as wondrous and new as it had been when he was a small boy.
When Teddy asks him, quietly, on the way home, if he’d had a good time, Billy does not lie. Teddy questions how quiet he’d been: smiling but somewhat muted, like he’d had something on his mind, and Billy doesn’t laugh or wave him off like his concerns are unfounded. He doesn’t shrug his shoulders or get mad at the questioning scrutiny, or scowl and ruin the day by starting a fight.
What he does is smile, take Teddy’s hand and lift it to press his lips against it, enjoying the way it causes a swift blush to cross the blond’s cheeks. He tells him, rather shamelessly, that he’d been too busy watching Teddy to care much about anything else, because Teddy was the most interesting and important thing in the entire building. And then he does laugh, because Teddy’s expression is priceless, and he realizes that he just wants to kiss those now-pouting lips the whole way home, until Teddy starts to smile again and until the cranky old woman across from them in the subway car stops glaring at them for inappropriate cuddling in public. So he does it, and since Teddy smiles within ten seconds they kiss until the woman throws a bunched up newspaper at their heads and gets them laughing again, together this time.
He does this because he loves Teddy Altman, completely, utterly, hopelessly, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.