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Buttercup never got sick.
Not when they were kids and Mojo turned the city’s water supply into radioactive goo.
Not during high school flu seasons when half the school looked like zombies.
Not even that one time she wrestled a mutant boar in the rain and walked away with nothing but muddy boots and a victory smirk.
She was invincible . Unshakable. The "rub some dirt on it and walk it off" type of girl.
So when she finally did get sick…
She was down .
Day One: The Den of Defeat
The house was dark, the blinds drawn.
The faint sound of a trashy true crime documentary mumbled in the background.
On the couch was what looked like a pile of mismatched blankets and tissues — but beneath it, Buttercup lay in defeat, eyes glassy, nose red, voice completely wrecked.
She looked like the ghost of a raccoon.
When Butch walked in with a bag of groceries, the soup already steaming in a thermos, he froze in the doorway.
“Holy crap. You are mortal.”
Buttercup peeked one eye open and gave him the weakest middle finger he’d ever seen.
The Sick Day Survival Plan
Butch didn’t laugh — okay , he laughed a little — but he immediately got to work.
He dropped the grocery bag on the counter:
- Soup (extra spicy, just the way she liked it)
- Cold meds
- Electrolyte drinks in obnoxious neon colors
- Tissues with lotion
- And a USB drive with a playlist labeled: “For My Tough Girl Who’s Temporarily Weak”
He brought over the soup, set it carefully on the coffee table, and crouched beside her.
“You better not tell anyone you saw me like this,” Buttercup croaked, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
Butch leaned in, grinning. “Your secret’s safe. Unless you die. Then I’m crying at your funeral loudly .”
She laughed — and immediately doubled over into a coughing fit so intense, she had to blow her nose five times in a row.
Butch just held her hand through it, quietly handing over tissues without comment.
Later That Night
They watched three horror movies in a row.
Butch spent most of the time trying to act like the jump scares didn’t get him, while Buttercup kept half-snoring, half-mocking him from her cocoon of misery.
At one point, she fell asleep on his chest, wrapped in his hoodie, her feverish skin warming his side.
Butch looked down at her — eyes closed, hair a mess, face still somehow the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen — and brushed a strand behind her ear.
“You could cough on me,” he whispered, “and I’d still kiss you.”
Buttercup didn’t open her eyes, but her mouth twitched in a smirk. “Romantic. Germy. Gross.”
“Welcome to love,” he whispered back, and kissed the top of her head.
She was back to kicking ass within a few days.
But every time someone sneezed around her for the next month, Butch would throw himself in front of her like a Secret Service agent.
Just in case.
Because invincible or not , Buttercup was his — and even her rare moments of weakness were something he’d guard with everything he had.
And if anyone ever brought it up?
“Buttercup sick? Nah,” Butch would say. “She just sneezed once and broke the flu’s nose.”