Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Soldier Boy’d fallen asleep in the backseat, probably exhausted from the entire blowing up Crimson Countess ordeal. Hughie made a note, absentmindedly, that blowing up probably always drained the supe, even when it was somewhat controlled as it had been today—which could be an asset just as easily as it could be a liability, depending on how whatever recruitment speech Butcher had planned was received.

“Where we going?” he said, frowning, looking around as if expecting a sign to pop out of nowhere and answer his question.

“Gotta find somewhere MM and your girl won’t look for us at,” Butcher shrugged. “I’d say any good old motel will do the trick, but we shouldn’t stay too close. Just in case they scout ‘em looking for us.”

“Right,” said Hughie, a little uneasy. It felt weird for the possibility of MM and Annie coming after them to be something they had to be wary of, prepare themselves against. He wouldn’t put it past either of them, really, and he knew Butcher and him where the ones to put them all in this shitty situation in the first place, but it still stung to have to think of his friends as somewhat adversaries.

They drove for hours on end, going past plenty of motels Hughie tiredly pointed at, but Butcher shrugged them off for some reason or another—too exposed, not enough exits, too close to this, too far from that. They finally found something good enough to satisfy Butcher’s paranoia and crashed at an old, ratty little place—a motel chain, which Hughie knew from before the Stillwell ordeal were Butcher’s favorite to lay low since they were more discreet and tended to leave less traces of their stay in their records. And indeed the tired looking reception lady at the desk barely even glanced up at them when Butcher asked for two rooms, and barely batted an eye when he offered her cash. She just handed them the keys, and mumbled something that might’ve been a ‘have a nice stay’.

Once you’d seen one of them, you’d seen them all, and Hughie walked inside the first motel room mildly convinced he’d been here before, heading for the couch thoughtlessly and crashing on it immediately for a well-deserved nap. He felt tired and worn, the pleasant buzz from the V starting to lose its intensity already—he knew he’d still be able to teleport until somewhere around five tomorrow, but it started feeling a little easier, calmer, quieter after a few hours, as if his body got used to it. He learned to put it aside for a bit instead of having it constantly distracting him—the possibility, the knowledge that he could teleport if he wanted to, whenever, wherever, became a little less shiny and new and more like something normal in the background of his mind. It was only his second time using V, but he could already tell how supes must feel on the regular, having that ability to access their power just as naturally and easily as he’d use his arms or eyes.

Annie had said once that she couldn’t imagine what not feeling the gentle pulse of electricity everywhere she went would be like—she said the silence, the lack would feel creepy and claustrophobic. Hughie’d said he got what she meant, and had thought he did, too, but he was starting to realize he’d been completely wrong before. He did understand now, though. He’d already caught himself, a couple times since Russia, reaching for the power only to find it missing, and feeling a little off when he realized he couldn’t just teleport his way out of anything. If it was already becoming instinctual to use his abilities after one dose, he couldn’t imagine what losing a power one had had their entire lives would be like.

He knew Butcher understood it better now, too—especially since he’d had a dose more than Hughie. But while Hughie used this newfound knowledge to try and understand better those times Annie had described her powers to him, he was pretty sure he knew what was brewing inside Butcher’s brain—the thrilling awareness of how much exactly it would hurt Homelander to find himself powerless, especially now that they had a way to make him so.

Hughie looked up from the cushion he’d rested his head on. Speaking of the devil, Soldier Boy must’ve woken up as they parked because he walked in, a couple steps behind Butcher, and looked around the motel room, unimpressed.

“This one’s all yours, guv,” said Butcher with a wide, shiteating grin. “Ring us if you’re feeling like blowing up the block, yeah?”

“Where you two going?” said the veteran, eyeing them both suspiciously. Butcher tried his best to put up an innocent face, which only made him look even more like he was planning to go on a murder spree than he usually did, which was saying something. “The lad and I’ll be next door.” Hughie groaned. He didn’t want to get up. He was tired and his limbs felt like they’d been replaced with lead weights at some point without him noticing.

“Don’t you try to bamboozle me, you fucks,” growled Soldier Boy, and Hughie was tired enough that he almost forgot the entire incredibly-dangerous-supe thing long enough to burst out laughing at hearing someone unironically and very threateningly use the word bamboozle.

“’Course not, who’d you take us for?” huffed Butcher, trying to act offended. “We’ll talk in the morning, yeah? I think we’re all knackered after that shitshow back there.”

“Can confirm,” said Hughie from the couch, muffled by the pillow his head was half burrowed into. Soldier Boy shot him a dirty look, that he’d have felt a lot more threatened by if he wasn’t about to pass out from exhaustion. Unsurprisingly, Soldier Boy didn’t seem to like him very much already, which was just his luck.

“C’mon, Hughie, let’s go,” said Butcher, poking at his arm more aggressively than necessary. He batted him off but got to his feet nonetheless. If he’d seen the room they were staying at first, he’d have been able to just teleport there now. He could’ve dealt with the embarrassment of leaving his clothes behind in a pile and sleeping butt naked if it meant he didn’t have to move.

He was fairly certain he could teleport places he’d never been to before, but he hadn’t tried it yet, and this was definitely not a good time to. He shot a still weary look behind him to check on Soldier Boy, but the supe was just looking at them go, squinting a bit as if he was trying to figure out what the fuck their deal was. Good luck with that one, buddy, thought Hughie. Even I don’t fucking know.

Butcher led him to the room next door, and let him crash on the bed, saying he was planning on doing some research on Payback anyway. Hughie was pretty sure it was an excuse so he wouldn’t have to utter the words ‘I’ll take the couch’—God forbid Butcher ever be outright nice to him—but he was too tired to argue regardless, and fell asleep as soon as he hit the mattress.

Convincing Soldier Boy wasn’t as difficult as Hughie feared it would be—the Crimson Countess thing, added to them releasing him in the first place, had seemingly done the trick to warm him up to them somewhat, and it was ultimately Hughie’s little speech about the Internet that apparently sealed the deal, which granted him one of those approving grins and nods Butcher would give out sparely. Gaining any speck of approval from him at all was so fucking hard that he couldn’t help the dizzying pride and warmth he felt everytime it happened. Even back when he’d been pissed enough at Butcher to wish he’d leave the Boys again and never come back this time, a part of him wanted to impress him, craved the rare praise like a drug he’d been hooked on from that very fist night, when Butcher had called him good from his car after dropping him off. Maybe this addiction thing wasn’t that surprising after all. 

They gave themselves a few days before going after Payback, both to rest, ride out the Temp V hangover and get their strength back but also to let Soldier Boy get a little more used to the new world he lived in. Butcher and Hughie discussed it quietly outside the motel room, and decided it would be best to try and keep the supe as calm and content as possible, so he wouldn’t randomly explode again. Butcher mentioned something about getting him weed or something, and Hughie’s retort that having a radioactive nuclear supe also be high out of his mind on top of it all couldn’t possibly fix anything was met with an eyeroll, which generally meant Butcher was going to ignore his advice altogether.

Except to ask them a few questions about the present a couple times a day, all in rapid succession and wrapped in a thick layer of bigotry, Soldier Boy left them alone for the week or so they stayed at the motel. They’d just drop some takeout, pills and enough alcohol to kill a rhinoceros in his room everyday when they swung by the gas station five minutes away from the motel, and he seemed content enough to stay in his room getting high and watching TV.

When Butcher finally couldn’t stand the wait anymore, and Soldier Boy seemed to share his feeling, they started looking into the TnT twins’ location. Butcher, the treacherous bastard, left him alone with the supe at the motel to go get the information somehow, grinning at Hughie and telling him with an amused glint in his eye that the two of them should try and be friends, since they had so much in common. This was Lamplighter all over again, but with—somehow—the toxic masculinity amped up to eleven, and Hughie just spent the next few hours feeling increasingly uncomfortable. At least this time there was no bad supe porn featuring his girlfriend and people he hated, so that was that. He even managed to see through Soldier Boy’s tough façade to some extent, for a quick second, when he tried justifying himself to him. Overall, deeply awkward but not as bad as repeatedly getting called a cuck while watching terrible porn in broad daylight with a incredibly painful stomach wound, one out of ten, wouldn’t recommend.  

Butcher ended up showing back up at the motel with the TnT twins’ location, knuckles and neck bloody, and Hughie knew in the back of his mind that even Butcher’s reassurance that it wasn’t his blood shouldn’t have deterred him from worrying about whoever had to get beaten up for that information, but he simply felt relieved that Butcher was okay and moved on.

Herogasm was a fucking disaster, for the most part—the explosion and what Hughie could only call a massacre, the fight with Annie, his confrontation with A-train—yet he and Butcher still exchanged a bunch of downright giddy looks as they drove to find a new motel to stay at. They’d hurt Homelander—they’d come so close, miles closer than they ever had so far, to ending it all. They had him right there, snarling and biting at the air like a feral animal—they saw him scared. Of them. It was electrifying and beyond thrilling to know they’d had the power to terrify Homelander, hold his life in their hands for a split second.

Herogasm also meant Hughie got to use more V, meaning he now could ride that high as well as the one they’d gotten from the closest thing they’d ever had to an actual victory. It felt incredible. He’d also confirmed his theory that he could teleport anywhere even without having seen the place—the first time he’d had at list caught glimpse of the inside of the house through the windows, but when he’d come back and found it torn apart by Soldier Boy’s explosion and realized he couldn’t find Butcher anywhere the panic had taken over. He’d barely had time to properly start worrying—what if he was hurt, what if he was caught in the explosion too—before his powers, instinctively, thoughtlessly, teleported him to where Butcher was, just in time to push Homelander off him. So that was a neat trick up his sleeve—and an added layer of reassurance as well; knowing he could just think of Butcher and find himself by his side, wherever he was.

Hughie was pretty sure that actual Compound V and Temp V worked in marginally different ways, even outside of the entire twenty-four hour limit thing; he remembered being threatened by an A-train who was high out of his mind back at his dad’s place, the speedser all fidgety and sweating profusely, speaking fast and spilling nonsense at times; he remembered Popclaw fighting invisible enemies, lifting impossible weights and crushing that poor man’s head like a watermelon. Temp V was different for sure—no matter how good and powerful it made Hughie feel, he hadn’t felt the urge to crush anybody’s head between his tights—although now that he thought of it he wondered if he could, and knew somehow that the answer was yes—or run around fighting imaginary foes.

Injecting it to himself felt downright orgasmic, leaving him feeling strong and confident for hours afterwards. The powers came easily, almost instinctively—he still felt like himself, just in a better mood, amped up, more assertive.

It stopped being as fun in the last few hours—when suddenly he was sweaty, he threw up, his hands started shaking—he felt the urge to use his powers even when he didn’t need to, wanting to—needing to—pop in and out of places just because he could. He felt uneasy in his skin, like he shouldn’t be staying in one place. It felt wrong to just stand there when he could be teleporting left and right, and his control over his powers slipped increasingly until they finally stopped responding at all, which ended up feeling almost like a relief given how little of a hold he had of them in those last moments.

There were a few hours in-between that he liked almost more than the first ones, though. Right when the effects were starting to turn south, but before he started throwing up and feeling bad. He felt hot in those moments, and actually high too, confused and warm. That was the time he actually did see why A-train and Popclaw had acted like that—it actually felt like a drug in those moments. His head was elsewhere, he felt floaty and unfocused. He often ended up naked, both because he generally teleported from one side of the room to the other constantly almost unconsciously and because he felt hot, sweating profusely now. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, he often felt nauseous from all the teleportation he hardly could stop at all, but the high came with an artificial giddiness that left him free of worries and thoughts, just happy and dazed.

That first time in Russia, he’d spend those few hours alone in his room—he’d been given a room to himself instead of having to share like the others because Butcher probably knew he’d need space to ride out his hangover. Hughie’d laid down on his bed and stared at the roof for hours feeling buzzed and hot, trying to remember what was going on sometimes but mostly not caring enough to. He kept accidentally teleporting and ended up laying down on the floor on various places, in the bathtub, inside the closet once, which he’d probably had gotten the irony of at the time if he’d been a little more clear-minded. He thankfully managed to keep enough control over his powers not to pop up naked outside of his room and bathroom, not wanting to scar the others.

Both times after Russia, though, he’d spent with Butcher. They had their little routine by now—they’d come back from wherever they’d gone off to use the V, laid down somewhere in the motel, and just rode out the high while finishing whatever they’d eaten the day before—enjoying the high and then helping each other through the aftermath. Where Hughie had thought the downside of his power was annoying, Butcher’s was much worse—Hughie risked ending up naked in some rando’s room, Butcher risked accidentally lasering someone in half.

It was worth having to calm him down later, and try to talk him into making his eyes stop glowing, which he could hardly control, if it meant Hughie got to be with him during those few hours of giddy high. That’s when he’d discovered an other aspect of it he hadn’t had the occasion to experience before—it made him really touchy and clingy, and it made Butcher much more likely to accept his touch without snarling and cursing at him. Also, while Hughie generally stopped talking or only uttered complete nonsense, Butcher became even more talkative than he usually was, going on long, sometimes slurred rants about the most random shit.

“D’you know there’s ‘hug’ in your name?” asked Butcher, frowning a bit, leaning back against Hughie’s shoulder and putting his hair within touching distance, which immediately distracted Hughie from whatever the fuck he’d decided to mumble about this time. The combination of the V’s best hours and the glass bottle Butcher had borrowed from what was generally Soldier Boy’s stash had left him almost more high than Hughie, although he wasn’t too far behind.

“What?”

“Hug. In Hughie,” explained the man seriously. “It’s in there. Like, the letters and shit.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess it is. Huh.” Butcher moved to instead lay down on the couch so his head would be on Hughie’s lap, which was just cruel, really. What the fuck was Hughie supposed to do with that?

“How come you never noticed it?”

Hughie wasn’t even really trying to focus on his nonsense at this point. He was too busy trying not to furiously pet his hair like a frantic touch starved chimpanzee.

“Hughie?”

“What?” he said, looking back at Butcher’s eyes which were set on him expectantly, letting him know there was probably a question he was supposed to be answering.

“I said how come you never noticed it?”

“Noticed what?” He was looking at the hair again. It looked soft, which was unfair because Hughie had an actual hair routine and Butcher managed to get about the same result while probably thinking that brushing his hair monthly and putting some soap in it once in a blue moon was more than good enough to maintain it.

“Hug. In your name,” insisted Butcher. 

“Right, yeah, that. Yeah.”

Consequences be damned, Hughie gave up on his already very poor self-control, weakened further by the V, and reached for Butcher’s head.

He was half expecting him to just straight up bite his hand—he wouldn’t put it past him—but Butcher just let out a vague hum of acknowledgement. The second he realized none of his fingers had been bitten off, Hughie took full advantage of the moment and went at it, burying his hands in the dark hair. Halle-fucking-lujah, he’d been wanting to do that for over a year.

“Hughie.”

“Mmh? What?”

“Jesus, are you daft? I said one’d think you’d notice shit like the word hug being in your name, doncha think? It’s important shit.”

Hughie frowned, untangling a couple black strands from each other. “I dunno, is it though? Like. Did you ever notice there was the word ‘Butch’ in your name?”

“Yeah,” he said without missing a beat.

“Oh. Well then I dunno. I guess I never really thought about it.”

“You should. I think about it a lot.”

Hughie snorted loudly. “No, you don’t.” Butcher looked offended. 

“Well, I thought about it a lot in the past minute. That has to count for something.”

“That’s because you’re, like, really high,” he said, noticing some grey hairs in the middle of the black.

“Am not,” grumbled Butcher half-heartedly.

“Are too.”

He scratched Butcher’s scalp with his blunt nails, and the man closed his eyes and let out a pleased sound from deep in his throat. Okay, yeah, no. That was unacceptable, because the position they were in would make the situation really, really awkward if Hughie were to get a boner right now. Butcher should just never make sounds like that ever again.

“Huh,” grunted Butcher, or something along those lines, with a deep and sleepy voice, because the world hated Hughie specifically.

“What,” answered Hughie, pulling at his hair a little, making him raise his chin to follow the movement and then smoothing the messy black strands back down like he’d do with a cat—a massive, generally very angry, vaguely high cat. Okay, maybe if he wanted Butcher to shut up, and if he wanted to avoid an unfortunate situation, he should stop touching his hair, but his hands didn’t seem to be listening to his brain at the moment.

“Do you know I can’t remember the last person that touched me just to touch me?” said Butcher, looking contemplative, eyes still glued to the ceiling like it held some sort of cosmic solution to the general clusterfuck that both their lives had evolved into, the expanse of his neck now bared to Hughie. He wanted to lick it.

“What d’you mean?” Hughie’s fingers moved down to touch Butcher’s beard. Fuck yeah, that was something else he’d been wanting to do. 

 “Y’know. Not to threaten me, or get my attention, or sex, or whatever, just to touch me. Just ‘cause they wanted to. Felt like it. All that.”

Hughie hummed low in his throat. He moved his hands back up to tangle them into Butcher’s hair again.

Ever since they met, on rare, scarce occasions when it was just the two of them, Hughie had caught a glimpse of who Butcher had been before he lost Becca, even when most seemed to think that side of him was dead and buried. It seemed to come out more naturally around Hughie though, especially lately—and the long days they’d spend in a motel room, just the two of them, had brought out that side of Butcher even more. It was always oddly satisfying to have Butcher open up to him in any way whatsoever, and even though he was high right now and probably wouldn’t be nearly as sincere otherwise, it still felt like a victory.

“Well, I think they’re all idiots then,” shrugged Hughie. “Your hair’s surprisingly soft for someone who’s probably never fucking washed it.”

He heard a low grumble and felt something shake over his legs, and it took him a second to realize Butcher was silently laughing.

“I wash me hair,” he said, sounding incredibly amused.

“Sure you do,” said Hughie, and he then did the effort to remove his hands from the soft strands only to pat Butcher’s head condescendingly. He only started shaking even more.

“Well, I’m flattered you still wanna touch it if you think I never fucking wash it,” he said, trying and failing to sound sincere. Hughie let out a long, overdramatic sigh.

“The shit I do for you. There’s probably lice in there.”

He started laughing harder, making his eyes crinkle closed in genuine joy and amusement like they rarely did, and Hughie didn’t feel clear minded enough to remember why he wasn’t supposed to look down at him adoringly and pet his hair again.

He had to hold his hair in a much less pleasant manner a couple hours later, when Butcher was too shaky to even keep his head up and Hughie had help him throw up into the toilet and not next to it, but it was worth it, as usual, for those previous moments of vulnerability. He caught a glimpse in them of what it could be like to be around a Butcher who let himself be touched and adored and worshipped, and was soft and gentle and sweet in return. He wanted that so much sometimes that he wished to never come down so he could stay in those little bubbles they created for themselves.

They spent a couple weeks after Herogasm laying low and trying to find the rest of Payback, and Hughie allowed himself to touch Butcher more from then on—ran a hand through his hair sometimes, made a quip about lice and shampoo, but then touched his beard gently too if he felt bold—let their knuckles touch on purpose whenever they walked side by side, entertained for a second the ridiculous idea of grabbing his hand, even, if he was feeling bold and clingy. Butcher allowed it all with only very mild complaining, and sometimes without complaining at all, which both baffled him and gave him an odd thrill. He wanted to see how far he could push this, how far the line was, how often he could allow himself the subtle touches, but he didn’t get the occasion to push back against it as much as possible, because Butcher seemed to decide it was his turn to poke at the invisible limits they’d previously set.

He had plenty of occasions to, with all the time they spent together, either trying to find some member of Payback to satisfy Solider Boy’s bloodlust or simply waiting for their next shot at killing Homelander. They’d often end up sitting on the couch, laptops, files, coffee cups and sometimes their lunch spread out on the table in front of them.

That was generally where it happened, on those old, ratty motel couches. Either they’d naturally move closer to each other until they were leaning on the couch, legs tangled together, or Hughie would start falling asleep and end up with his head on Butcher’s shoulder. He’d expected Butcher to push him off the first couple times, but every time it happened he’d wake up in the morning curled up around Butcher, head resting on his torso, the man underneath him either asleep or pretending to be. Sometimes Butcher’s arms were around his, and one time he had a hand loosely resting on his head, fingers tangled into the curls. Hughie would always allow himself to enjoy the feeling for a beat, then he’d get up and make them both coffee. He was pretty sure Butcher was the first to wake up most days, if not all, and he just pretended to still be asleep so he wouldn’t have to justify not having kicked Hughie off him and gotten on with his day as soon as he was up—sometimes Hughie woke up to a hand petting his hair or stroking his back, but it would magically stop and move away the second he stirred.

Butcher clearly had a thing for touching Hughie’s hair too, and it became apparent after a bit—the first time it happened outside of what Butcher would probably kill him for calling cuddling, the man had been so caught by surprise by his own action that he’d simply left. Hughie had been leaning over the table, trying to peak inside the takeout bag to see if Butcher had remembered the soda he liked, and in this position his hair was close to the older man’s shoulder. Seemingly without thinking, Butcher reached for him and ran a hand through his curls.

Hughie was too surprised to enjoy the moment properly, which he’d curse himself for later, and turned his head to look at Butcher, who froze and frowned, clearly not having realized what he’d been doing. “Um,” said Hughie. Butcher opened his mouth once, closed it, then just said “gotta. Go. The loo.” And ran off to lock himself up in the bathroom. Hughie wasn’t entirely sure if the plan was to freak out or jerk off, or a confused mixed of both, but he couldn’t exactly ask and he wasn’t quite desperate enough to stick his ear against the door, so he just stood there for a minute and then decided he might as well eat his curry while it was still warm.

Hughie’s lack of freaking out—which Hughie congratulated himself for and attributed to the recent progressive blurring of the lines and limits they used to have—and the fact that he didn’t treat Butcher any different seemed to squash any doubts the man might’ve had about whether the gesture had been inappropriate or unwanted. The next time they sat down on the couch to do some research—Hughie made sure there were no alarming news about Annie or MM, as he was still worried everyday that something might happen to them while he and Butcher were away, but as it seemed quiet on that front he redirected his attention to the news on Vought Tower—and just as Hughie was starting to feel tired and felt his head drop towards Butcher’s shoulder, a hand gently came to rest on the back of his neck. When Hughie didn’t move away—the touch had woken him up as surely as a bucket of freezing water, and he was holding his breath in fear that any movement would make Butcher let go—the hand shifted up to tangle into his curls and started massaging his scalp. Hughie couldn’t help but melt against his side, letting out a little happy hum which made Butcher laugh, the silent shaking of his shoulders as he chuckled twisting Hughie’s lips into a wide grin.

The tiredness crept back in slowly, and he soon found himself curled against Butcher’s side in what had become a familiar position, head resting on his torso. Butcher had a hand buried into Hughie’s curls and was petting them gently, another hand holding up one of the files so he could read it, and was leaning back against the armrest, legs up on the couch—his fucking stupid massive unlaced boots that probably had never been washed once in his goddamned life, on the clean couch, which did make Hughie scrunch up his nose in disgust and think of what MM would say, but it was a motel couch anyway, so it couldn’t have been that clean to begin with—plus he felt too warm and comfortable to care. He’d leave a bigger tip than usual to the cleaning lady tomorrow morning.

Butcher completely dropped the pretence after that, and was always awake when Hughie opened his eyes, looking down at him with an eyebrow raised in a way that should’ve looked judgy and mocking yet somehow managed to come across as fond. He’d generally greet him back to the world of the living with a snarky little “morning, sunshine,” and would grin, amused, at his just-woke-up face. He’d also touch Hughie’s hair whenever he felt like it as long as they were alone, even when he didn’t have the excuse of having woken up curled around him. Sometime he didn’t even touch his hair, just reached for him and rested his hand on the back of his neck, a heavy, possessive, warm weight at his nape which made him shiver almost every time, to Butcher’s amused delight.

There was a perfectly good bed they could’ve slept on instead of ending up all twisted up in a mess of tangled uncomfortable limbs on the couch, but they never did. Hughie wasn’t sure why—maybe it was because as long as they stayed here, files and crumbled paper cups scattered on the table, they could still pretend it had been an accident for them to fall asleep like this, no matter how many times it ended up happening, night after night.

The Soldier Boy situation didn’t change all that much; he remained just as insufferable as usual. Maybe worse now that he actually had time to ask questions about the modern world. He’d tried to get answers from Butcher exactly once, showing up with a series of questions about the internet, and when he’d realized Butcher didn’t have answers to half of them he’d moved on to Hughie. It was an endless circle of Soldier Boy coming to him with questions, Hughie doing his best to answer them, and then Soldier Boy getting mad at him because things weren’t exactly the way he remembered them. Butcher coming back from getting snacks or information only to find Hughie exasperatedly trying to explain to Soldier Boy that he had nothing to do with whatever modern tragedy he’d decided to be pissed about today— “stop yelling at me, the gas prices aren’t my fucking fault”—was becoming a common occurrence these days.

That was the way Butcher found them when he drove back from one of the many, many places he’d had to check for Mindstorm—he was clearly pissed when he opened the door, probably at the absolute steaming pile of nothing he’d found, but when Hughie looked up from the couch he saw his annoyance melt away to make place for amusement the second he saw them. 

“I mean, it’s just common sense, really,” said Soldier Boy, standing with his arms crossed in front of an exhausted Hughie, who let out a snort.

“It really, really isn’t.” Hughie was too pained by the entire conversation he was being put through to even say hi to Butcher, who didn’t deserve any greetings anyway since he’d committed the unforgivable crime of once again leaving him alone with Mr Toxic Masculinity Incarnate over here. This conversation had been going for a solid twenty minutes, and whatever the fuck he’d done in a previous life to deserve this shit, he was so, so sorry for it.

Soldier Boy rolled his eyes and took a swig of his bottle. “Whatever, dickfuck, I don’t give a shit. Doesn’t matter anyway—I mostly fucked supes, so no STDs.”

“It’s the mostly part I’m worried about. Plus, you could still get them pregnant, you realize that, right,” he insisted, feeling like a particularly tired sex ed teacher being faced with the dumbest teenager he’d ever met.

“Listen, the human ones were generally on top anyway, you can stop giving yourself a heart attack.”

“They were what?”

“Like, on top of me? So they wouldn’t get pregnant? Do I also need to explain how sex works to you?” he scoffed and shook his head, throwing Butcher a ‘can you believe this shit?’ look like he was expecting them to bond over how dumb Hughie was.

“Okay, I think I’m gonna need a drink for this,” Hughie said, running a hand over his face, and Butcher was already leaning over the table to offer him his beer before he’d even finished the sentence. Hughie took it with a grateful look and gulped down half the can before turning back to face the supe. “Listen, Ben—can I call you Ben?”

“No.”

“Okay—” Butcher snorted, and Hughie glared at him. “Listen, it’s just science—being on top won’t stop someone from getting pregnant, or, or getting an STD—”

“Of course it fucking will, you idiot. What, do you think I’m fucking stupid or something?”

Hughie stared at him very intensely for a prolonged period of time without answering, trying to convince himself that being honest here really wasn’t worth it, no matter how much he wanted to.

“Okay, I’m not gonna answer that, because I care about my life, but trust me, that’s not how it works.”

“You’re giving me a headache with your fucking idiotic scientific facts,” said Solider Boy, and Hughie was a second away from pointing out that, one, supes didn’t get headaches, and two, he was the one who felt like someone was replacing his brain with a ripe watermelon that’d been in the sun for too long, but the supe just kept going before he could find any more colorful metaphors. “You can’t breed anyone if they’re on top, everybody knows that.”

Hughie closed his eyes with a pained expression. “Okay, I’m gonna need you to never say ‘breed’ again, like, ever, please and thank you.”

“Why not?” frowned Soldier Boy, before rolling his eyes, looking annoyed all over again. “Oh, fucking shit, is it another one of those ‘problematic’ words you told me I shouldn’t say?”

“ N—actually, you know what, yeah. That’s definitely the reason.”

Soldier Boy didn’t even hesitate, because of course he didn’t. “Breed. Dyke.”

“No,” said Hughie immediately.

“Fag. Cocksucker.”

“No—Oh, wait. You might get to reclaim those, actually.”

“What?” he said, looking pissed all of the sudden. Hughie frowned, confused.

“Uh, reclaiming? It’s—”

“Yeah, no, I know what it means, I heard your dumbass fucking peptalk—I’m just not a fucking faggot.”

“You—You were telling me—in way too much detail I really didn’t want to be thinking about—about that one guy, like, two days ago—”

Soldier Boy barked out a relieved laugh like that explained everything. “Oh, that! No, I was the one doing the fucking, that’s not really gay.”

“Oh my god,” said Hughie, rethinking his entire life and all the decisions he’d made that led him to this point. Solider Boy just shrugged.

“Plus, I was wearing socks anyway, so, y’know. Doesn’t count.”

Hughie turned to look at Butcher, his expression absolutely shattered like someone had just threatened to murder his puppy.

“Butcher, some help? Please?”

“Sorry, mate, no can’t do. Good luck though.” Butcher raised his glass, trying and failing to hide his amusement. Hughie closed his eyes in complete and utter exhaustion and let out the longest sigh in the history of sighs. “I hate you. I hate you so much.”

“Listen, buddy,” said Soldier Boy, “it’s not my fault that your dumbass doesn’t know fuck about sex—”

“Oh, right, yeah, because that’s definitely the problem here, sure—”

“Damn right it fucking is, why don’t you go get yourself some fucking pussy like a real man and then we’ll talk. Heh.” He looked at Butcher again, rolling his eyes. “Virgins, amiright?”

“You called me a little slut like yesterday,” interjected Hughie.

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“I’m—I’m not even gonna try arguing with that.”

“Good, because I’m right. ‘Kay fellas, I’m gonna hit the hay. Hope you learned a thing or two, eh, kid?”

Soldier Boy got up and walked out with a winning grin, leaving Hughie to sit alone on the couch, head in hands.

“Good job, Hughie, you did it,” said Butcher. “He’s definitely woke now.”

The noise Hughie let out was somewhere between a giggle and a sob.

Being around Soldier Boy was oftentimes like that or worse, and so Hughie found himself looking forward to going off on a new mission with Butcher. Whenever they started running short on leads, Hughie would go through recent news nearby where they were crashing that day, and find some asshole supe abusing their power, which was, if he was to be honest, worryingly easy to find. They’d go off to take care of it, get away from Soldier Boy, blow off some steam—it made Hughie feel better about all of this, oddly enough, to know that he still took the time to do something good in-between two manhunts for supes he didn’t know shit about just so Soldier Boy could blow them up. Even though what ‘do something good’ even meant in this scenario was up for discussion—honestly, he enjoyed the thrill that came with the adrenaline-laced violence more than the satisfaction of having helped people, even though he didn’t want to think about that too hard.

It was kind of hard to look at himself in the mirror after one of their trips and feel like a good guy, which was probably partly because he oftentimes ended up covered in gore. Which was what had happened again that day—thick, reddish goo having spared only his face and hair this time around, but still coating his clothes, hands and arms. It was sticky and vaguely warm, and it wasn’t like this was the first time it happened, not by a million miles—he seemingly had the aptitude to attract any spec of blood onto himself like a grossness magnet—but it didn’t make it any less disgusting.

Today it was a shape-shifting supe’s guts he was covered in—the supe had used his tricks to blackmail people and had a couple blocks under his thumb, terrified of going against him, when he’d been supposed to be their protector. Hughie didn’t exactly feel any remorse about this one. He was mostly annoyed by the way the goo was starting to cake on his arms, to be frank.

They got into the car, which had seen enough blood on its seats that they honestly didn’t bother covering them anymore, and drove back to the motel. Hughie claimed dibs on the bathroom, which Butcher didn’t object to, thank fuck, since the blood was already starting to dry unpleasantly on his hands.

He slid off his shirt with a sigh then washed his hands off the grime, knowing he and Butcher would have to buy another pack of cheap clothes soon—they’d do the usual routine of Butcher piling about a dozen increasingly colorful Hawaiian shirts with the most random of patterns into the cart, while Hughie just threw in anything vaguely acceptable. Between the gore constantly flying unto him with the desperation of long lost children finding their mother and the constant teleporting out of his clothes, he’d learned not to be picky. He was generally more than okay with going commando and slipping on some random, cheap shirt that would end up on a forgotten pile on the floor the second he had to pop out of there.

Meanwhile Butcher was surprisingly enough very selective when it came to clothing. He’d wear whatever he found if he didn’t have anything else, of course, but when he actually had the occasion to pick what would fill his wardrobe he apparently had a very defined fashion sense, and Hughie kept trying—and failing—to understand what the criteria was—why this blue shirt with pink leaf patterns and little cocktail drinks was a ‘great find’, while that green one with a red print of shrimps and pineapples was ‘the most godawful shirt I’ve seen in my entire motherfucking life’. They seemed equally ridiculous to him, but Butcher clearly disagreed.

With a disgusted scowl, he threw the dirty shirt in the empty shower, the cloth heavily falling on the tiles with an unpleasant wet splotch, and washed the blood off his arms, too. He walked out of the bathroom, shirtless and clearly pissed, to find Butcher waiting for his turn to wash off the grime.

“Here,” said Butcher, throwing something at him, which Hughie caught clumsily.

“Oh,” he said when he realized it was one of Butcher’s seemingly chaotic yet carefully handpicked Hawaiian shirts. He couldn’t help but smile a little, both at the idea of wearing that, and at the oddly sweet gesture. “Thanks.”

Butcher rolled his eyes and huffed out a condescending laugh.

“Frail thing like you are would probably catch a cold n’ die on me,” he grumbled.

“Sure,” said Hughie, willing to go along with whatever bullshit excuses Butcher needed to tell himself in order to avoid spontaneously combusting on the spot anytime he had to be even remotely nice to him.

Butcher threw him a glare to let him know he wasn’t blind to the way Hughie was indulging him, and Hughie just winked in return before slipping the shirt on.

Butcher’s smell still lingered on it and it hit him when he passed his head through the collar, and he had to stop himself from burying his face into the hem and taking a big breath.

They went out for food after that—oddly enough blowing up people tended to leave Hughie starving, probably because it generally involved a fuckton of running around and getting thrown into walls by angry supes—and got a couple odd, vaguely scared looks from the cashier, which let Hughie know he’d probably forgotten some bloodstains. He always forgot to scrub at his ears and jaw when he washed his face in a hurry. Whatever, he’d take a proper shower later. He waited in line behind a tired-looking Butcher and tried to avoid the eye of a middle-aged woman who was insistently staring at his neck, where he was pretty sure the supe had left bruises from trying to strangle him. At least his throat didn’t hurt too much. It’d be gone next time he took the V anyway.

“Hey, look,” said Hughie. “They have fish and chips, do you want some?”

Butcher shot him what was probably the most disgusted, condescending look he’d ever seen, which was saying something given that disgust and condescension were up there with anger on the list of Butcher’s most common moods.

“What, cause I’m British?” Hughie squinted at him for a very long time, trying to figure out what the right answer was.

“No,” he finally decided, and just got an eyeroll in response.

“That looks like possibly the worst fish ‘n ’chips I’ve seen in my entire life anyway,” he said. “Wouldn’t eat them if I was held at gunpoint.”

“Fair enough,” conceded Hughie.

They paid and went to sit at a nearby table so they could wait for their order, and Butcher looked pensive enough that Hughie asked what he was thinking about, although he wasn’t exactly expecting to get an answer.

“Me mum’d make Lenny fish ‘n’ chips whenever he felt under the weather,” he said, eyes lost in the past and a soft, fond expression on his face that Hughie only got to see on rare occasions, “t’was his favorite meal.”

“So he’d have hated these?” guessed Hughie, waving towards the picture on the menu screen. “The, uh, worst you’ve ever seen or whatever?”

Butcher shook his head, amused, at the memory or at his pathetic attempt at a British accent, he didn’t know. “Nah, he didn’t give a fuck if it was good shit or utter crap. We’d go out and buy some whenever mum wasn’t around, too, and he wasn’t too tough to please—if it was called fish ‘n’ chips and looked vaguely fried and salty, he’d eat it up like it was the bloody fucking Graal.”

“I don’t think—I don’t think you’re supposed to eat the Graal,” said Hughie with a frown, but Butcher just rolled his eyes again.

“My point is—mum would fry carrots and add them to the mix sometimes when he wouldn’t eat his vegetables. He didn’t give a fuck, he’d eat them anyway, as long as we called ‘em chips.”

“Oh, my mom did that,” said Hughie. “I had an entire phase when I was seven when I’d only eat barbecue stuff. Like, ribs, meat, chips, whatever. So she started putting barbecue sauce on salad. Carrots. Apples, even.”

“Apples?” said Butcher, looking horrified, and Hughie just nodded, fond.

“I know. It worked though, so.”

They got called for their orders, grabbed them and went back to the motel. Driving ‘home’ while nodding along to a Billy Joel song while stealing fries from the takeout bag was so familiar to his year with Annie that it almost pained him—or even further back, when he was dating Robin.

He missed Annie, because of course he did, she was probably his favorite person in the world and had been his constant over the past year—he missed their talks and teasing her and going out to visit libraries with her. The couple stuff though he didn’t miss as much—physical intimacy with Butcher, his hand on his neck and in his hair, his chest against his cheek when he woke up and his smell lingering on his clothes—made it so that he didn’t feel touch starved like he thought he’d be while only spending time with Butcher and Soldier Boy, possibly the two men with the biggest aversion to being vulnerable in any way that he knew.

Maybe it was on purpose—maybe Butcher, who definitely knew how clingy and affectionate Hughie tended to be once he knew he was allowed to, offered all this touch and gentle possessiveness to make sure Hughie wouldn’t have second thoughts about staying with him. If so, it worked—he still missed Annie, MM, Frenchie and Kimiko—he missed his dad, and even Vicky, and Ivy, and the others at the Bureau he thought he could call his friends as well as his colleagues, even though the thought of them now left a bitter taste on the back of his tongue now. But as much as he missed them all, it was a gentle, distant ache instead of the insufferable pain he knew it could’ve been.

He didn’t think Butcher was really doing it on purpose though, although he wouldn’t put it past him—Butcher was hardly someone to draw the line at manipulation. Actually, he’d recruited Hughie using almost exclusively that—just like everything about Butcher, his methods were the farthest away from subtle one could imagine; it was basic, downright obvious manipulation techniques that he’d use, in a way that made you very much aware you were being manipulated, and that yet somehow still worked and lured you exactly where the man wanted you to be.

A year earlier Hughie would’ve believed this to just be another trick deployed by Butcher to make sure Hughie was still dependent on him. He knew him better now, though. He knew that startled look on his face when he realized he’d unwillingly reached out for Hughie was one of genuine surprise—and he knew the way he put his hand on the back of his neck wasn’t really for Hughie as much as it was for Butcher.

The only thing Butcher didn’t exactly offer was sex, but Hughie was good on that front so far. Feeling the lingering smell of Butcher on his clothes and remembering the way he’d touched his hair that morning was always more than enough to get him off—he just spent a little longer in the shower and enjoyed the seemingly never-ending spank bank Butcher was supplying him with on the daily.

He now lived everyday with Butcher by his side, a constant that shouldn’t have been quite as pleasant as it was. It didn’t really click that he was the same thing for Butcher at first, but when it did it made him feel oddly pleased at the discovery.

Having Butcher’s undivided, complete attention was both thrilling and almost too much, at times. He still had to keep an eye on Soldier Boy, obviously, lest he randomly decided to explode and take the surrounding blocks with him, but whenever the supe seemed stable or wasn’t around, and when they weren’t planning ahead, Butcher didn’t have anything or anyone to focus on but Hughie. No Frenchie or MM or Kimiko, no complications to deal with, no calls from Raynor or Mallory or whoever, no Ryan anymore. It felt constricting and isolating to realize that Hughie didn’t have anyone either, and that they were both truly alone—you and me against the world, provided a treacherous little voice in the back of his head, mocking both his promise to Annie and his worryingly intense devotion to Butcher that did nothing but strengthen daily—but no matter how alone he felt whenever he actually thought of it, he forgot all about that the second he had the burning, overwhelming focus of Butcher’s undivided attention on him.

Hughie had always looked at Butcher too much, noticed him too much, felt like he was giving him too much of his time and attention when the man was simply too busy or didn’t care enough for him to return it, but he was starting to realize now, as he learned to know him better and read his tells, that Butcher had always, subtly enough not to bring his attention to it, kept a watchful, protective eye on him, at the very least since that day with the whale, but probably before that too. He wasn’t sure if Butcher was really good at hiding it, and nobody’d noticed up until now when he was starting to read him better, or if everyone around them could tell and Hughie had just been the only completely oblivious one, but MM and Frenchie weren’t exactly around for him to ask them about it.

Regardless of what he might’ve missed in the past, though, it was nothing at all compared to what he experienced on the daily now. There was something thrilling and chilling at the same time in having amazedly watched something so destructive and wild as Butcher, like a frozen animal staring at a forest fire, only to suddenly have it stare right back, just as—if not more—intensely.

Butcher started being more openly protective—or Hughie started noticing it more—or maybe both; Hughie could now see how his eyes would light up, figuratively or literally depending on whether they were on V, in rage whenever Hughie was threatened or hurt; how he’d be more watchful of whoever Hughie interacted with, glaring at the waiter serving them coffee as if he suspected him to have been sent by Homelander to kidnap the boy; how he’d scare off pretty much anyone but the very bravest by glaring at them threateningly whenever they looked like they were even thinking of approaching him. Once again, it should’ve felt isolating to have everyone else be guarded off him like that, but it just made him feel warm and oddly enough, taken care of.            

The realization that they lived together now, that they were at the very least roommates, was also slow to hit. They tried getting three rooms one time, but Hughie ended up coming to Butcher’s room to research some case he thought might be useful, only for him to fall asleep on the couch tangled with Butcher again; from then on Butcher had dropped it and just asked for two rooms, under the pretence of wanting to save money. Soldier Boy glanced back at them when Butcher announced that with a look that clearly said he thought they were screwing each other silly on a daily basis, but the most he did about it was let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like a slur, and then make a bunch of truly terrible puns about fruits over the past few days until he got bored and moved on. Hughie didn’t care enough about the veteran’s opinion to give much of a fuck, not even enough to point out that supes didn’t cough, and he enjoyed sharing a room with Butcher even more than he would’ve thought he would.

Butcher became a part of his everyday life progressively, slowly enough that he didn’t notice until he was neck deep in shit already. Learning his coffee and takeout orders, his little habits, knowing every single item of clothing he owned from either having seen him wear it or having borrowed it from him whenever his own shirt or socks had once again been covered in mud and gore, and then eventually without even that excuse, simply because he wanted to or their clothes got mixed up. Knowing how long he took in the shower, what he looked like when he came out of it wrapped in nothing but a towel, how messy and wild his hair was in the morning upon waking up, being able to thoughtlessly know when he was stressed out without looking at him, just from hearing the tapping, fast-paced sound of him bouncing his leg. The intoxicating but now familiar combination of both their scents now that they shared pretty much everything, including their living space, barely being able to tell where one of them started and where the other ended.

He no longer had the urge to drown his face in Butcher’s clothes anytime they shared them, simply because Butcher’s smell was everywhere now, tightly entangled with his own. Plus, borrowing each other’s clothes was hardly uncommon for them anymore. Some were obviously Hughie’s or Butcher’s, but some were generic enough that he truthfully had no idea who they’d belonged to in the first place, before they started wearing each other’s stuff so much it became hard to recall who bought what.

The silent communications—first of all of course the actual codes they’d developed, to let the other know they were worried Soldier Boy might blow up without alerting the veteran, to signify they needed to speak alone, away from him, to let the other know they were in danger if they were ever forced to make a phone call at gunpoint—most of these were because Butcher was paranoid, but Hughie was startled to find that he himself had developed his own little brand of paranoia over the past months, and that he wasn’t really that much better than Butcher when it came down to it.

But even outside of the codes, there were the knowing glances and what Hughie wanted to call inside jokes, the references and little amused grins they shared that would make the other crack up without a word. It became so startlingly easy to be around Butcher, when the man was, all around, a real fucking piece of work and generally insufferable to talk to for more than a few seconds—but now Hughie felt much more comfortable and safe by his side hearing him ramble on and dwell on long, swearing-heavy speeches about whatever random topic he’d decided to be angry about today, than he remembered having felt with pretty much anyone that wasn’t Robin, his dad or Annie.

Hughie sometimes wondered if he’d managed to make Butcher less insufferable somehow, or if he’d himself been made to become just as insufferable as Butcher. There had to be some sort of explanation to rationalize how the fuck he could not only stand but wholeheartedly enjoy spending every hour of his day for weeks on end with Billy Butcher of all people. Given how everybody else—whether it be Soldier Boy, cashiers and waiters, random people in shops and diners—looked at them both like they were in equal parts scared of them and begging them to please shut the fuck up and spare everyone their insane nonsensical conversations, Hughie was inclined to believe he’d been dragged down with Butcher into his general tendency to not say a single thing normally or rationally even when his life depended on it. Not that Hughie’d ever been any better before, but he’d at least been able to rely on the fact that Butcher was so off the rails insane that no matter what truly concerning behavior he’d exhibit, he’d still seem like the normal one in comparison. It appeared at some point he’d lost that advantage.

The fact that the only other person he saw daily was Soldier Boy, who spent his time either high off his mind or rambling about random shit from the eighties, oftentimes both, couldn’t help Hughie keep some remnant of normalcy either. Being only surrounded by a century old stoner and a—well, Butcher—was taking its toll on him and he found the memory of living a normal life going to the Bureau daily and making himself smoothies every morning increasingly surreal. Not unpleasant by any stretch of imagination, simply less tangible every day that went by, like a sweet but ultimately ridiculous dream he’d had as a kid during a summer nap. Like remembering somebody else’s life instead of his own.

He found himself thinking about that year more and more, and it was like everything that should’ve made him angry but that he’d either ignored or not known about was catching up to him. The moments with Annie, or even Kimiko and Frenchie, couldn’t quite be tainted, remaining pleasant and warm, but the memory of his days at the office, his job at the FBSA, all his talks with Vicky and Ivy and Pat—it made his fucking blood boil just thinking about it. About how it’d all been a lie, how he’d been working for fucking Vought all along, playing his part like the good little cog in the massive machine that was the very corporation he’d been wanting to tear down, the very corporation that had gotten Robin killed and fuck—he had to stop thinking about it, he knew that, but he couldn’t. Sometimes he felt like he couldn’t breathe with how angry he was, and he was pretty sure if he’d been home there would’ve been another episode of him trashing his room like after Translucent. He’d been wanting to tell someone—which these days only meant Butcher—about it, but had no idea how to breach the subject.

 “How do you deal with it?” he finally breathed out bluntly one day, while they were on their semi-daily trip at the grocery store.

Butcher barely glanced back at him. “So we’re just saying shit now or am I s’pposed to know what the flying fuck you mean by that?”

“Sorry,” he scoffed. “I mean the—the anger. The—I know you know. About me. About how—” he just moved his arms around a bit, hoping that’d be enough to drive his point across somehow.

He was pretty sure Butcher knew just how much he’d enjoyed the high he’d gotten from killing Translucent, whether because MM told him about it or because he could see it in his eyes when he found him standing there covered in blood, and he most definitely knew about him punching that wall back when they were holding the supe hostage. It wasn’t too hard to figure out—there were fist-sized red spots on the wall upstairs and his knuckles were bloody and bruised, and he’d seen Butcher’s knowing look lingering on them when he handed him the detonator before he ran off to distract Homelander. Then there was the literal everything with the Temp V, all the times Hughie had yelled at Butcher and those attempts at punching him, Hughie’s little speech back in Russia—the list went on far too long. Hughie’d be surprised if literally anyone he knew was still unaware of his anger issues at this point.

Butcher just sighed and shook his head, grabbing a pack of the brand of beer they both knew Soldier Boy would throw a fit if the gas station they picked was out of.

“My methods ain’t no good, kid. It’s mostly just punching or yelling at whoever’s around.”

“Yeah, okay, could’ve figured that one out myself,” he sighed. Hughie fidgeted with the hem of his jacket, remembering how it had once been bright green. It looked like it’d been dropped into a particularly shit-filled swamp now, between all the blood and gore it had endured, and it wouldn’t fucking wash off anymore. One could barely tell what color it was supposed to be at all. 

“It’s just—” he stopped, uncertain, but Butcher let out a non-committal, although vaguely encouraging hum, and that was enough to spurt him on. “It’s just that’s it’s always there. I’m so angry, all the time. It calmed down over the past year, being around Annie—” he could almost hear Butcher annoyance, and he rolled his eyes. He’d have to have a talk with the man about Annie someday. He thought they’d made progress back at Sage Grove, but clearly progress wasn’t quite enough to make Butcher let go of the grudge he still held against her. Seriously, the supe thing was old news. Why the fuck Butcher couldn’t let it go in this case, when he’d worked, albeit reluctantly, with supes before, was beyond him.

“It was just easier, this past year. It wasn’t gone, especially when I had to go to Vought Tower or on a red carpet and fucking A-train was just there all the fucking time—” Butcher snorted, shaking his head and inspecting a pack of apples for bruising.

“If you ask me, you’re dealing with it all pretty damn well,” he scoffed. “I mean if it’d been me on that bloody Vought red carpet bullshit event and Homelander was around—”

“You’d have been trying to strangle the living shit out of him in front of God and everybody the second you saw him, I know,” sighed Hughie. “You realize ‘not jumping at someone’s throat on sight in front of a literal crowd of journalists and all of America’ shouldn’t be an achievement, right?”

“It is for people like us,” Butcher shrugged. Hughie wasn’t sure if he was proud or horrified at being put in the same category as Butcher so blatantly. He imagined what the Butcher who’d come recruit him at his job and then dropped him off at the store, who looked at him like he was just some idiot kid he pitied but barely saw as anything more than vaguely useful through consequences, would say if he saw them today—the stupid kid following Butcher when everyone else left him, more loyal and devoted than anyone surely had ever been to him, someone he’d given up a shot at finding Becca for and that he was now grouping with himself so easily, as if they truly were the only two who could understand the other’s specific brand of insanity.

At some point during that train of thought the horror he’d felt had withered away to nothing, and there was only that abject, swelling pride left, making his chest feel tight and warm. He forced himself to shake his head and move on, because if just that comment for Butcher was enough to distract him from the little speech he’d been cooking up for days now, he was even more deeply fucked than he’d thought.

“Anyway, my point is,” he sighed, “that it was mostly gone this year. But now I’m just so fucking pissed, at Vought, at everybody, but especially at myself.” Butcher shot him a surprisingly serious, pensive look, which Hughie interpreted as him not understanding what he meant, and so he rushed to explain himself. “Just, after Neuman, and the Bureau, and everything—finding out I’d been working for fucking Vought the entire time—”

“You done fuck up pretty royally there, didn’t ya, abandoning us all to run off and suck Vought’s dick all year—” scoffed Butcher.

“Oh, fuck you, I didn’t fuck up shit and you know it,” Hughie snapped back. Butcher raised an eyebrow—he was still looking at him from the corner of his eye with something pensive and alert in his eyes, but that comment pissed Hughie off enough that he didn’t dwell on it for too long, and just kept going. “For fuck’s sake, you gotta let go of that already. I didn’t abandon you, or whatever you convinced yourself I did, I was just trying to be happy. I finally wasn’t on the America’s most wanted list, I had Annie, my dad was safe, I thought there was a way to bag supes without ending up covered in blood every five minutes, I just wanted to build myself a fucking life. I didn’t fuck up, you were just pissed because I wasn’t there to follow you around like a fucking lovesick puppy anymore.”

He held his breath there. Fuck. Okay, he really didn’t need to add the lovesick part. That might’ve been a little unnecessary. Shit.

Butcher turned around to face him fully and just raised an eyebrow again, slowly. “You mean like you’re doing right now?”

“Fuck you,” Hughie spat out again, face red and hot now. “Fuck off. That’s not—” he shut his mouth when he noticed Butcher’s amusement. The man huffed a laugh and turned back to pick a couple oranges from the aisle, throwing them in the cart without bothering to put them in a plastic bag, like some sort of heathen. Why the fuck did he even take the time to check for bruises then, Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker.

“Listen, I can’t get rid of your anger issues for ya, but I can help making you less angry at one of those things you listed there,” he said, walking towards the next aisle and grabbing a box of cereal.

“Huh? How?” said Hughie, following him mindlessly as he tossed the box into the cart, checked their list and concluded with a hum that they had everything they needed.

“You said it yourself, lad,” he said, walking towards the register.

Hughie hurried off after him. “What?”

“You didn’t fuck up shit, or abandon us, or whatever, you was just trying to be happy. You didn’t know the cunt worked for Vought—couldn’t know, either. So just stop being pissed at yourself already, and wallowing on shit you couldn’t know about, it’s not helping anyone, least of all you, yeah?”

Hughie stood there, frozen, as Butcher said hi to the cashier by grunting in his general direction and opened their grocery bag.

He’d been both so pissed at himself for not seeing that Neuman was a supe and his life that year had been a scam, and yet also so mad at Butcher for not letting go of his stupid grudge against him for leaving, but he’d never really put two and two together and realized it was downright nonsensical to be pissed at Butcher for doing something he was doing himself.

“Step one of not imploding from unfiltered rage,” Butcher kept going, starting to set their groceries down in front of the cashier who looked just startled enough to frown at his words but just underpriced enough to shrug it off. “Try to focus all that anger you have on yourself on more constructive shit instead. Like Vought. Or Homelander.”

“So, don’t be mad at yourself, be mad at everything else?”

“Precisely,” he nodded, putting down a pack of gum on top of a can of soup. “Now you’re getting it.”

“So that’s why you’re such a fucking asshole all the time,” he hummed, walking towards him to help put the groceries in the bag, and Butcher barked out a laugh.

“Guess so.”

“That explains so much.”

“Why don’t you shut it and get the car keys.”

Hughie grinned, and did as he was told.

He pondered what Butcher had said the entire ride back to the motel, too lost in his own thoughts to notice that the other man wasn’t rambling or even humming along to some song he’d picked off the radio—they rode in complete silence, which if he’d been more alert would’ve let him know Butcher was just as lost in thought as he was.

As they unloaded the grocery bags, Butcher spoke again, startling Hughie.

“You was right back there,” he said, closing the trunk, not looking at Hughie. “I wasn’t mad at you for trying to build yourself a life. I was mad at you because you didn’t seem to want me in it.”

He then walked off towards the motel, grocery bags in hand and his step a little faster than usual as if he’d just accidentally been a little too emotionally vulnerable and was trying to nope his way out of having to talk about it, leaving Hughie to stand there, stunned, trying to find a reaction to those words that wouldn’t make him seem like he’d just lost his goddamn mind in a motel parking lot. However the fuck he was supposed to react to that, he had no fucking clue, so he settled for baffled silence.

“You coming or what?” barked out Butcher, clearly having reached his limit of vulnerability for the day.

Hughie just gaped at him for a second longer, then rushed after him.

Butcher avoided talking about what happened by knocking at Soldier Boy’s door and talking for a while about where Mindstorm could be or how to find Noir after they’d discovered he’d left Vought Tower, and Hughie got bored enough with their shit that he went back to their room to read through the files they’d compiled that could perhaps clue them in to Noir’s hideouts. It seemed to be a dead end—Hughie didn’t know Noir that well but he was pretty sure that if the man wanted to remain hidden, they wouldn’t be able to find him no matter how much research they did—but if he didn’t busy his mind with something else he’d go insane.

Butcher came back an hour later with a bag of takeout, and they sat down on the couch to eat. Eventually Hughie couldn’t stand it anymore and dropped his fork, turning to face Butcher, probably looking as pissed as he felt.

“I did want you in it, you fucking moron,” said Hughie.

Butcher huffed out a laugh, but Hughie wasn’t amused in the slightest. He shook his head, brows furrowed and pointing at Butcher accusingly.

“No, you don’t get to sulk around and hold a grudge for an entire year and then get mad because I didn’t invite you to dinner,” he said angrily. “which I did, by the way. Several times. You just didn’t show, that’s why I stopped asking.”

Butcher at least had the decency to look—okay, maybe not quite guilty, but vaguely uncomfortable. He set down his plate.

“Figured you didn’t want me around to mess up your perfect little apple pie life with Tinkerbell,” he mumbled.

“Holy fuck, is this about Annie again?” exclaimed Hughie, throwing his arms up, thoroughly exasperated.

“No,” said Butcher, not even bothering trying to sound even remotely convincing.

“For shit’s sake—Butcher!”

“What!” he snapped back, looking somehow both indignant and defensive.

“Are you seriously telling me you were pissed at me for a year for ignoring you for ignoring me because you were pissed about me living with a supe?”

“I didn’t listen to any of that,” said Butcher. “But if I did, I’d tell you that made absolutely no fucking sense.”

“Fucking shit, yes it did—answer the fucking question!”

“Listen, it’s not my fucking fault you seemed so much happier with your perfect little girlfriend than you did around me, now is it!”

He seemed to realize how he’d fucked up at the same time as Hughie did.

“Wait,” said Hughie, and Butcher hurried to interrupt him, trying to rectify his slip-up as best as he could; “I mean, you just had to pick Startits from the fucking Seven—”

“This isn’t even about Annie being a supe, is it,” he said, realization dawning on him slowly.

“What?” scoffed Butcher. “’Course it is.” Either he was panicked enough to become bad at lying or Hughie had at some unknown point become an expert at being able to spot his tells, because he saw right through him.

“It isn’t. Holy fuck.”

“What else would it fucking be about, huh? Did you miss the I-hate-supes memo? Should I blow up a couple of ‘em in front of you to remind ya?”

“I mean, I’m sure you’re not exactly thrilled that she’s a supe, sure, but you would’ve still been acting all puffy and annoying if she’d been some random human girl, wouldn’t you,” said Hughie, making Butcher bark out a laugh.

“That’s horseshit and you know it.”

“You’re jealous,” he said, looking at Butcher in baffled—and growingly thrilled at the discovery—shock. “You’re jealous. Because I had a girlfriend. You wanted—” Hughie could see the moment he crossed the line, and Butcher’s eyes went from panicked at having been caught red-handed to his go-to defence mechanism—being as mean and cruel as possible and hoping that’d scare off and deter anyone from trying to tear through his walls. He’d seen the moment of the switch before, with Ryan, he’d seen it with Frenchie and MM—and of course he’d seen it first-hand many times. He still remembered the moment Butcher’s soft look back at Judy had become calculating and cold, finding his weakest spots and latching unto them to hurt him as much as possible without having to use his fists, still heard the way he’d called him pathetic.

“Listen, mate, I think you might want to rethink your own importance,” he said now, voice sharp, hard, just like it’d been back then. “I don’t give enough of a fuck about you or your pitiful little life to bother thinking about you and that freak you call your bird when I could be doing other shit.”

Butcher hadn’t just called him pathetic back at Judy’s. He’d said something else, that had stuck with Hughie for a while. I ain’t interested.

Butcher scoffed, shook his head. “Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t show up to you bloody dinner parties because I didn’t want to be around you or your sad little excuse of a life?”

Hughie had refused to leave him alone at Judy’s even after those harsh words because the part about him being pathetic, the part about him clinging to people too much, the part about him being scared shitless of being alone—all that, he could believe Butcher thought it. He could believe it to be true. But that last sentence—I ain’t interested—that, that was a fucking lie. Butcher wasn’t as slick as he thought and Hughie wasn’t as oblivious as he’d expected—in some way or another, Butcher was most definitely interested. That was proof that Butcher was lying through his fucking teeth and trying to get at what he thought—knew—would hurt Hughie the most.

“That did occur to me, yeah,” he said, and he could see the hurt in Butcher’s eyes, which was really fucking funny and hypocritical after all the shit he’d just pulled.

“Well then, I think you might want to think it over a little more,” he still said.

“Uh-uh. Sure. Wanna know what I think?” Butcher didn’t seem too convinced about what his answer should be, but Hughie didn’t let him ponder it too much and just kept going, trying to instil as much bite into his words as he could so he’d at least give Butcher a taste of his own medicine. “I think you saw me leaving the Boys and getting back with Annie as me leaving you for her, and you were so goddamn jealous about it you decided to give me the cold shoulder for months.”

“That’s—”

“I think you’re a fucking idiot and you were so pissed at me that you spent the entire year missing me, when you could’ve had me, if you’d just gotten your head out of your ass long enough to do something about it.” He paused to take a breath, and this time Butcher didn’t try to interrupt, looking back at him silently, clearly trying to keep his face blank. Hughie looked him dead in the eyes and lent the final blow.

“I think you missed me so much, and you were so fucking scared I’d run off with Annie again, that you kept giving me Temp V after Russia because you hoped it’d make me want to stay with you.”

That startled Butcher enough to snap him out of his stern expression, his eyes growing wide in shock and guilt. If Hughie hadn’t already known that to be true he even said the words, he’d have had his confirmation right then and there. He took a deep breath, feeling somehow both triumphant and worn out, and sat back down with a sigh. “How did I do?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.

Butcher kept quiet for a bit, but when he spoke he voice sounded a little off, tight, almost as if he was trying not to let it break.

“When the fuck did you get so bloody wise, ay?”

Hughie huffed out a laugh and grinned at him, which startled Butcher almost as much as his little speech had, clearly having expected him to still be mad.

“I don’t know about wise, man—I just have a degree in figuring out what the fuck you’re thinking at all times, because you won’t just fucking say it. You’re like a really annoying, angry British puzzle sometimes.” Tentatively, both surprised and relieved at seeing that Hughie wasn’t pissed, Butcher straightened back up and shook his head with a chuckle.

“You’re not that much better, you know.”

Hughie frowned. “Bullshit. I’m an open book.”

Butcher barked out a laugh. “You’d think so, right? I mean, I’ll think I’ve got you all figured out, and then you’ll go ahead and say shit like that out of fucking nowhere. Had no clue there was all that shit brewing in that coconut of yours.”

“Stop underestimating me, then,” he suggested, amused. It was funny how people seemed to either overestimate or underestimate him drastically, sometimes both at the same time. Why in hell all of the Boys had acted so baffled at him taking Temp V, for example, was beyond him—they all acted like Hughie was this saint who could do no wrong sometimes, while Hughie was well aware of the astronomical levels of fuckup he reached on a daily basis. They also seemed to think that Hughie had no idea what he was doing, that he was somehow oblivious to Temp V being dangerous and wrong, that he was doing this all out of naiveté. Truth was, Hughie had known from day one how fucked up taking Temp V was, and had pretty accurately predicted the effects it’d have on him if he let himself get addicted. He wasn’t oblivious, he just didn’t give a fuck anymore.

Butcher had been watching him silently, both lost in thought, but he looked away before he spoke as if he didn’t want to have to face him.

“That wasn’t all there was to it,” Butcher said, breaking the silence and sounding almost like he was trying to plead his case. “The Temp V, I mean—t’wasn’t about—well, it wasn’t just about keeping you with me. You said that thing, when you were tryna convince me to give it to you—”

“I know,” he interrupted, immediately knowing what Butcher was referring to.

“You said without it, you’d probably get yourself killed, and I—”

“Butcher, I know.” He remembered what he’d said all too vividly—without it, I’m probably dead. He still felt guilty about that. Hughie wasn’t particularly confident in his own abilities, but he’d been pretty good at keeping himself alive up until now, mostly through sheer luck and coincidence, sure, but still. What they were doing now wasn’t that much more dangerous than what their previous missions used to be. There was no reason for him to be in worse danger than he’d been before.

He’d only said that because his arguments hadn’t seemed to be convincing Butcher, and Hughie’d known if there was one card he could use to persuade him, it would be his own safety. Butcher might be an asshole to him most of the time, and Hughie might’ve not quite grasped as well as he did now how much he cared about him, but he’d known even then that he wanted to keep him safe. Telling him the best way to do that was to give him Temp V had been a low, manipulative move, and Hughie knew it. He’d known it then, too, he just hadn’t cared. The green vials had been right there, and the craving for both the high and the power was heady enough that it came before Butcher or guilt at that moment.

“I’m still sorry,” said Butcher.

“What for?” said Hughie, then felt the need to clarify that his confusion wasn’t about Butcher being sorry in general—the man had more than enough reasons to be—“I mean, like, for which part?”

“It wasn’t all there was to it, but you were right about the V,” he said. He sounded guiltier admitting that than he had sounded about pretty much anything ever, including the numerous murders and atrocities he’d committed, so this was clearly a pretty big deal for him.

“Yeah, I know.” Once again, Hughie wasn’t exactly exempt of guilt. He’d known what sick connections Butcher would make in that twisted, self-hating little brain of his. He knew he’d see Hughie’s addiction as a way to keep him by his side. He’d been counting on it, if he was being honest—hoped Butcher would see it like that so he’d keep giving it to him.

He’d ended up shooting his own foot in the process, though, because the rush he felt every time Butcher handed him the familiar vial wasn’t just relief and want—there was such a deep gratefulness there that he was pretty sure he’d somehow managed to Pavlov himself into craving Butcher’s presence by his side just as much as he craved the V—he’d associated the two at some point, and couldn’t even muster up the strength to be pissed or freaked out about it. He’d been addicted to Butcher long before he’d pressed the needle into his arm, and he’d known it for a while—though the Temp V hadn’t exactly made it better.

“You know I don’t need that shit to still want to stay with you, right,” he said. “I’d still stay if you didn’t have it.”

“Yeah, I know,” lied Butcher, as Hughie could see him take that in and, subtly, almost unnoticeably, release a breath of relief. Fucking moron. However the fuck he could still believe Hughie didn’t like being around him after all they’d been through together was beyond him.

They finished their food in an almost comfortable silence, Hughie not wanting to risk speaking up as he could see Butcher was lost deep in thought. Keeping quiet ended up being the right call because, after a good fifteen minutes, Butcher mumbled into his now empty plate, almost too low for Hughie to hear him.

“Sorry ‘bout what I said, too.” Fuck, this was probably a record for him when it came to apologies.

Hughie scoffed and smiled up at him. “You didn’t mean any of it. You were just trying to upset me. And failed, too.” Butcher shrugged.

“Still a shitty thing to say.”

“Yeah, well. That’s your favorite kind of thing to say.” Butcher shook his head, but he was almost smiling too, and Hughie found he couldn’t look away from him. Manic, feral grins, often baring bloody teeth, weren’t hard to get from Butcher—neither were those insufferable smirks that would make even the most patient of men feel the urge to strangle him—but genuine vulnerable smiles were much rarer, and Hughie could never quite get himself to stop staring whenever he caught one.

“I missed you, too, you know,” he said after a beat, feeling like he’d been obvious enough that surely Butcher had to know this already, but also knowing the levels of self-deprecation that brain could reach were astronomical enough to make him bafflingly stupid at times, especially for someone who was generally so smart. “All year.”

Butcher didn’t look at him, and didn’t say anything either, but Hughie didn’t try to get his attention—he knew if Butcher was trying not to face him, it was because he was scared he’d see too much vulnerability on his face, and if he didn’t want to speak it was because he didn’t want Hughie to hear his voice break. Hughie stared at him a bit longer, then huffed out a laugh.

“God, I still can’t believe you were jealous of Annie.”

“Oh, fuck off.” He rolled his eyes, but his smile was back, and once again Hughie couldn’t tear his eyes away from it.

Chapter Text

This Mindstorm bullshit was really starting to get on his fucking nerves. In-between looking for him, going through the list of cabins Soldier Boy had oh so helpfully provided—seriously, the old fuck was so fucking useless in their researches it was starting to get ridiculous—they’d still do their job, either looking for or, more often, accidentally finding signs that some local douche supe was abusing his authority. Hughie was still at that stage in which he was more excited about getting to actually do things, practically vibrating with the mix of adrenaline and excitement, but Butcher was getting increasingly annoyed by it all. The escapades to face supes were getting less and less fun, the violence not quite satiating his hunger for revenge. He wanted Homelander’s head and he wanted it now. 

They drove back from another useless mission late enough—or, well early enough, whatever—that it was almost dawn, the dark sky slowly becoming paler until it was more blue than black, a distant glow peeking from behind a few trees on their right. Hughie was looking at it while thoughtlessly tapping the headboard, seemingly not even aware that he was fidgeting. 

“You need to bandage that,” said Butcher, looking at Hughie’s leg where a growing red spot was starting to stain his jeans, a wound he’d gotten a week or so ago that he’d reopened when he fell while scouting the cabin. Hughie looked down, unimpressed, like he’d almost forgotten it was there.

“‘s fine. We’re taking V when we find Mindstorm, right? It’ll heal then.” 

That made sense, sure. He’d be fine. He didn’t even seem that pained by it. “I’ll patch it up for ya when we get back,” said Butcher anyway. Fuck. “We should eat something, I’m fucking starving,” he added quickly before Hughie could think of doing something ridiculous like arguing or even thanking him. 

“Did we have dinner yesterday?” asked Hughie with a frown. “Can’t remember.”

Butcher squinted at the road a bit. He wasn’t really sure. They’d had lunch, that he could recall. 

“There’s leftovers at h—the motel,” said Hughie, and Butcher didn’t mention the slip-up.

“Not enough for two though.” 

“That’s fine, you can have them. I’m not gonna eat any.”

“You not hungry?”

“Nah,” said Hughie, still looking outside. Butcher tried to keep his eyes on the road, but he couldn’t help slipping a few glances his way. He was still fidgeting pensively, eyes lost outside in the trees and the slowly rising sun. 

Even before the Temp V, Hughie still had that tendency to discard his own health in favour of the job they had to do. Food and sleep seemed to be forgotten whenever he reached that state of either angry, frantic focus, or quiet and distant disassociation; Butcher could still recall the week between Hughie killing Translucent and him seeing Starlight again at the race, then months later the time between him coming back to the group and that little trip he, Annie and MM went on to get evidence against Stormfront. He resented a bit, secretly, hypocritically, that both times the one able to snap him out of it had been Starlight. Butcher himself had only pushed Hughie even further into that state, drilling in the idea that the job was the priority—sure, he hadn’t exactly realised Hughie would interpret it as the job coming before his own health, but then again, he would’ve seen it if he’d bothered to pay more attention—and even if he had noticed, would he really have done shit about it? 

Well, that was then, and this was now. “Wrong turn,” said Hughie with a frown. 

“We’re swinging by the shop. You need to eat too, lad. Gotta take care of yourself.”

He expected some sort of pushback, maybe even some full-blown whining, but Hughie just stared at him—looking away from the sky outside for the first time since they’d gotten in the car—and then just brought his feet up on his seat to rest his chin on his knees. He seemed smaller that way, curled up on himself. “Okay,” he said. That didn’t make Butcher feel better—if anything it was worse, knowing he was that easy to convince, knowing he could’ve been making sure he was eating and sleeping enough since day one with almost no effort, and just didn’t. 

Hughie still looked at him for a beat longer, and it’s only when he opened his mouth to talk, a new sharpness in his eyes, that Butcher realised he’d just unwillingly opened up the topic of taking care of oneself and mental health and all that hippy trash, which was something Hughie was never one to ignore.

“You know, about that—since we talked, I’ve been thinking.”

“You do that sometimes.”

“Shush. I was wondering—” he paused, a bit hesitant, but then seemed to want an answer enough to ask anyway. “What did you even do the entire year?” There it was. 

“Ah, everyday was a goddamned party,” he said brightly. “Had the time of my life. Spent so much time toes in the sand I ended up with half a beach up my arse.”

Hughie made a face. “Gross. No, seriously, what were you even up to? Everytime I saw you you were sulking around at the office.”

“I wasn’t sulking.”

“Pouting then,” teased Hughie, and Butcher glared at him, but didn’t answer. Hughie rolled his eyes. “Butcher,” he said, poking at his arm lightly. “Come on. I’m tryna have a moment here.” 

“What d’you want me to say, huh? I had a shit year, yeah. What of it?” 

“It didn't have to be shitty,” he said earnestly. He was so goddamn earnest sometimes it made Butcher ache. “That’s the point I’m trying to make here. I mean, I get wanting to be alone after something like that, but talking about it—”

“I didn’t wanna fucking talk about it,” he hissed. “What, think a shrink telling I should meditate and light bloody—scented candles or whatever the fuck—d’you really think that would’ve helped?”

“That’s not what therapy—whatever. Okay, for the record, I wouldn’t ask you to go to therapy, because I’d be scared for the therapist.”

“Nonsense,” he grumbled. “’M a fucking delight.”

“Right. Don’t think I forgot you threatening that support group that one time.”

Butcher tried not to grin at the memory. Hughie just rolled his eyes, then looked at him seriously, with that set expression and decisive little frown which generally meant he was trying to let him know this was important shit, Butcher, dammit. It was kinda cute. 

“I didn’t mean a therapist, anyway. I meant—you could’ve called me,” he said.

Becca would nag him about this shit constantly. He was much more open back then—the walls Hughie was hacking at now not nearly as strong or tall—but it still happened that he’d get all quiet and brooding, and she’d insist he talk. She’d leave him be back when she didn’t know him that well, thinking he just needed space, but as time went by she’d learned leaving him alone just meant he’s spiral deeper and deeper into his self-deprecating, hateful thoughts, and so she’d grown to know how to alt them before he went too far. 

Hughie had started learning that, too. Surely he’d seen that Butcher opening up to him about Becca after only a few weeks of knowing him meant he was more likely to get him to talk. He must’ve known that him spending a year cooking in his own anger and grief without talking to anyone, going back to how he’d acted before he met Hughie, couldn’t possibly have done him any good. 

It wasn’t like Hughie hadn’t tried to get him to open up back then. Butcher in equal parts liked and hated when he did that—it was good to know he could talk to him, sure, but he sounded so much like Becca when he gave him his little speeches about sharing his feelings or whatever the fuck—and most of the time, he didn’t like thinking about Becca when he looked at Hughie. It was too easy for the images to blend together until Hughie was the one bleeding out, throat ripped open and eyes going glassy, body suddenly limp in his arms and soon to turn cold. 

“Talking to you? What good would that have done?” said Butcher. “You would’ve probably told me some shit about—dunno. Getting over it. Moving on.” Hughie was still staring at him with that same frown, and although Butcher did try to look at the road he could feel the intensity of the death stare on him. 

“What’s so wrong about that?” Butcher scoffed. 

“It’s not—losing her, it wasn’t…” And there he was, right back to Becca. Fuck’s sake. “You just wouldn’t get it,” he said.

“Oh really?” Hughie snapped back, eyes going a little dark, finding the weak spot in his argument and latching unto it like a dog biting down and refusing to let go. “Really, I wouldn’t? I’m sorry, did you miss the entire Robin thing, or did you just conveniently forget about it between two rows of using her to manipulate me?” 

Butcher tried really hard not to wince at that, but Hughie still saw it, and shook his head with a disbelieving scoff. “You did forget, didn’t you? Well, lucky you, I wish I fucking could.”

“I didn’t forget. ‘S just—it’s not the same.”

“How would you know?” 

He wanted to say something about how Becca was his wife, his everything, and it couldn’t possibly have been the same with him and Robin—but, fuck, he really didn’t know, did he? Never bothered to find out anything at all about Robin beyond the fact that she was useful and saying her name clouded Hughie’s judgment behind a thick fog of anger and grief, long enough for him to forget what he was confronting Butcher about. Butcher couldn’t even remember the girl’s last name, although he knew he must’ve read it in one of the headlines and reports he skimmed over so he’d get a vague idea of who this Campbell kid who had the balls and idiocy to turn down a fat Vought paycheck was. 

He wanted to say Hughie was too young and wouldn’t know fuck about true love but shit, once again, if Butcher had lost Becca when they were younger and only knew each other for a couple years he’d still have been fucking shattered. His age and experience wouldn’t have mattered.  

It occurred to him that the lad never really talked to him about her, even when she’d only just been gone for a couple weeks or so. He remembered the way he’d go to pubs nine years ago and get pissed until he either beat up someone and got thrown out, or sat there rambling on about Becca to the bartender whose job was to nod along and pour some more booze into his glass whenever he took the time to tap the brink, in between two stories about how great she was. 

He also remembered getting kicked out of half the places he walked into for the first couple weeks or so after talking to Mallory for the first time, whether it be diners, grocery stores or gas stations, because everywhere he fucking looked there’d be Homelander’s fucking face staring at him from a TV, a magazine, a poster—he remembered with a mix of anger and amusement pulling out his lighter in the middle of a shop’s aisle to burn a cereal box with that grinning blonde stupid face on it once. 

Now that he knew a lot more about him, all things considered, Hughie’d handled the whole thing surprisingly well—still, he could’ve handled it better if Butcher had mentioned Robin in occasions other than using her to manipulate him.   

Not that he needed her for that anymore. The lad was almost too easy to manipulate, sometimes—he’d light up like a fucking Christmas tree at the smallest spec of praise from him, leaned into his every touch, followed him around like a lost puppy starved for validation. Yet he’d also be the only one to yell at him about the stuff he disagreed on. When he looked at it like that, it was almost ridiculous that of all people it was Hughie who still stood by him—when he used to be the only one raging at his antics and cursing him and even bringing up fucking Becca sometimes—the kid really had no idea how easy he had it. If anyone else even thought of using her name against him he’d have bashed their heads in until what he did to Mesmer looked gentle in comparison. The fucker got away with it and Butcher didn’t even fucking bring it up afterwards, goddamned saint he was. 

That tolerance had had consequences though, and nowadays Hughie wouldn’t take any of the shit Butcher threw at him anymore. He knew exactly why Butcher was being the way he was, every single time. If he meant it, if he wanted Hughie to fuck off and leave him the fuck alone, or if the intent was simply to hurt. Those ones were the most fun, although he did his best not to let them happen too often, purely because he didn’t even really want to hurt Hughie into backing off anymore. But the rare times he couldn’t help it and snapped, it was always kind of fascinating to see the way Hughie didn’t flinch, didn’t look hurt or pained or whatever—he switched to a hard, kind of amused expression and gave back every harsh word twice over. He knew exactly why Butcher was doing it and he wasn’t about to let him have his way. If the intent was to hurt, then he’d just be amused by it and spit back his bitter truths into Butcher’s face and fuck if it was oddly satisfying to see the spark light up and catch behind those eyes. 

All of it made it oddly thrilling to be around Hughie, as it had been from day one. He never knew if he’d follow him further than anyone else would, cave at one touch or compliment, or tear him a new one at every turn and dig his heels with a stubbornness that could rival his own. It was exciting to see what he’d get that day.

Today, he’d hit what he’d quietly come to see as an absolute jackpot—Hughie biting back. He tore his eyes away from the road long away to look at the lad, who was now looking out of the window angrily, face all set and frowny, and fuck, this was one of those times he wasn’t gonna let it go until Butcher actually did something, wasn’t it? 

“Alright,” he said, gruffly, looking away. “I’m—fine, you’re right.”

“What was that?” said Hughie, immediately lighting up at the rarity of those words. “Hold up.” He pulled out his phone and pointed it at Butcher’s face, and the only reason he didn’t snatch it out of his hands was that he was driving. “Go ahead, say it again.”

“’M not saying it again, jeez.”

“But I want proof!” he whined. “That was a historical moment, they should make, like, a memorial, or—or a statue—”

Fuck driving safely, Butcher snatched the phone out of Hughie hands and dangled it out of the open window until Hughie threatened to fill his boots with mayonnaise, which was weird enough of a threat to stun Butcher for the time it took Hughie to get his phone back, climbing halfway on top of him yet miraculously not sending them barrelling into a nearby ravine. 

Hughie sat back down, all proud of himself, and would’ve probably kept on being insufferable and bragging about Butcher telling him he was right—this was the shit he got when he tried to be nice, jesus fuck—when a new song started. 

“Came out Virginia, don’t let them wait…”

Hughie squirmed happily like a worm on a hook when he heard it, as though he wasn’t the one making the playlists in the first place, and upped the sound to a truly alarming volume which would end up with them either arrested or deaf, but Butcher didn’t say anything, because he was the kindest fucking soul on Earth, thank you very much, and also because Hughie looked really fucking adorable with that big stupid smile on his face, singing along while nodding to the beat. And also because Hughie had said two days ago that Butcher was incapable of shutting the fuck up and letting him listen to music, which apparently was “such an old man thing, oh my God,” and he really wanted to prove him wrong. 

“Only the good die young,” Hughie sang, and Butcher sighed, feigning relief.

“Oh thank God.” 

Hughie just snickered. 

Hughie didn’t stop picking the songs, and when he got no objection for it he took it as an occasion to introduce Butcher to Billy Joel, because apparently he only had a very vague idea of who he was or what his songs sounded like. He’d made Butcher listen to more Billy Joel over the past weeks than the man had probably heard in his entire life. He’d eventually stopped bitching about it and making dumb comments and actually listened, and the first time Hughie heard him sing along—even though it was low and patchy, and he absolutely butchered—ha—the lyrics the entire time—he felt like punching the air in triumph. While his own favorites were still Pressure and You’re Only Human, and he knew Annie liked We Didn’t Start the Fire and Uptown Girl better, he wasn’t particularly surprised to see that the one Butcher would hum the most was Only the Good Die Young.

They drove a lot these days as they went from motel to motel, which meant a lot of time to listen to music, the songs becoming part of their little routine. Eventually Butcher mentioned settling at the Legend’s for a bit, now that it’d cooled down and MM, Annie and Vought were probably not that likely to look for them, and they barged into the man’s place with the subtlety of a tank, to his great annoyance—it was hard to be subtle when two of them were Soldier Boy and Butcher, although Hughie did try to do his best to ask politely if they could stay. The Legend saying yes was probably more due to Butcher’s murderous warning glare, but oh well, at least he’d tried. It was a relief to go out just the two of them without having to worry about Soldier Boy, especially now that the public knew about him, which made going anywhere with him tricky. Hughie was more than enthusiastic about Annie quitting her job and finally getting the fuck away from Vought Tower and Homelander—but he had to admit he would’ve preferred it if she hadn’t mentioned Soldier Boy in her speech. It made their job a lot harder.

After their talk in the car, it had hit him that Butcher probably wanted to talk about Becca all the time, but stopped himself, just like Hughie usually did—bringing up your dead girlfriend every other sentence tended to be a bit of a bummer for everyone involved, so he generally didn’t say anything when something reminded him of Robin. Which happened pretty often—he might no longer see the ghost of her standing behind Annie whenever they talked, but he still saw her in everything, in her favorite movies, the color purple which she liked to wear, the expressions and references he’d learned from her over time that he still used now, couldn’t have gotten rid off even if he’d wanted to as they’d become an integral part of the way he spoke. 

Even though he was still a bit pissed at the way Butcher had dismissed his relationship with Robin last time, he still knew that Butcher had known Becca much longer than Hughie had known Robin—those two were married, for fuck’s sake—and if he had to shut down the urge to babble on about her daily, he couldn’t imagine what it was like for Butcher not to talk about Becca. 

So he started bringing up random memories of Robin, and asked Butcher about Becca, as well. He would’ve probably bit his tongue for mentioning her not so long ago, but he was generally confident Butcher wouldn’t try to punch him for it these days. The talk in the car had eased things a bit already, and opened the door for talking about it a bit more, and fuck if he wasn’t going to take the chance to get Butcher to open up a bit if he could. 

It happened more and more often as it came easier to them, oftentimes in between two missions to neutralise some asshole supe and looking out for Mindstorm. It felt like a trade at first—Butcher would open up about Lenny, Hughie talked about his mom, Butcher talked about his dad—Hughie spoke about Robin, Butcher followed his lead and opened up about Becca. Butcher—and Hughie too, if he was being honest—felt better about opening up if it felt like an exchange of information instead of a moment of confidence and vulnerability, and so that’s how they presented it to each other. They did it for long enough to feel comfortable dropping the pretence and just talking about whatever whenever they felt like it, which Hughie could tell, as much as he’d deny it, Butcher was relieved about.  

They’d been staying at the Legend’s house for a little over a week, and already they had their little routine and space, as far away as humanly possible from Soldier Boy, who was rediscovering the joys of sex downstairs, with increasingly old partners—where the fuck did he keep finding them, that, he didn’t know, but it probably involved the Legend playing matchmaker since they’d agreed Soldier Boy should avoid going out as much as possible so people wouldn’t recognize him and freak out after Herogasm.

Hughie was sitting with his legs up on the couch’s armrest, his head hanging down over the edge, looking at Butcher upside-down. The man was heating up cup noodles in the kitchen, and hummed the Spice Girls under his breath. Hughie couldn’t have told you the name of the song for the life of him, but he knew it had to be the Spice Girls. It was far from being the only song Butcher hummed under his breath while doing things, a detail Hughie was pretty sure nobody knew since he kept quiet when they weren’t alone—it was one of those little pieces of information he collected carefully, proudly, knowing he was the only one let in on it—but he only got that soft look in his eyes when he was humming the Spice Girls. (Hughie had noticed he’d started getting that same look whenever some Billy Joel crept into his humming, and it made his ribcage feel tight and warm like his heart was trying to expand inside of him.)

“What was Becca’s favorite Spice Girls song?” he asked out of the blue. 

The man froze, as he still usually did when he mentioned her, a hand resting on the handle of the kettle he’d just finished pouring water from, and stayed there, tense, for a beat. Then he seemed to relax, and when he turned around to hand Hughie his cup noodle, he looked at him with something that almost looked like gratefulness. 

 “She liked the Viva Forever one,” Butcher said finally with a smile. “Sang it all the fucking time, just constantly. Drove me mad.” 

“What’s your favorite?” asked Hughie. Butcher scoffed. 

“Haven’t got one.”

“Mmh,” said Hughie. “Sure. Well, I like Mama.” Butcher grinned and Hughie knew what he’d say before he even finished opening his mouth.

“You would, too.”

“Hey,” he said, pointing an accusing finger in Butcher’s general vicinity, “you have no right to laugh at my mommy issues, you’re, like, the fucking president of the Daddy Issues Club.” Butcher rolled his eyes, still chuckling at his own joke like an idiot. 

They’d bonded over their shitty parents one too many times not to feel allowed to tease each other about it now. It would just come up out of nowhere sometimes, especially while they were drunk or during the painful comedown that came after a day of the thrilling high the Temp V gave them. Once the high died down and they felt more like throwing up than snacking while rambling about nonsense, still buzzing with the power yet now feeling shaky and weak, skin pasty and sweatier than a pregnant nun on a Saturday, they tended to open up a lot easier, let themselves be more vulnerable without needing the usual gentle coaxing required to talk about their thoughts and feelings so freely. 

Hughie intently watched Butcher pour himself a glass of water, and then fill one for Hughie too.

“The dick,” Hughie said suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Beg your fuckin pardon,” said Butcher.

“The DIC. The Daddy Issues Club. The acronym would be DIC,” he explained. “You’re the president of dick. I hope you realize what a big responsibility that is. You better take it seriously.” Butcher let out the longest sigh he’d ever heard. 

 “Will you keep your bloody trap shut for once, fucking hell,” he shook his head, looking not quite fond, but just on the side of annoyed that Hughie could see was bordering on amusement. 

Hughie looked at the clock—it had been over five minutes—and reached for the cup noodles, taking the lid off and grabbing the chopsticks Butcher had left for him on the table. He moved to sit up in a somewhat acceptable position so he could eat without spilling it all over himself. Cup noodles might be mediocre at best, but Butcher always threw some spices or something in there before he closed the lid to let it cook, and he made it at least twenty percent better every time. They’d come to the mutual understanding that, just as Hughie was always in charge of making pancakes—Butcher had somehow not managed not to burn even one the one time he’d tried—Butcher would be the one to prepare cup noodles.

“The forever a dream one,” Butcher suddenly blurted out.

“Huh?” 

“The goddamn—the song. My favorite—I like 2 Become 1.”

“Mmh,” hummed Hughie, swallowing his bite. “I don’t think I know that one.” 

The look Butcher threw him was so incredulous and downright offended that Hughie almost burst out laughing.

“How the fuck would you know Mama but not fucking 2 Become 1? What kind of uncultured fucking idiotic moron—”

“At least you’re not too intense about it.” 

If Butcher’s eyes could still shoot lasers, Hughie would’ve been more burnt than Butcher’s pancakes. 

“S’not about me being intense, it’s about you being a bloody fucking idiot who doesn’t know shit about fuck, that’s what it’s about,” he gritted out. 

“You called Billy Joel Willy Joe like two days ago,” Hughie pointed out—Hughie had threatened to break Butcher’s neck if he ever called him that again, Butcher had proceeded to laugh at him and start making up increasingly far-fetched names, Hughie had almost crashed the car, it was a whole thing. It was still unclear whether he’d actually been confused or just pretended to get it wrong to try and get a rise out of him.

“Honest mistake,” shrugged Butcher.

“No it fucking wasn’t.”

“Was close enough.”

“No you fucking weren’t, oh my God, not this shit again,” Hughie put down his noodles, agitated, trying to rule in the urge to grab Butcher by his stupid Hawaiian shirt and shake him frantically. “His name is literally Billy. That’s your name. You literally have the same fucking name, how the fuck—” he forced himself to take a deep breath when he saw Butcher looking at him with quiet amusement, clearly riling him up on purpose this time. 

“Let’s just listen to your song,” he said, trying not to sound like he was pouting, and clearly failing if Butcher’s grin was anything to go by. He reached for his phone, found 2 Become 1 and put it on. 

They finished their noodles while listening to it, and once he was done Hughie put the cup aside and went back to his previous position, legs up and head hanging over the edge of the couch, eyes closed to focus on the music. 

“I liked it,” he said once it ended.

“You better have,” mumbled Butcher. Hughie opened his eyes to see Butcher’s upside-down, grumpy scowl into his empty cup of noodles. 

“Did you and Becca want kids?”

“Jesus fuck, what is it with all the goddamn questions tonight?” sighed Butcher. Hughie didn’t answer for a second, feeling his eyes go vacant and sad.

“Robin did,” he said, low enough that Butcher would definitely not have heard him if it wasn’t so quiet. “She wanted kids, eventually. I told her I wasn’t so sure. Then again,” he scoffed, “I wasn’t really sure about anything, like, ever. She blamed me for it a lot.” When the silence went on for a little too long, his forced his eyes to focus, and saw Butcher was looking at him, pensive. 

“We didn’t talk about it,” he said finally. “Dunno why. Never brought it up. You’d think we would, huh? I mean, we were married, front of God and everybody and all that. Think we didn’t need to—there was a—an understanding there, that if we were ever ready for that shit one day, we’d just know. If not, then it wouldn’t happen. But, you know, now, with Ryan, I can’t help but think—” he stopped himself and shook his head, clearly unwilling to go any further, but he didn’t need to. Hughie knew what he meant, and could imagine that Butcher’s mind had just mercilessly replayed those last few moments that he’d seen Ryan for, what he’d said to him and the reply he’d gotten in return. 

Hughie let out a long sigh. Butcher looked tired and empty again, which he hadn’t wanted but should probably have anticipated when he started the conversation in the first place. 

“Robin would’ve liked the way I am around you,” he said, in equal parts to try and cheer Butcher up a bit and also because it’d been on his mind these past few weeks. He’d been thinking about it more often lately. Obviously, she wouldn’t be a big fan of all the more murdery, violent parts, but after all those talks of him needing to stop letting other walk over him, she’d be surprised by who he was now. 

He was more confident, even he could tell, he knew what he wanted and was less afraid to go for it. He wouldn’t ask for a promotion for days back when he worked in electronics, but he’d climbed the ladder at the FBSA within months and with frightening ease—he was the best qualified to fight supes, the one with the most experience and insight into Vought, and he knew it. All these people had gotten into this days ago when he joined, while he’d been doing it for months—they knew this job as some pleasant little office routine they did while wearing a suit and tie, Hughie’d known it first as risking his life on the daily and putting himself in the shitty situation that was being America’s most wanted while living in a moldy old basement, oftentimes getting covered in blood and getting shot at repeatedly in the process. They’d at most filed a couple of complains, he’d electrocuted and blown up a member of the Seven with a detonator within two days on the job. 

With that in mind, becoming the co-manager of the Bureau felt natural, simple; where going further up every step until he couldn’t possibly climb any higher was unthinkable and terrifying years ago, it seemed like nothing at all compared to what he’d had to do with the Boys over the past months. That gave him confidence in a way he hadn’t expected. He respected and appreciated all his colleagues back at the FBSA—something he regretted now, sometimes wondering if he could’ve figured it all out earlier and wasted less time there if he’d been more wary of them—but he didn’t let them walk over him like he did back at his old job because he knew they had nothing on him. Robin wouldn’t have recognized him if she’d seen him stand tall in front of a room of people explaining to them confidently how to do their job. 

She wouldn’t have recognized him when he was killing a man with his own hands while high on Temp V in a Russian facility, either, for very different reasons—but he tried not to think about that too much. It felt hypocritical to remember telling Butcher Becca wouldn’t like who he’d become when he looked at who he’d come to be since. 

Butcher let out a quiet, raspy laugh. “Yeah?”

He sighed. “Yeah. She’d have liked what you bring out in me.” 

“Was gonna say the same of Becca and you.”

Hughie smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Butcher said again. “You make me better.”

It became obvious pretty quickly that the cabins Mindstorm had rented or used to live in, the ones Soldier Boy had made them a list of, weren’t only just abandoned. A bunch were heavily booby-trapped, Home Alone style, some had been passed on to random but powerful supes who were the type to attack first and ask questions later, a bunch straight-up triggered a bomb that blew up the fucking place. This time around the cabin had belonged to some random supe who could spit fire like some oily-haired, 5’7 dragon, and although they made it out in one piece the frustration had been starting to build. 

“Fucking Mindstorm,” cursed Butcher, walking back towards their car with big, angry steps. “Fuck!”

“I really thought he'd be there this time,” said Hughie with a disappointed sigh, trailing after him. 

“This is getting fucking ridiculous,” mumbled the older man, clearly fuming. The fact that he'd forced himself to be patient enough to scout all the localisations said a lot about how determined he was to bring this deal to term, but he only had so much patience. The manic glint in his eyes told Hughie that he was really starting to see the finish line ahead now that Mindstorm was the only thing in the way of Soldier Boy helping them kill Homelander, and he wasn’t about to back down so close from his goal, no matter how long or annoying the search got. He just complained about it a lot more. Generally Hughie would try to cheer him up as best he could, pointing out they were one step closer to finding the supe, but he wasn’t entirely thrilled about this one job either.

 “He ruined my shirt, too,” said Hughie, sadly looking down at his burnt, still a little smoky Star Trek tee. He loved this fucking shirt. It wasn’t a collector or anything, thank fuck, but still. 

Butcher threw a glance his way, and his gaze lingered a little too long on the burnt fabric, slight frown darkening his face. He turned away to open the trunk as they reached the car, and threw his gun in. 

“You’re staying at the Legend's next time,” he said, trying to sound casual, carefully avoiding his eyes. Hughie looked up sharply. Butcher hadn’t left him behind once since the Legend was around to babysit Soldier Boy for them. 

“What? No. I wanna come with you.” Butcher scoffed, closing the trunk and heading for the driver’s seat. 

“That cunt almost burnt your fucking face off. I'm not having another Mallory situation.” 

“Then give me some V,” said Hughie, walking towards the passenger’s seat. “If you're so scared for me.” 

“I'm not s—no. We only got four doses left, we need two for Mindstorm, two for Homelander. Plus, you might wanna slow down a bit.” 

“What?” He looked at Butcher from over the car, confused, until he finally got it. “Oh, the—?” he pointed at his ear and exaggeratedly feigned rubbing black goo off it. The corner of Butcher's mouth twitched a little like he was trying not to laugh at his gesture, which admittedly must’ve looked silly. Hughie scoffed dismissively. “It's nothing, I'm fine. I don’t need you to coddle me.” 

“S’not that. There's just no need for the both of us to go,” assured Butcher. Hughie shook his head. 

“Don’t do that. You don't get to sideline me. I can take care of myself.” 

“I know you can,” said Butcher, and Hughie squinted at him a bit, trying to find any spec of humor or condescension in his voice, but he sounded sincere, earnest even, which was a pleasant change. “And you’ll come with when we actually find Mindstorm, obviously. I’m just—” he paused, with that frustrated frown that told Hughie he knew the only way to convince him was to open up, and he hated that idea. 

“I’m just worried, is all,” he said. “And I need somebody I trust to keep an eye on the atomic icicle. That’d be you.”

Hughie glared at him. “Flattery will get you nowhere.” 

“Flattery got me very, very far, love,” grinned Butcher, leaning in to rest his forearms on top of the car. 

Hughie kept glaring at him for a beat or two, then he let out an annoyed groan and ran a hand through his curls. “Fuck, I'll have to listen to the Legend's stories again, he won't fucking leave me alone. Fuck. It's always wah, I fucked Jaclyn Smith, hey, wanna hear about how I snorted cocaine off whoever the fuck’s back,” he moved his arms wildly to emphasize the gravity of the situation, while Butcher, as he realized he’d—once again, the fucker—gotten his way, relaxed and looked at him whine, amused. “I don’t even know who half these people are. Also, did I mention how often he offers me cocaine? It’s starting to get old. And I can't even go anywhere else to escape because everywhere I go, there's Soldier Boy fucking a grandma. It’s a nightmare.”

“I’ll be back before you know it,” promised Butcher, trying and failing to hide a fond grin. “You’ll survive.” 

Hughie could’ve just teleported them all back at the Legend’s after the Mindstorm business—kind of wanted to, his powers a familiar itchy buzz under his skin urging him to use them—but instead Butcher led them through the neverending, quickly darkening forest until they got to the car. Hughie only didn’t just pop out of these and spare himself the fucking bugs and squishy feel under his sole when he stepped on leaves sometimes—he did not want to think about whatever he’d just crushed—because leaving Butcher alone with Soldier Boy right now would be like throwing a lit match inside a barrel of gunpowder. Soldier Boy was pissed from whatever Mindstorm told him, Butcher was pissed from whatever Mindstorm showed him, there was just a lot of being pissed for Mindstorm reasons going on at the moment—and that was without even mentioning the way Soldier Boy still glared at Hughie every few steps as if this was all his fault and he was still a beat away from punching him again. And of course the way Butcher would react to every one of those glances like someone had just pointed a gun at his puppy’s head—eyes always a second away from lighting up, brows furrowed and that protective, warning look twisting his face into a clear threat. If Hughie left them alone for more than a second, they’d probably kill each other. 

He was curious, though—the way Butcher had looked at him when he woke up, eyes wide and unfocused but heartbreakingly earnest as he begged for his forgiveness for some reason—he couldn’t get it out of his head. 

“What did you see?” he asked as they got close to the car. “When you were out.” Butcher didn’t seem too fazed, like he’d kind of expected this—maybe he’d felt Hughie’s questions bubbling up to the surface before they burst out of him. Butcher did that sometimes—pretended he didn’t care enough to bother noticing his reactions and tells, yet still knew when Hughie was uneasy, or giddy, or curious. 

“Can’t remember,” he shrugged. “Wouldn’t matter if I did, either. We got a job to do here, lad, we gotta focus.” God, had Hughie once really not been able to tell whenever Butcher was lying? It seemed so obvious now that he knew all his tells. 

Whatever. If he didn’t want to say, Hughie wasn’t going to push—for now. He’d get it out of him eventually. As fucking stubborn as Butcher could be, Hughie was a fitting match for him.  

“Alright,” he said, “what now then?”

“There's Black Noir to deal with, and then the Payback tour’s done, thank fuck for that, which means it’s time for our side of the deal. I say we take a couple days to recover from that shitshow then just head for the Tower and get it all over and done with, ay?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Hughie, not pointing out that he didn’t need to recover from shit—it wasn’t like getting slapped and then punched by Soldier Boy had been fun, but he’d been on V. The pain had been gone within less than a minute or so. The only one who needed to recover was Butcher, but as much as he wanted to ask about Mindstorm again, he refrained. 

They drove back to the Legend’s, Soldier Boy silent and brooding in the backseat, Butcher hypervigilant, borderline paranoid in the way he looked back at the rearview mirror to check on him every two fucking seconds. Hughie kept his powers at the ready, half-heartedly bracing himself to reach for Butcher and teleport them both out if he stopped looking at the road for a beat too long and sent them all barrelling down a ditch. 

They miraculously got back to the Legend’s in one piece, and after a weird moment in which Butcher seemed to want to have a heart-to-heart only to backtrack, they settled in and gave themselves a few days of rest. Even after he seemed to have successfully put the Mindstorm thing aside, it was almost like Butcher was trying to delay the confrontation for some reason, which made no fucking sense since he’d been waiting years for an actual shot at getting Homelander—at first Hughie thought the entire Soldier Boy being his dad revelation was the reason they were still waiting, but Butcher didn’t seem to care about that all that much, insistent that Soldier Boy would still get the job done, that it didn’t matter since Homelander was barely more than a sperm donor. 

No, the problem seemed to be with Hughie. He asked a couple times if he’d done something wrong—did Butcher doubt him? Did he think he couldn’t handle the fight, or that he wouldn’t stick by him until the end? He’d have thought Herogasm was good enough evidence of his commitment to the cause, yet Butcher still looked at him with that tired, almost guilty look whenever he asked if they should just go already. Butcher assured him with a dismissive scoff that he hadn’t done anything wrong, but the weird attitude persisted for over a week.

The first real change came around then, when right as they were about to go to sleep Hughie heard a familiar ringing. He walked over to the table where Butcher had left his phone.   

“Butcher!” he called out when he saw the caller. “It’s your mom.”

Butcher walked out of the bathroom, toothbrush still in hand and some foaming toothpaste drying at the corner of his mouth. He looked like he had rabies, which wasn’t that different from how he generally looked. He reached for the phone, taking the call, and tucked it under his ear, holding it up with his raised shoulder so he could wash his toothbrush into the sink.

“Hi, mum,” he said. “What—” His expression froze in the way it tended to when he thought they might be under attack, and Hughie sat up, more reflexively that anything, half expecting Homelander to barge through the window right then and there. Instead Butcher quietly listened to the voice on the other side, eyes going a little hazy and far away. 

“Yeah,” said Butcher, his voice harder, putting down the toothbrush and holding the phone properly now. “Yeah, alright.”

Hughie tried to catch his eye, confused and worried, but Butcher didn’t look at him, eyes set on the sink. “Right,” he cleared his throat and ran a hand over his forehead. “Right. Alright, mum. I’ve got to—got to go. I’ll—no, I’ll call you. Bye.” He set the phone down on the counter and turned around to rest his back against it, still not looking at Hughie, who was growing increasingly worried. 

“What happened?” he asked. “You okay?”

“He’s dead,” announced Butcher, not an ounce of sentiment in his voice. Hughie frowned. 

“Your father?”

He nodded. Hughie tried not to look suspicious. 

“Are you sure it’s for real, this time?” he asked, amazed at the fact that this was an actual question he had to ask, but Butcher just nodded. 

“Yeah, m’sure. She mentioned a funeral, but didn’t ask me to go, so. Don’t see the point of lying.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t really sure what to say, and Butcher wasn’t giving him much to work with, so he offered, hesitantly; “Um. Congrats?”

Butcher’s shoulders started shaking, and for a split second Hughie thought he was crying—then he realized he was trying to keep his laugh silent. 

“Uhh,” he said awkwardly, getting up and just kind of shifting his weight on his feet. “Butcher?”

Butcher finally burst out laughing, a sort of manic cackle that wouldn’t have been out of place in a gory slasher film, definitely not helping the entire rabies-looking situation, but that slowly fell apart until he ended up slouched over, face buried in his hands, shoulders still shaking uncontrollably.

“Butcher?” he called out again, even more worried now.

“Old wanker finally kicked the fucking bucket,” he croaked out, wiping tears from his eyes and still shaking. “Can’t believe he lasted this long—the absolute cockroach of a man—” He barked out another laugh, but it sounded wrong, strangled and tight. Hughie stopped fidgeting and slowly, like you’d approach a cornered animal, walked towards the counter, trying to keep the worry out of his voice and failing miserably. 

“Butcher, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fuck—it wasn’t like this last time. It’s—fuck—fucking Mindstorm. Should be fucking celebrating—” Butcher was sniffling a bit now, and even though Hughie still didn’t know what Mindstorm had done to him, he was starting to form an educated guess and yeah, the timing was shit. Sam Butcher died like he’d lived; being a phenomenal pain in everybody’s ass. Yeah, Hughie had heard enough about the man—and seen enough of the elephant-sized daddy issues that transpired into Butcher’s, well, Butcher’s everything, really—to form a strong opinion on him. 

“Hey,” he said, reaching out to rest a hand on Butcher’s shoulder and stroking it comfortingly when the other man didn’t bat his hand off, “you’re okay. Butcher, you’re okay.”

“’Course I fucking am.”

“Billy. Look at me.” Butcher did so, eyes red and hair a mess from when he’d ran his hands through it so much, and faced Hughie, whose eyes were set and focused entirely on his. 

“You’re okay,” he said, both softly and firmly, with all the confidence he could muster, and Bucher seemed to actually listen to him this time around. He let out a shaky breath, sounding relieved—and Hughie could almost see the weight being taken off his shoulders.

“Yeah, alright,” he said, and Hughie smiled at him, squeezing his arm comfortingly, and even got a small smile in response.

He still had toothpaste at the corner of his mouth, and, thoughtlessly, Hughie reached out to rub it off with the sleeve of his jacket. Fuck, the world was free of one more abusive piece of shit—he shouldn’t be allowed to still make Butcher look so worn even in his death. He hadn’t seen Butcher look quite so pained in months, and fuck, right now he just wanted to see him smile more than anything. He nodded, decision taken. 

“You know what? You’re right, we should be celebrating,” he said. “Let’s go get food, okay?”

“Soldier Boy—” argued Butcher, but Hughie cut him off, already grabbing their coats.

“Fuck Soldier Boy, come on. This is your night. And Lenny’s,” he added when Butcher still didn’t seem too sure, and that was enough to convince him.

“Yeah, alright.”

Butcher followed him into the car, and took the passenger seat without a single complain when Hughie headed for the driver’s seat, which was unusual. Butcher was all territorial when it came to driving, for whatever reason. 

They hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and Hughie was starving, so Butcher probably was too, even though he didn’t say anything about it—actually, he didn’t really say anything at all the entire drive. They went past a couple drive-throughs, which Hughie ignored, and Butcher didn’t even point them out or call him a moron, still looking worn, tired—he seemed older than he really was, and Hughie almost ached with the urge to reach for him, to pull him into a hug and hold him close, to comfort him the best he could. Instead he pulled in front of the fastfood joint, told Butcher he’d be right back and rushed inside, glad to find there was barely anyone. He didn’t want to leave him alone too long if he could help it.

He walked out ten minutes later and opened the car door, almost jumping on the driver’s seat and immediately, unceremoniously dropping the greasy paperbag on Butcher’s lap, which seemed to startle him out of whatever deep thought or memory he was lost in. Clearly only now realising how hungry he was, he almost tore the bag open to peak inside, and immediately burst out laughing—a surprised laugh, one of those rare ones he managed to startle out of him. Hughie grinned. Mission accomplished. 

“God, Hughie, seriously?”

He shrugged, still smiling, Butcher’s amused, now much more present expression feeling like a personal victory. He’d tried to find something equivalent after Mindstorm, but Butcher had barely acknowledged him, acting weird—telling him they had to talk then just saying they needed more Temp V, ending up not eating anything and just rushing off outside with a grin that didn’t look all that convincing. 

It actually worked this time, though. Butcher was still grinning as he reached into the bag and brought a piece of fried fish up to his face to inspect it, then popped it into his mouth, chewed it, swallowed it, and at last announced, pasting on the solemn expression of a judge on a baking show, “This is absolute, complete, steaming deep-fried garbage.”

“I know, I know,” grinned Hughie. “I promise I’ll learn to make you proper fish and chips someday, but I wouldn’t risk frying anything in a motel room and I wouldn’t trust the Legend’s kitchen if my life depended on it.” Butcher shook his head with a grin, clutching the top of the bag in his hand like he was afraid someone would try to steal it from him.

He ate a couple more despite his protests, as Hughie drove them out of the parking lot. 

“Where to?” he asked Butcher once they were nearing the main road. 

“Oh,” he said, looking up in surprise, “I dunno. I thought we’d just head back to the motel and hit the hay.”

“Do you wanna do that?”

Butcher shrugged, still clutching at the fish n’ chips bag like his life depended on it. “Not really, no.”

“Okay.” Hughie thought about it for a minute, looking up at the sky where the moon was a faint, yellow smudge amongst the clouds. “What places did Lenny like to go to?”

Butcher frowned a bit, but then seemed to actually ponder the question—and after looking thoughtful for a minute, he scoffed and shook his head, an odd mix of fond amusement and sadness on his face. “He liked them rollercoasters—amusement parks. There was one—a fucking death trap now that I think of it, ratty old thing that it was had probably never heard of safety measures—but we wasn’t bothered by it, y’know, kids are stupid. Mum’d take us there sometimes, on the weekends when he got too drunk? To care. I liked it, it was alright, but Len—Len fucking loved it.” Hughie smiled, still looking at Butcher intently. His face smoothed into something softer whenever he talked about Lenny, something sad, eyes far away.

“I think I saw one of those theme parks back at the last town we passed,” said Hughie after giving it some thought, eyes never drifting from the man’s face. Butcher blinked away the sadness, turning to face Hughie. “It’s not too far. I mean, it looked like shit—it was tiny as fuck too—but—”

“It’ll feel right like home’s then,” grinned Butcher, looking a little manic again.

It was closer than Hughie remembered it, and still open even though it was late. They parked outside, hearing the cacophony of happy kids and screaming parents. Hughie couldn’t imagine Butcher in an amusement park for the life of him—trying to picture him riding a rollercoaster felt like the kind of hallucination one would have during a really bad acid trip—but he still turned to him, eyebrows raised, and asked him if he wanted to go in.

“Fuck no,” was his answer, as he chuckled, amused. “Full of sweaty kids with sticky hands an’ flies an’ shit in there. Nah, lad, we’re getting the very best of the experience from over here, trust me.”

“We can just hear screams from here,” frowned Hughie, and Butcher laughed, still looking a little manic.

“Exactly.”

But it wasn’t just that, realized Hughie as they got out of the car—they could see the colorful lights of the inside, hear the childish laughs and smell the nauseating but nostalgic mix of fried foods and cotton candy. Butcher was right, this felt like being a kid all over again, dragging his dad to the higher rollercoaster just to prove that he was tall enough to get on them now that he had his latest growth spurt and was wearing shoes with better soles.

They sat on top of the car and ate their now only vaguely warm fish n’chips while listening to the general commotion inside. The sounds became like an increasingly comforting kind of background noise as they got used to it.

“Huh,” said Butcher between two bites, speaking with his mouth full like a savage. “These aren’t actually that bad.”

“They’re fucking awful,” said Hughie, amused. “They’re like ninety percent salt and they clog your arteries like there’s not tomorrow. That’s what makes the fun of them.” Butcher grinned, swallowing a fry a chewing it loudly. They kept quiet for about half a minute, looking at the colorful attractions in silence. 

 “Y’know, when I said I wanted to celebrate, I meant, like, get pissed and pass out in my own sick,” said Butcher, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Yeah, I know,” said Hughie, unsurprised, absentmindedly peeling off some bits of paper from the paperbags that had stuck to a piece of fried fish. “I’m not letting you near a liquor store for a little bit.” Butcher’s eyes darkened, and he glared at Hughie with a growl.

“I don’t need a goddamn babysitter,” he said, but Hughie didn’t let that deter him.

“How about a friend, then?”

Butcher’s anger melted away like snow under the sun, and he barked out a laugh.

“Did you just Lord of the Rings me?”

“What?”

“That’s the shit the little dwarf man says to the tall blonde fucker, innit?”

“Oh, you mean Gimli,” laughed Hughie. “I’m pretty sure Legolas said that, actually.”

“Jesus fuck, you’re a nerd,” sighed Butcher, rolling his eyes.

“You’re literally the one who brought up Lord of the Rings.”

“Yeah, but I forgot their names like a cool person,” he snapped back, and it was Hughie’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Whatever, I’m right and you’re wrong anyway, so.”

“You’re an annoying one, you know that,” mumbled Butcher, but he was smiling.

Hughie grinned up at him. “Yeah.” He plopped the last bite from his bag into his mouth and chewed loudly enough to match Butcher.

“This is more fun than getting shitfaced anyway,” shrugged Hughie, crumbling the paperbag into a ball. “I’m doing you a favor.”

Hughie leaned back on his elbows, looking up at the stars and the flickering blue and pink lights of the rollercoaster ramps. The clouds hid most of the stars anyway and the moon was barely visible too, but the colorful attractions shone a kaleidoscope of bright lights on his face, so he just closed his eyes and basked in the moment. 

“This is better,” he conceded, looking mildly pissed about it.

Hughie smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, shut it.”

They got back to the motel room too late for their own good—Butcher insisted that they wake up early tomorrow and drive halfway to Vought Tower, even though Hughie had told him several times it wouldn’t make a difference, and he’d be able to teleport them in from anywhere. Butcher said they needed to get more V, even though he’d said last time they still had two left. Maybe Butcher lost one and didn’t want Hughie to take it without him, for whatever reason, or maybe he’d lost or broken both vials and didn’t want to admit it. He wasn’t sure why the fuck Butcher insisted on driving, but he wasn’t going to argue his point further. He enjoyed driving with him, whether they were quiet, listening to music or arguing about whatever today’s topic of discussion was. Even with Soldier Boy in the backseat, it was fun. 

They’d once tried to play ‘I spy’—Soldier Boy had apparently felt left out, because he insisted on playing even though he couldn’t understand the—very simple—rules for shit. They had to park and pretend they needed snacks at the next gas station so they could take a deep breath, because the man kept saying ‘something green’ and the answer was ‘grass’ every single time and it was taking everything in them not to laugh at him. Hughie looked it up online—‘I spy’ had definitely been up around his time—so it wasn’t even about his age, he was just weird.

Butcher’s insistence that they wake up early on didn’t seem to matter that much when they got back to the motel though, since instead of heading for the bed or using the bathroom he just sat down on the couch, looking pensive. Hughie filled himself a glass of water, then filled one for Butcher too, which the man took—clearly mildly displeased with it not being alcohol, but he didn’t say anything. Hughie leaned against the kitchenette counter, looking at Butcher intently, and managed to keep quiet for about ten seconds before breaking the silence. 

“D’you think you’re gonna go to the funeral?” he asked. Butcher let out a sigh like he’d been expecting the question, letting his head fall against the back of the couch, looking up at the moldy ceiling.

“Lenny would’ve,” he said, eyes going a little vacant and tired. “At least to be there for mum.”

“Yeah, but this is about you.”

Butcher closed his eyes and his lips thinned a bit.

“Doesn’t matter anyway, does it,” he said, sounding cold again, almost angry, “It’ll be in a while.”

Hughie took a deep breath, running his finger over the edge of his glass and tried not to sound too pissed off when he spoke. 

“I’m gonna pretend you meant that in a I’ll-have-a-lot-of-time-to-think-about-it way and not in a I’ll-be-dead-by-then way.” Well, that’d been a massive failure. The bitterness and anger were thick enough in his voice that it would take a complete idiot to miss them—but instead of matching his tone as he’d expected him to, Butcher just seemed even more exhausted. 

“You tell yourself whatever the fuck you want, lad.”

“For fuck’s sake, Butcher,” Hughie gritted out, hand tight enough around his glass that he had a fleeting thought about it exploding, and when he remembered vividly the oddly satisfying pain of the jar shattering and the shards cutting into his palm he almost wanted it to. “Jesus Christ, could you at least pretend to care about your own life?”

“I would, but I can’t be fucked,” shrugged the man.

“Okay,” he said, and forced himself to take a deep breath, putting the glass down more aggressively than planned, splashing water all over the counter so he wouldn’t follow through on that earlier thought. He didn’t want to sound mad, or like he was scolding Butcher—he needed him to actually hear what he had to say instead of immediately dismissing and ignoring it like he so often did. “Okay. Bu—Billy, listen to me.” It worked again—when he heard his name, Butcher gave up on stubbornly staring up at the ceiling and actually turned to look at him. Hughie almost forgot what he was trying to say—Butcher’s eyes look incredibly sad and tired, the wall that was generally there to keep anyone from seeing beyond anger and ruthlessness now seemingly thinning away under Hughie’s scrutiny.

“This has got to stop,” he said. “I mean, you’ve always been reckless, but since Becca—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

“Listen to me,” he insisted, a bite, an urgency to his voice that wasn’t there before. “Listen. You can’t—you can’t act like it’s not worth shit. Your life, I mean, you gotta—stop looking away, fuck, come on, I’m trying to make a point here.” Butcher rolled his eyes, but did look back at him. “If you can’t actually care about your own life, at least pretend to. It’ll become true if you pretend long enough.” Maybe it was a little too clear that he was speaking from experience, but who was he kidding? It wasn’t like Butcher didn’t know. 

“What about ‘whatever it takes’?” 

“That didn’t mean you,” said Hughie, and he heard Butcher’s sharp intake of breath even though the man did his best not to even flinch. “You fucking idiot, that—that meant, like, crossing the line, working with fucking Mr Bigot over there, getting suped up—not you. I thought you knew that.” Nevermind that Hughie himself was totally on board with sacrificing himself, that was different. Somehow. Whatever. 

“You’ve got to care about your life, Billy. I can’t do that for you.” Butcher looked at him for a moment, long enough that Hughie could almost hear what he was thinking—can’t you, though? 

That was a little familiar. He’d been told before that Butcher might need him—that he might be the one capable of holding him back. And Butcher definitely needed someone to do that right now—maybe more than ever.

“Listen, I didn’t know Lenny,” he said, startling the man at the mention of his brother, and the sudden topic change, “and you don’t talk about him that much. But Judy said I was like him, back at her place.” Butcher scoffed. 

“Right, yeah, she did, didn’t she?” He just shook his head, almost smiling now, clearly feeling this new topic was a bit safer than his own suicidal tendencies. “Shit, it’s not all that surprising. Thought so too, at first,” he said. “When you were being all—nervous and awkward and shit. That had gone out the window about a day into meeting you though.” Hughie frowned a bit at that, trying to figure out if he ought to be offended, but Butcher kept going before he could decide. “You’re good, you’re—you know, always looking for the right thing to do, and all that. Seeing the good in people that everybody would rule out as lost causes—that’s a bit like Lenny, yeah. But there’s a fire to you there—something Len never had. Actually, you’re a lot more like me on that regard, if I’m honest.” Hughie’s eyebrows shot up and he grinned. 

“Was that a compliment?”

“Dunno,” huffed Butcher, looking at him from where his head was still resting against the back of the couch. “Not in my book it ain’t.”

“Fuck that, I’m taking it as a compliment.”

Butcher smiled and closed his eyes, looking tired still. As much as he wanted to stick to that part of the conversation, the comfortable familiarity of teasing instead of the adventurous attempt to try and coax family memories out of Butcher, there was still something Hughie had to say. 

“It’s just,” he started hesitantly, “She said Lenny could hold you back.” Butcher opened his eyes. “Kept you grounded.”

Butcher let out a vague hum of agreement, and Hughie took a deep breath.

“I can do that, too,” he said, quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “so I thought—maybe—”

“Lenny wasn’t the only one who could,” said Butcher. 

“Wh—wait, really? Then who—” Hughie frowned, but when he saw the expression on Butcher’s face, realization dawned on him. “Oh,” he breathed out, trying not to sound too hopeful. 

“You’re at lot more like her, actually,” said Butcher, looking a little thoughtful. “Same fire.”

Hughie just gaped at the man in absolute bafflement that he’d not only think that but go as far as to actually voice it. Butcher seemed to interpret his silence as confusion, because he just raised an inquisitive eyebrow. 

“That was a compliment, case you couldn’t tell,” he taunted. 

“No, I could tell.”

He was left to just stare at Butcher for a bit, unable to find the words—what did one even say to that? He was starting to think maybe there was nothing—maybe he didn’t have to say anything, and could just silently savor the familiar warmth the words gave him, when Butcher started speaking again.

“She thought there was good in Ryan,” he said. “You seem to think there’s some good to me.”

“Well she was right about Ryan, wasn’t she?” said Hughie, a challenge in his voice now. “Maybe I’m not wrong, either.”

Butcher looked at him for a moment, looking almost guilty, which he’d been doing a lot these past few days, but that seemed to slowly melt away, leaving him to stare at Hughie with a burning focus that would’ve had him squirming if it didn’t leave him, as usual, captivated by the intensity of having Butcher’s absolute attention. Finally, looking pensive, Butcher murmured a quiet “Maybe,” which perhaps wasn’t all that much but still felt like a massive win in Hughie’s book. 

They didn’t play ‘I spy’ on the ride to Vought Tower, mostly because Butcher seemingly decided it was time to randomly knock Hughie out and leave him in a gas station bathroom, for some fucking reason. He’d known there was something off about Butcher for a few days now—there’d been a guilty glint in his eyes since that time he walked in on him hanging up the phone, and a weird shift had happened last night when Hughie had brought back the Becca thing. 

Hughie understood better now why Butcher had insisted on driving instead of letting him take the V early that morning and teleport them directly to the Tower from their motel—it was so he could keep the option to ditch him on the way open in case he decided to. He’d probably still had those Temp V vials and planned on using it himself. What he couldn’t fucking figure out was why in hell Butcher hadn’t let him come with in the first place. They’d had a plan, and maybe it wasn’t exactly a good—or safe—plan, but he’d been willing to take the risks it entailed. 

That was, until Annie—bless her soul—came to pick him up and, after barely even berating him about the V, told him it was lethal. The realization that Butcher had been trying to keep him safe hit him like a freight train. He couldn’t even be pissed about the entire knocking him out thing—Butcher knew him too well now, they both knew if he’d just talked to Hughie, he’d have either insisted on taking the V anyway or at least stopped Butcher from taking it himself. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d stolen it from Butcher’s pocket, or the first time he’d forcefully inserted himself into Butcher’s suicidal plans to try and keep him alive. There was no possible scenario in which Hughie backed down and let Butcher go to the Tower alone, and he’d known it, because of course he had. 

He felt a now familiar warmth spread through him when he understood the weight that action had—Butcher had already asked him to run the last time they’d seen Homelander, and now once again he was asking him to stay safe and out of it, in a much more Butcher manner since the last time Hughie hadn’t listened to him in the slightest.

The giddiness that usually came with knowing that Butcher cared about him as much as he did couldn’t fully take the reins, though—he was too worried to really feel happy, knowing Butcher was out there preparing to shoot up Temp V again and go off to face Homelander with only Soldier Boy as backup. He was all the more determined to find Butcher and save him, whatever the fuck that meant. Butcher had saved him today, after all, and not for the first time—the least he could do was return the favor. 

Annie drove him back to MM’s place. It felt good to have this with her again—the teasing, the amused glances and soft smiles. He’d missed her more than anything these past few months, and knowing she was pissed at him was an uncomfortable itch under his skin at all times—but she forgave him easily and quickly, because she was Annie, and she’d always been too easy to forgive his bullshit—he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, though. He didn’t say anything about how he didn’t deserve to be let out of it so quick, how they should probably talk about it a little more—they’d have time for that later if she wanted to. For now he accepted her forgiveness gratefully, and let his mind focus on his real goal here—sure, killing Homelander, saving the people at the Tower and stopping Soldier Boy from exploding were on the cards as well, but his priority was saving Butcher right now. 

No matter how reluctant the others were when he said what his plan entailed, he kept his eyes on the target. Butcher wouldn’t let him come with him no matter what he attempted, so he had to stop him instead. It was either they both went, or neither did.

Seeing Butcher again was weirdly eerie, even though it’d only been a few hours. First of all, he wasn’t exactly used to seeing him around others anymore—he forgot they weren’t alone for a minute when they were talking, opening up to him with the ease he’d been used to feeling these past few months. There was also now the underlying understanding between them that Butcher would prioritize him and his safety over the weight he could add on the balance against Homelander, and not just when they already had the supe pinned and about to be robbed of his powers, no—when he had the time to weight his options, he’d come to the conclusion that keeping Hughie safe was more important; even though Annie and the others hadn’t been able to quite grasp what that action was worth, they both knew now. Hughie’d picked him over Soldier Boy’s help when he betrayed him to save Butcher from Mindstorm, and Butcher had made sure Hughie couldn’t contribute to the fight against Homelander even though last time he and Soldier Boy would’ve probably died without Hughie’s intervention.

There was there a new understanding that they were each other’s sole and absolute priority, through and through. 

Hughie tried to convince Butcher, and he really thought he had him listening when he went for the final blow—“I think you want me to hold you back. Like Becca used to.” Something in Butcher’s eyes had given him hope, for a split second, that he’d let go of his plan and let him help. But then Maeve had to go and throw their only weapon against Soldier Boy out of the window—quite literally—and Butcher was snapping out of it and back on track, just like that. 

Being locked up in that room felt off, claustrophobic, and he could almost feel himself buzzing out of his skin—he longed for his powers now more than ever, finding himself reaching for his ability every few minutes, trying to pop out of there and be at Butcher’s side again. 

He knew Annie felt the same, probably even worse—the lack of electricity had her pacing around the vault, hands shaky and eyes going from one corner of the room to the other, sometimes closing them and focusing like she was searching for power. Kimiko had all her abilities with her, and the others never had any in the first place, so Hughie found that he was the only one who understood and shared Annie’s discomfort. 

He went over to her to hug her wordlessly, wrapping her in his arms and wishing he could teleport them both away, and she hugged back with so much strength he felt like she might just snap his bones in half. He wasn’t sure she knew that he understood—she probably just thought he saw her pacing around and wanted to comfort her without really knowing where her worry came from—but he wasn’t sure how to tell her either, how to express that he longed for his own powers just as much without her getting worried or pissed about the Temp V again, and so he just held her against him, reassuring himself that although he couldn’t disappear and go help Butcher, at least he could make sure she was safe. 

Kimiko and Annie eventually managed to kick the door down, and they hurried to the Tower. As they left, Hughie’s eyes caught a familiar green glint on the floor, half hidden under a desk, and he didn’t really think about it before grabbing it and shoving it in his pocket, not pointing it out to any of the others. It could very well be an addict’s instinct to do everything to try and get his next fix, but he had a gut feeling it would be useful eventually. 

The fight at the Tower was an absolute clusterfuck, between Homelander, Maeve, Soldier Boy, Butcher and—Ryan? Hughie had no fucking clue what the kid was even doing there, but he was pretty sure it was him from the screens he monitored it all from. Wasn’t like they knew that many kids with laser-shooting eyes. 

He didn’t take the V even when he saw Butcher and Annie in danger—once again he felt like it would be best to wait—but at least he could give Annie some more power, and then it all went to shit when Soldier Boy tried to explode and Maeve had to intervene. 

They drove a passed out Butcher to the hospital, but then had to all hurry to get Maeve at MM’s so they could stitch her up—they couldn’t risk anybody recognizing her at the hospital, and MM insisted he needed all hands on deck to make sure her eye didn’t get infected. They all helped the best they could, and she was up and calling her girlfriend within a few hours against all their advice to rest, almost giving MM a heart attack. 

After Maeve and Elena headed out, Hughie was itching to jump into a car and drive to find Butcher at the hospital, but just as he was about to leave he got a text from the phone he’d left in Butcher’s pocket letting him know he was fine and checking out of the hospital, and heading to the Flatiron building to meet them. Hughie wanted to ask about the tests, about the Temp V, but Butcher’s promise that he was ‘just fine, jesus fuck, get off my back’ made him feel hopeful again, so he just followed the others to the Flatiron building where Butcher did indeed meet them after a bit. He looked alright, and assured Hughie he was fine, making a show of rolling his eyes and saying he didn’t need a nanny. Hughie let go of his concerns when Butcher shot him an annoyed look for the fifth time in the past ten minutes.

It was clear that none of the others wanted Butcher around, but fuck if Hughie was going to let them even think about objecting to his presence. He drew their attention away, asking them to try and plan on how to take down Vought with the new developments. He’d talk to them about this later, try and coax some half-assed apology out of Butcher to appease them, maybe. It didn’t matter if Butcher meant it—he wouldn’t—as long as he could get them to accept him back in.

Once they had their priorities sorted out—using Annie’s fame to spread awareness of the shit Vought did behind the scenes, trying to find a way to kill Homelander and sabotaging Neuman’s image—Hughie made a show of yawning until Annie suggested he should go take a nap. As he walked out, he barely had to throw a glance in Butcher’s direction for the man to follow him outside.  

The second they stepped out of the room and stepped far enough away that the others wouldn’t hear from inside, Hughie stopped Butcher, who was already walking off, by tugging at his sleeve. 

“Why did you do that?” he said, trying not to sound too puzzled. Butcher snorted.

“The Tower, you mean? C’mon now, are you really surprised? I saw a shot at killing the fucker, I took it.”

“That’s not what—”

“Plus, it’s not exactly like it matters all that much, is it?” he shrugged, and Hughie stopped, squinting at that. 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the V, are you daft? It’s done bugger all in the end, sure, but it could’ve been the way to kill Homelander. The side effects, all that shit—it didn’t matter, still doesn’t, if it means having a shot at that. I’d do it again.” Hughie stared at him in baffled silence before repeating, articulating exaggeratedly. “You’d do it again?”

“Damn right I would.”

“Fucking hell, Butcher, we talked about this—and you still think it doesn’t matter? Are you being serious right now?” he said, digging his nails into his own thighs through his jeans so he wouldn’t give into the urge to grab the man by the shoulders and shake him aggressively. “Butcher, it matters to me,” he snapped. “It would’ve mattered to me if the V had done any permanent damage.” Butcher held his eye for a beat, then looked away with a dismissive huff. 

“Are you fucking listening to me?” he snapped, increasingly angry. 

“You don’t have to say all that shit, Hughie,” said Butcher, still not looking at him. 

“Have? What, do you think I’m doing this out of—what, pity or something?”

“Not pity,” he said immediately, shaking his head, and this time he did look at him. “’Cause you’re a good person, that’s why.” Hughie gritted his teeth—fuck, he was getting tired of hearing that. It used to sound good, a reassurance, a confirmation that through it all he was still good—but now it just felt like a bad lie, even though it was clear by Butcher’s earnest expression that he believed it entirely.

“I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart, I’m doing this for me, you idiot,” said Hughie, and when Butcher’s expression melted into a confused one, he sighed, anger blending in with the desperation to have Butcher listen to him, and actually hear what he was saying, for once. “Butcher, if you died, I don’t know what I’d do,” he said. “I have no idea how I’d even—”

He stopped, trying to find the words, anger bubbling back up when he saw Butcher’s still confused expression. “I know you think you’re being all selfless and shit by sacrificing yourself, but what you’re really being is just a massive selfish asshole. What, you think you can just fuck off and get yourself killed and I’ll, I don’t know, shed a couple courtesy tears and move on? For fuck’s sake, Billy, can you take a fucking look outside of that self-deprecating head of yours for half a goddamn second and think about what it would do to me if you were gone?”

“Hughie,” he said, voice softer than he was used to, and Hughie just shook his head. 

“That’s not even what I meant, anyway,” he sighed, passing a hand over his face. “I meant the—the knocking me out thing. I get it was to save me, and I’m thankful, even though my head still hurts, you dick—but I could’ve been useful.” Butcher’s eyebrows shot up, which made him feel both annoyed and self-conscious. “I could’ve helped,” he insisted. “Really. If I’d been there, if I’d gone in with you, maybe I could’ve teleported Ryan out, and we could’ve focused on Homelander, all four of us—with Solider Boy and Maeve. Maybe he’d even be dead right now. Why didn’t you let me help?”

“Well that ironic after that little speech you just gave me about not putting yourself in danger,” sneered Butcher. 

“And that’s ironic after that little speech you gave me about it being all worth it to kill Homelander,” he snapped back. “What happened to that famous ‘whatever it takes’ bullshit you keep berating me about?” Butcher held his eye for a beat, then closed his eyes with a sigh, throwing his head back a bit.

“That didn’t mean you, either,” he said, reluctantly; almost—if it had been anyone but Butcher, Hughie would’ve said he sounded a little nervous. “You made me see that I—that there was a line I wouldn’t cross. I couldn’t—I couldn’t sacrifice my family,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”

Hughie looked up sharply, startled, and just stared at him for a beat—but when the resolve in Butcher’s set, serious expression sunk in, Hughie’s face softened. 

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah,” nodded Butcher, clearly knowing the weight of the question and wanting to meet it with an answer that was just as sincere. He looked a little pained, and under the resolve, Hughie could see that he was fucking terrified. He knew what family meant to Butcher—it meant Lenny and Becca and Ryan, the people he’d loved the most—but that was also a list of people he’d lost. 

“Billy, I know what you’re thinking,” he said, as gently as he could. He’d seen that look before, a couple times—sometimes Butcher looked at him like he was already dead. “Listen to me. You’re not gonna lose me too. It’s gonna be different this time.”

Butcher did it again then—looked at him like he was already imagining all the different ways Hughie could die or leave him—and he probably was doing just that, in vivid details, too, the pessimistic fucker.

“Hughie…”

“No, listen,” he insisted. “I’m gonna be careful so I don’t get myself killed, okay? What happened to Becca, I won’t let it happen to me. I’ll be careful. And the—the Lenny thing, that’s—I just, I know what I said at Judy’s, but—but I’d like you to know I haven’t thought about that in a long time. It’s not—I’m not gonna, Billy, I promise I won’t. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Butcher still didn’t look convinced. Hughie took a deep breath, looked around the hallway to make sure the others were still inside, and when he heard them chatting behind the door he turned back to face Butcher, expression set. 

 “Okay, let’s make a deal.”

“Those don’t tend to end well,” said the man, looking a bit startled by his sudden determination. 

“I don’t give a fuck. This one will. If I swear never to kill myself, do you promise you’ll be careful, too?” Butcher frowned, and Hughie just shrugged. “It’s just, we’re pretty shit at keeping ourselves alive for our own sakes, aren’t we? So maybe we can try to do it for each other instead.”

Butcher looked at him for a minute, weary and pensive, and there was something guilty in his eyes Hughie almost asked about when it suddenly seemed to morph into that absolute, kind of manic determination Butcher had most of the time, and finally he nodded. 

“Yeah, alright.” 

Hughie grinned back at him, trying to rule it in so it didn’t come out as too wide, too earnest, but fuck, who was he trying to fool? That ship had sailed ages ago. Plus, the way Butcher looked at him when he smiled all sunny and wide was always worth it—that quiet fond look in his eyes always filled him with a familiar warmth, pride almost, at the knowledge that he was probably the only one able to coax it out of him, and this time was no different.

Butcher tore his eyes away from him, blinking a little too fast and scratching at his beard absentmindedly. “Weren’t you going to head home for a doze?”

“Nah, I’m not tired,” said Hughie with a shrug. “Just wanted to talk to you. Wanna get dinner?”