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The doorbell rings. You’re expecting a delivery, so maybe you don’t actually listen to the person you’re buzzing into the building, you just hit the button. You know you shouldn’t, but you’re just out of the shower and trying to dry off and get dressed before you have to face another human being.
The knock at the door comes all-too soon, and you quickly pull a sweatshirt on. It doesn’t match your sweatpants, but it will have to do.
And then you open the door -after the second knock, oops- and the man standing there is not holding a bag of food, like you had hoped.
He could arguably be called delicious himself, though, tall and dark and just implausibly attractive.
“Butcher,” you greet, with a sigh. He’s charming, and he’s turning it up to full at that moment, leaning too casually in the doorway, aware of exactly how he looks. You stand in his way, just to be contrary.
“Evening, love. May I come in?”
With a roll of your eyes and a hopeful glance down the hallway for the bearer of your food, you stand aside to let him in. He takes all kinds of liberties, but he’s never been inappropriate. Even in ways you might -maybe- want him to be.
It’s exceptionally clear the man’s not boyfriend material but you wouldn’t mind something quick, messy and convenient. He does live next door, after all.
Apparently, today, he just wants to spend some time with you. And you’re suspicious, but you ordered way too much food for one person and one it arrives he’s more than happy to share. You just watch something trashy on TV, curled up on the couch with him, laughing at some of his ridiculous stories, conscious of every part of your body that comes into contact with his.
At one point, vaguely, you’re aware of someone outside in the hallway, the distant sound of knocking at a door, the crackle of someone communicating by radio.
But with dark, hazel eyes intent on you, and Butcher’s intimate, almost hushed tones, you don’t think anything of it.
“Can I use your bathroom?” he asks, after, and of course he can. You clear away food containers while he does, the TV on too loud to tell if you can hear him talking to himself in there, or maybe he’s on the phone?
Whichever way, he strides out a few minutes later, advances on you to press a warm hand to the small of your back and kiss your cheek.
“Gotta run. And you’re out of loo roll.”
You make an indiscernible aggravated sound as he goes, shooting a wink over his shoulder.
Maybe you have some napkins somewhere.
Except you just used them all up, on that meal.
You make a louder, more aggravated noise and hear him laugh from out in the hallway.
-
Two days later, you do find a package containing a serving of your favourite dessert, something you’d mentioned to him in passing. There’s only one person it could be from, and the tag is only adorned with a scrawled “X” which is vaguely threatening, actually.
Particularly since the package is on your kitchen counter and Butcher does not have a key.
Tastes good, though.
And that red smudge on the packaging is probably just raspberry sauce, or something.
-
You wake one morning with a start, and you’re not exactly sure why until the second resounding crash, one loud enough to make the building shake. It comes from the hallway. On shaking legs, you move towards your door, just planning to have a look through the peephole before you hear the shouts of “Police!” and the thundering of many booted feet into the apartment next door.
Butcher’s apartment.
You open the door before you’ve really thought about it, pull it almost-closed behind you and ask the closest alphabet-agency-vest-clad figure, trying not to be too conscious of the fact you’re only wearing shorts and a thin tee, “What’s going on?”
“Stay back, please. For your own safety.”
You do, although you fear the many gun-toting officers more than anything Butcher might be likely to do. One of them approaches to tell the agent, “Nobody there.”
“Damnit, check again. Nobody saw him leave.”
“Is- Butcher in trouble?” you risk asking, earning a shrewd, narrow-eyed look.
“We just want to talk to him about something.”
You can’t help but let your gaze drift to the splintered mess that was once Butcher’s front door; the ten or so people in law enforcement uniforms milling around, now that the moment of drama has passed. The agent’s expression is stony.
“He’s okay, right?” you ask.
For a moment, the stony expression fades and is replaced by one you’ve worn yourself, many times, that begrudgingly affectionate, rueful impatience. “I’m sure he’s fine. If you see him, please tell him to come down to a precinct.”
“Sure,” you agree, and then once she’s left, too, you cautiously pick your way into Butcher’s apartment through the shards of wood and upturned furniture. They’ve really made a mess of the place, but there’s nothing there you’d be worried about Butcher missing, or anybody stealing.
So you make your way back into your own apartment and close the door, lean against it and take a few deep breaths, willing the residual adrenaline away. And then you sigh.
“What did you do?” you ask of the gorgeous man lounging far too casually in your bed, distractingly naked, your sheets draped artfully across his waist. Almost like he’d arranged them that way on purpose.
“Nothing anyone can prove.”
You sigh again, walk tantalisingly close to the bed so that he reaches for you fruitlessly when you instead keep moving into the bathroom.
Halfway through brushing your teeth, you think of something, spit and then lean out the door to ask, “Did you have a thing with that federal agent, too?”
His grimace is answer enough. You roll your eyes, wash your face and contemplate going back to bed.
When you emerge, he holds out his hands and says, “Let me make it up to you?”
“Make what up to me?” but you’re sidling towards him, crawling over him, pushing him back into your bed, straddling his waist, your shorts and the sheet the only barriers between you.
“All sorts of things,” he says, as he draws you into a kiss, one warm hand curved around the back of your head, one thumb stroking your cheek. “Keeping you awake.” He smiles as you scoff; that had hardly been an inconvenience and you suspect he knows that. You can still feel the phantom imprint of his hands on your skin, and your muscles ache from the long night of pleasurable effort.
“The unpleasant wake-up call,” he adds and oh, this is apparently a list, not that much of your mind is dedicated to the specifics as he eases you in and then rolls you both, so you’re on your back, splayed beneath him, one of his hands sliding under your top at your waist as he kisses you again. He’s so much warmer and gentler than you’d expected, and more willing to take his time, too, as though being with you is something worth savouring.
He looks at you for permission, before pulling your vest over your head. “The shock of having the cops next door,” is murmured against your throat. He bites, not hard enough to leave behind anything but sparks of sensation, and then he laps at your skin with his tongue, presses kisses that rasp, just a little, with his beard. He makes a pleased murmur of a sound when you shiver and clutch at his bare, broad shoulders.
“And the federal agents,” he adds, too, looking up at you with a quirk of his brow and all the unrepentant faux-innocence he can muster as he smooths a hand down your side to settle at your waistband, and then he lowers his mouth to one of your nipples and sucks, making you gasp and squirm.
“The state of the hallway.” With a graze of his teeth, he moves to the other one, and his body slides against yours, and your token resistance is not enough to prevent you from framing him with your legs, trying to urge him closer, convince him to give you more. Your impatience makes him huff, amused, and his breath feels cool against your wet skin but his tongue is hot, right where he knows you’re sensitive. When you lift your hips, he just gives you a wicked smile, and moves down to kiss your stomach.
He closes his eyes, too, like he’s drinking in the feel of you, only opens them again when you thread your fingers through his hair. He pushes into your touch, encourages the scratch of your nails against his scalp before he continues, tugging at the waistband of your shorts, “The mess we’ve made of your bed.”
You make a show of looking around, and you tell him it seems fine to you. He’s going to have to try harder.
You see a flash of teeth, a devious sparkle in his eyes, and then he does.