Work Text:
It’s early. Butcher’s fucking exhausted; he spent half the night trying to finish off the paperwork for his latest case and the other half trying to forget everything he saw there, traumatic crime scene images and painful words and disembodied voices in his head attempting to convince him he still had more work to do.
Somehow he fell out of bed and into a suit and stumbled out the door early enough that he can still make it into work in time for his morning briefing, but it was a close fucking call and if he’s honest, he’s not paying all that much attention. He’s just a zombie in search of whatever caffeine he can find.
So when the implausibly cheery girl in the coffee shop sets a cup in front of him, he picks it up and walks out the door, already cataloguing what the fuck he’s going to say to make it sound like he’s made some progress on his case. Rayner knows him far too well to put up with his usual standard of bullshit, so he’s got to level up fast.
“Hey!”
Now, Butcher’s not a fan of having his attention demanded at the best of times, but this morning he’s just had enough. He rounds on the young man who’s approached him, and Butcher’s expression makes him rear back but not walk away, more fool him.
“Look, son. I am not in the fucking mood. I have had a long night in a longer fucking week during a hellish fucking year and I don’t like being fucking accosted on the street before I’ve even started my coffee. I’m late for work, I’ve got important shit to do and I’m not interested in whatever you’ve got to fucking say. So unless you’re here to tell me I’ve won the lottery I suggest you back off before I get genuinely annoyed, alright?”
Throughout that little rant, the lad’s face cycles through expressions too fast for Butcher to catch them all, but he eventually settles on a kind of rueful grimace and says, “You took my coffee.”
Well. “Fuck.” Butcher has to close his eyes for a moment to absorb exactly how much of a cunt that makes him but when he opens them, he’s somehow earned a smile, and it’s a far more understanding one than he deserves. His heart skips a beat at the sight of it, but he tells himself it’s just sleep deprivation.
“Trade?” And sure enough, this ridiculous stranger is offering a cup with Butcher’s name on it, far too sheepish for his own good. “Mine’s half-caf so I’m not sure it’s what you need this morning, anyway.”
“You might be right-” Butcher squints at the cup he’s holding, before he hands it over- “Hughie. Sorry for- being a total cunt. You didn’t deserve that.”
Hughie is sweet, sincere, and expressive, and he’s far too young but Butcher’s feeling all the wrong things even before he shrugs. “I work tech support, so- not the worst thing I’m gunna hear today.”
“Yeah, probably not the worst thing I’m gunna say today, either, but-“ It’s too early to think about this. There’s a reason Butcher gets his coffee on the way to work, renders himself a semi-functioning human being before he has to face the worst things humanity has to offer, and all the people who faced them and lost. He swallows, and before he can think of a single reason not to, he adds, “Can I make it up to you? Buy you dinner?”
There is a long, confused silence before Hughie says, “What?” And then he blinks a few more times as Butcher’s words really take hold. “Is this how British people flirt? That’s terrible.”
“That’s not a no.”
“Oh, my God. In a public place?”
“Public. Populated. Very safe. And I promise at least two more dates before you have to see me before coffee again.”
Hughie laughs, and he’s the most honest and real person Butcher’s seen in a long time. They might be an absolute fucking disaster together, but he trusts his instincts, and he knows he has to try. He tries to let that honest desire show in his expression when he’s considered during a long, thoughtful pause, because he must be quite the sight. With bags under his eyes, hair and beard only vaguely groomed, dressed in an obnoxiously patterned shirt he picked up off the floor and a rumpled suit tucked into barely fastened boots, he’s conscious his look is currently more Ted Bundy than Ted Baker.
“Alright, fuck it. Dinner. Sounds good.”
Butcher’s not felt such a pervading sense of joy and achievement in programming a new contact into his phone in years. “I’ll text you.”
“Whatever. I don’t even care.” But Hughie’s smiling even more broadly than he is, and he’s even more reluctant to turn and leave, and he has the sweetest flush across his cheeks that Butcher wants to feel the warmth of.
He’s late for work, but it doesn’t fucking matter. He has a message on his phone that’s just made up of emotes; the smiley turd, three cups of coffee and then an angel, and he knows exactly what it means.