Chapter Text
“Are you out of your mind ?! ”
Blossom sighed, having expected this reaction. “Buttercup, please. You know how much this job means to me. Do me this one favor.”
“Blossom, it would ruin my brand. I don’t care if you get fired. I am not doing that embarrassing shit.”
The two female choreographers that were there to demonstrate the dance side-eyed each other, clearly taking Buttercup’s words to heart.
“I know it’s a bit… over the top, but—”
“It’s basically sex on moving legs, Bloss. No wonder you wouldn’t agree to do it.”
Blossom spluttered, her face matching her hair in color. “That—that’s not why… Oh, shut up. I only asked you ‘cause I thought you were up for a challenge. Clearly, I was wrong.” Frustrated and still red in the face, she made her way past her sister to exit the dance studio. Pausing at the door, she turned to the other two women. “I apologize for wasting your time. I didn’t know my sister was such a pussy.”
Before she could step outside, a green streak flashed across the door, and in a second Buttercup was between Blossom and the slammed door, green eyes glaring at red. “I’ll do it.”
Blossom squeaked and threw her hands around her shorter sister, who was too slow to dodge. “Thank you thank you thank you. Oh my god, I am so excited.”
Rolling her eyes, Buttercup patted her sister on the back then shrugged her off. Then she remembered this was a duo dance, and her eyes darkened. “Wait, who’s my partner?”
The question seemed to suck the excitement out of Blossom’s face. She gulped, bracing herself, and answered in a low voice, “Well… Brick.”
Fuck. Me. There was no way in hell anyone would shut up about this. However, it made a little more sense to Buttercup now. So that’s why Blossom wouldn’t do this dirty, eye-taunting, hair-pulling dance. She was a modest, shy person by nature, but with Brick being her dancing partner, there was no way she would survive that close a proximity, even if they had danced together in the past. Everyone knew about their crush on each other, and all their friends could notice the awkwardness between them that they were so keen on denying. So, in fear of her passing out during practice, Blossom rejected and promised her boss to find someone else to fill her spot: Buttercup.
The three Powerpuff sisters had taken dance classes throughout middle school, where they excelled at it. Blossom was the only one who decided to pursue dance during high school, and later on, professionally. Bubbles decided to pursue singing instead, and Buttercup branched out to sports, but they both kept dancing occasionally, so as not to let their skills become too rusty.
Buttercup sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Whatever. Let’s just get started.”
Blossom, trying and failing to hide her excitement, whispered, “You are going to look so sexy.” Buttercup burst a nerve trying not to punch her.
Butch snorted. She smacked his head and he almost fell over the railing they were sitting on.
“What, you’re doing ballet and shit?” he chortled.
“And shit. It’s not ballet—”
“You are so doing ballet. Look at your damn face. Oh, man.”
His laughing fits were interrupted by Buttercup’s elbow in his stomach, and he doubled over, slipped on the railing, and plunged down toward the sea. He took a second too long to float in the air and almost—imagine the satisfaction— splashed into the water. To her dismay, he was still laughing while he ascended back up to her level.
“I can’t,” he said between laughs, “I can’t believe I’ll see you in—in those skirts, you know, the like… what do they call them? Tatas?”
She leaped over her seat and tried to kick him midair, but he backed away just in time, still chuckling. “Butch, shut the fuck up. I’m serious.” She stopped chasing him around, suddenly feeling tired, and retrieved her seat on the railing. “I’m not in the mood, seriously, man.”
Butch chuckled for a second more, then glanced over and saw her expression. He pretended to wipe a tear from laughing so hard, but he stopped nonetheless.
He flew towards the railing and sat down beside her. “Why’d you do it, if you hate it so much, anyway?”
“I got called a pussy. You’d do it, too.” He noticed that she glanced at him then, and for some reason, the notion made him want to smile. Something in her expression told him she needed reassurance, and something in him wanted to give her all of it.
He kept his face straight, eyes staring at the sunset ahead, and said in a low voice, “Hell, yeah, I would.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Buttercup seemed to relax, and they sat in silence for a minute or half. Then, in the tiniest voice, like she wasn’t sure she wanted him to hear, she said, “I don’t hate dancing that much.” Pause. Butch didn’t speak in case she wanted to go on. She did. “Not at all.” He was looking at her now, while she stared straight ahead, as if trying too hard to look casual.
When she remained silent, he said, “Cool,” still staring at her. She noticed and met his eye for a second, then looked out at the sea again.
“Yeah, I love dancing. It’s just… just this routine that I don’t want to do… you know, in front of other people. I know it makes me a pussy and all that, but I’d—I’d prefer not to, you know?”
“I guess.” Butch finally followed her line of vision. After a minute and in a lower, rougher voice, he slurred, “What, is it sexual or something?”
She didn’t reply, but he could see her shoulders slouch a bit.
Buttercup had to admit, practice was kind of fun. And Brick was… kind of hot. She had understood why half of Townsville crushed on him before these weekly practices—he had always been what Buttercup calls a pretty boy—, but now she understood why Blossom, who had high standards, liked him, too. As a ballroom dancer, she had to give him credit for his leading skills. He could spin and twirl her around all day, and she wouldn’t find it demanding or offensive. She wouldn’t even notice. He was smooth; he subtly flirted with everyone. Bonus point: he was tall and jacked.
Not as tall or jacked as Butch. The thought was sudden and unwelcome. She pushed it away.
The dance was progressing smoothly. They were both talented, quite literally inhumanely. The choreographers Buttercup had met with Blossom were, to say the least, satisfied with how the routine’s end result was turning out.
One afternoon, during their break, Blossom dropped by to check on things.
“Hey,” she smiled at them.
Brick, who was downing his water bottle with his eyes closed, jumped and almost choked on his water. Something about the action reminded Buttercup of his green-eyed brother.
Buttercup, smirking, decided to spare the poor man, and replied herself. “Hi, Bloss.”
Her sister, however, was eyeing the only guy in the group, partly worried at his purple face, partly disappointed at his lack of greeting. After a moment, she cleared her throat and turned to her sister. “How’s… you know… it going?”
“It’s—” But Brick cut Buttercup off.
“It’s going well.” He had recovered from the shock of hearing Blossom’s voice and regained his stoic composure. “Do you want to see it?”
“Yeah, sure,” Blossom smiled. Brick uncharacteristically broke eye contact with her, and appeared to be looking everywhere but Blossom’s face. Buttercup could barely hold her laughter in. So he can flirt with everyone but the girl he likes.
Halfway through showing Blossom the routine, Buttercup glanced over at her and burst out laughing. She was red in the neck and up, her hand hiding most of her face and occasionally, her eyes. If this was her reaction to watching the routine, Buttercup knew she would pass out if she was the one performing it; with the guy she liked, nonetheless.
After the music faded to a stop and the two dancers broke out of their finishing pose, Blossom— Brick seemed to be listening too closely—admitted that she loved it. She gave a few notes, mostly to Buttercup, who was nowhere near as good as the other two, and bid them goodbye. Twenty minutes later, Buttercup and Brick decided to call it a day, and agreed on getting lunch together before heading home.
“Boomer, hurry the fuck up .”
The blond man, crouched in front of a floor shelf, staring at colored guitars and lost in thought, didn’t reply. Butch, who was standing behind him, kicked him in the back so that Boomer almost stumbled forward. “What?”
“I’m fucking bored. You’ve been at it for at least fifteen minutes. Just pick one and let’s go.”
“Suck my dick, Butch. It’s not that easy.” Boomer stood up and walked around to the other side of the stand. “Look, man, just give me a few minutes and—”
“Is that Brick?” Boomer ignored his brother and kept roaming the shelves. “NO FUCKING WAY! Dude’s with a girl!” He immediately lost all interest in guitars and joined Butch to spy on the impossible scene.
“I have a question.”
To keep her hair from falling in her burger, Buttercup had it tied back, her hood on to hold away the extra strands that kept sneaking out. The moment before Brick said that, she had taken a huge bite and was physically incapable of moving her tongue or sounding a letter. Brick heard his dance partner, mouth covered in buffalo sauce, make the ugliest throat sound he had ever heard, and took that as a sign to carry on. “Why did Blossom not want to dance with me?”
Brick looked at her expectantly, his cool demeanor looking forced and unnatural. Buttercup had to channel some X to her jaw as extra strength to chew down the bite, then sat in silence for a few seconds. “Um… it’s not that it’s with you. It’s… you know, the dance.”
“But you did it. Why not her?” Although he looked composed, his voice sounded worried.
“Gee, I suck that bad?!”
Brick was taken aback. “No, no,” he chuckled. “You’re actually very good. Almost as good as Blossom. But… she has never said no to a dance before. I just wonder… would she have done it if I weren’t her partner?”
Maybe. Probably, thought Buttercup. But not for the reason you think. She couldn’t tell him that the reason Blossom didn’t have the courage was because she liked him. “Listen, Brick. This dance is too inappropriate for my sister; she probably wouldn’t be this slutty in front of people in a hundred years. But… she trusts you enough. I’m pretty sure that if she ever were to do it, she’d want you as a partner.”
Brick chewed on his tongue, turning her words over in his head while Buttercup took another bite and prayed that he’d drop it. In the end, he picked up his burger and took a bite, then smiled at Buttercup. The fucker’s prettier than me. She smiled back and decided that if Blossom ever grew a pair of balls, Buttercup would approve of them dating.
“Yo, who’s the lucky girl?” The guy who spoke sounded familiar. Then Boomer appeared from behind her. “What?! You’re on a date with Brick?”
Buttercup frowned, confused, then decided to have some fun. “Am I not pretty enough for him?”
“Honestly? No,” Boomer laughed. Buttercup shot a laser beam at his feet.
“So much for support. Well, he chose to be with me, anyway. Live with it.” She turned to Brick and winked, and he thankfully caught up.
“Right,” Brick said. “Don’t be mean to my girlfriend.”
“What?” A fourth voice. Butch. But it sounded too calm to be his.
“Dude. What the fuck. Brick and Buttercup are dating.” Boomer looked like his head was going to explode.
“Yep. One month now.” She contemplated reaching out to hold Brick’s hand to add to the effect, but decided against it.
Butch was silent.
“How the fuck did it happen?” Boomer asked, both delighted and repulsed.
“It’s private,” Brick leaned down to sip his coke. “Now leave us alone.”
Buttercup has never witnessed Silent Butch for this long, so she glanced up at him between bites and found him frowning at her. His eyebrows were furrowed, his hands in his pocket. The seriousness on his face, his composed body language, was so eerie that it chilled her to the bone. She was watching a stranger in her best friend’s body.
“What?” she asked him, but she didn’t mean for her voice to waver, to sound so small. She repeated more fiercely, “What?”
He stared for a second more, then with no humor, without moving a muscle in his ever-so-moving body, he nodded at the burger and said, “Just looks good.” After that she watched him walk up to the counter and order one for himself.
Buttercup suddenly lost her appetite. She put her burger down, stood up, and bent down to hoist up her bag. Sudden anger was boiling her blood, consuming her insides, prickling her nerves. She felt sick, dumb, because she couldn’t understand this anger, because she couldn’t understand his reaction, because she couldn’t understand him. This stranger. A second before she took flight, she remembered to turn to Boomer and say, “It’s a joke.” Then she was up in the air, her bag scrunched up in her fist, the air screeching at her ears, and for a second, she was powerless enough to feel it burn her skin.
Three weeks later, Buttercup was getting dressed for the performance. Brick could tell she was nervous after she peaked behind the curtain to check out the audience. He was used to this many people watching him on a stage; she was not. Nerves— annoying, weakening tingles— nibbled at the pit of her stomach, at her limbs, at her fingertips.
“Never thought I’d see the green Powerpuff nervous,” joked Brick.
The green Powerpuff was too nervous to answer.
She heard someone thank the act before them, heard her name and Brick’s being announced, and saw Brick take her hand, as designed for the beginning of the dance, but it all felt far, far away. She saw her legs moving, Brick guide her outside, the light hitting her eyes. For a second, she was blinded. But then she caught a deeper version of her own eyes in the crowd, and all her senses hurtled back to her. He was there, in the far-right corner, in the back. This time, he was no stranger. And she was no pussy. And she wasn’t as nervous.
He watched Brick emerge from behind the curtain. She followed, her hand in his. They were both wearing white shirts, hers oversized, making it appear like she wore nothing underneath. They stood facing their crowd, hands still attached, and Butch was overwhelmed by a desire to leave. The pretty boy and his own best friend against the world. Red and green. Unnatural. Evil, even. For some reason, it made him sick.
His supervision caught Buttercup gulping, her eyes scanning the audience, and then they fell on him. She smiled. Barely, but she smiled.
No. No, how could he leave? There she was on a stage, and her hair was down and her makeup looked so out of place on her face, and she was going to dance for the world. He wasn’t going to miss this.
The music played, and she let Brick swirl her into his arms. Although she didn’t expect it, her body knew what to do, how to move, and soon enough her brain caught up.
In a second, Buttercup was in Brick’s arms. They swayed for a few seconds, her head on his chest. As the music swelled, it started to dawn on the crowd what kind of song they were dancing to: slow, romantic, sexy. The kind of song that filled the room. The kind you could hear and feel all around you, inside of you.
The first beat dropped, and by some magic, by some evil magic, his best friend and brother were moving as one. It took them less than seconds to move across the stage, took him the most effortless motions to lift and move her around, took her lightness Butch was disgusted to find out she possessed. Her face wasn’t hers. Eyes closed, she soared and ducked and leapt, into Brick’s arms, hooking her legs around his waist. Her hair was too short to look this flowy, her body too rough to look this soft.
He was watching a stranger in his best friend’s body.
The music climaxed. Buttercup stood in the stage’s center, and Brick crept up behind her. As violins and drums clashed together, Brick slipped his hand underneath her shirt, and it travelled upwards, upwards, scrunching it up and revealing black shorts so tiny Buttercup would make fun of them. He swirled her around, and her back faced the crowd, his arm holding her by the waist, her hands on his neck, mouths too close. He dipped her back and she arched backwards in a circle, slowly, seductively, and the upward-down look of her features creeped Butch out. Who is that?
Vaguely, he remembers her legs around his waist, again, her face buried in his neck, his hands caressing her back. They both looked so passionate, like the one thing they cared about was right there, in their arms. As the music died, Buttercup twirled out of Brick’s reach. She lay on the floor, and just as the last beat dropped, so did Brick, and then he was on top of her, and the curtains closed, and it was over.
There was silence. Then noise erupted, all around. Butch felt dizzy, sick, far away. He could hear Bubbles jump up and down beside him, Boomer cheering and whistling. He watched as the crowd stood up, one by one, but he remained seated. He loathed it, down to every last second, down to each and every movement. Her beauty repulsed him, her body, the way the shirt slid up to reveal her thighs, her ass, her stomach. He needed a cigarette.
The next thing he remembers is pushing against strangers, hearing teenagers saying She’s hot and Smash and feeling drained, and the one thing he could think of was how throughout it all, she never glanced at him once.
Buttercup felt giddy. So giddy she could’ve giggled. Brick patted her shoulder once, “Nice work, partner.”
After they changed, her fingers still shaking from the nerves’ aftermath, they joined the crowd to watch the rest of the performances. Bubbles ran over as soon as she spotted her, hugging her and jumping up and down. Boomer appeared, saying “That thing was hot”, then Blossom, who smiled at them fondly and thanked her for the hundredth time. And then…
She couldn’t find him. He didn’t run up to her, laughing his ass off and teasing the dignity out of her. Did she imagine him? No, he was here. She saw him.
He left. He was so disgusted, so repulsed by this side of her, that he couldn’t stand to watch. She wasn’t feeling giddy anymore.
An hour later, after the crowd had emptied and the other performers had left, feeling tired and guilty for no reason, Buttercup was packing her stuff backstage when she felt a presence at the door. Somehow, she knew it was him. She didn’t turn around.
He stood at the door, quiet. There he was again, the stranger. After what happened at the mall, Butch and Buttercup barely spoke, since she was busy balancing dance and sport practices, but whenever they did, Butch seemed himself—loud, irritating, and annoying.
“What the fuck are you silent for?” she snarled, back still turned, the same previous anger creeping up once more.
He didn’t speak, didn’t move. Buttercup wanted to set fire on the clothes she was packing. She threw her shirt in the bag and zoomed across the room, stopping right in his face, the front of his hoodie scrunched in her fists. “Say. Something.”
There was fury there, he could tell. But something in the way she spat her words sounded desperate. He was too empty to notice. Soon his anger started rising to match hers, and he pushed her away.
“Great little dance you did,” he spat back. “Slut.”
He had barely uttered the word when her fist collided with his cheek, sending him flying backwards toward the hall. His feet screeched against the floor, and he used the friction to steady his body, and to eventually stop. He wanted to throw a punch back, but instead he found himself turning. He was leaving again.
A green streak flashed to his left, and she was standing in front of him, blocking his path. He pushed her to the side and out of his way, moving toward the stairs. She followed him, her voice echoing in the empty hall. “What the fuck is your problem? Did you seriously come back just to call me a slut? What the fuck is your problem?”
He kept walking – I don’t know, he thought – climbing up the stairs and towards the roof. He didn’t feel like using his powers to float. “Stop, you pussy.” For some reason, and for the first time ever, he only wanted to get away from her before they got into another physical fight. I don’t know.
He pushed the roof’s door open and stepped outside, her voice telling him to stop following him all the way up. Then she said, “Butch”, and all the anger left his body. He stopped in his tracks, her behind him, the open air chilly and the city loud.
“What is your problem? You want to pick fights? Then turn around and fight, you cowa—”
“My problem,” he spat, finally turning around, and none of the stranger was present in his expression. Only Butch, furious. “is you liking my brother.”
“What?” She wanted to punch him. There were a million things she wanted to say. Instead, she yelled, “How is that any of your fucking business?”
He punched the wall, leaving a hole the size of his fist and cracks running up to the top of the building.
“You’re a fucking hypocrite,” she continued, screaming now. “You love watching Blossom dance and you keep telling her to loosen up—whatever the fuck that means—and now you call me a—”
“That’s Blossom! I don’t fucking care—”
“No, I don’t fucking care what the fuck you’re trying to say.” She zoomed towards him, her face inches away from his, eyes darkened by fury. “You call me a slut one more time and you won’t live to say anything else.”
He stared at her, lips angrily trembling, eyes twitching, hands fisted.
“If you don’t wanna watch the slutty dance, I don’t give a shit. You left, and I’m glad you did. Why the fuck did you even come back?”
He didn’t utter a word, and she went on. “Everyone’s better off when you’re not here, Butch. You’re poison. You kill everything you lay your nasty hands on. You’re a selfish jerk and you deserve hell, and I’m just glad your brother isn’t like you—”
“Shut up about Brick,” he screamed. “Since when are you fucking in love with him?”
“Would you stop saying that? I am not in love with Brick,” she pushed him, trying to get him to punch her, kick her, eye-laser her, anything for her best friend to go back to normal.
Instead, Butch took a step back, running a hand through his hair. He suddenly looked helpless, weak. The sight was so unusual, so sudden, that it felt contagious. Buttercup’s body was immediately overtaken by exhaustion.
They stood in silence, Butch looking all around him and not meeting Buttercup’s eyes once. A million things went through his head. Images of her dancing, legs around his waist. The itchiness between his legs at the memory of her thighs. And guilt. Draining and exhausting guilt. He was a fucking jerk. He was a fucked up piece of shit. Poison. She’s right. He ran a hand over his face, squeezing with all his might and cursing the X for protecting him against his own powers.
“You can’t do this.” Her eyes were furious but her tone was calm. Tired. Disappointed? “You don’t get to play with people’s moods. I don’t give a fuck if you don't think I’m good—”.
“You’re good.” His voice was low and rough, like sandpaper scratching on rocks. “Of course you’re fucking good, Buttercup,” he mumbled, eyes on the floor.
Her jaw twitched. She nodded.
He took a step back. “I… I’m gonna go.” She didn’t respond. He looked at her for the first time in minutes. Her eyes were glowing bright green and unreadable. He waited for a second, hoping she’d say something, or he’d grow some balls to say something himself. She didn’t. He didn’t. He launched himself into the air and toward his apartment. I don’t know. He couldn’t fucking wait to get home.