Chapter Text
you don’t miss the way butcher says it.
“got us a new toy.”
and yeah, that should’ve been your first warning.
because when the door opens and he walks in, it’s not a toy—it’s a problem. a walking, breathing, broad-shouldered problem with a jaw that looks like it’s been carved out of something stubborn and old, and a presence that hits the room before he even speaks.
soldier boy.
he doesn’t look impressed. not with the place, not with the people, definitely not with you.
you don’t care. “you brought that into the safehouse?” you say, arms crossing before your brain even catches up. “what, like it’s not bad enough we got god damn noir after our asses—?”
butcher grins, already stepping back, like he’s just lit a fuse and is waiting for the explosion.
and soldier boy—he just... looks at you. slow. eyes dragging over you in a way that’s not subtle and definitely not polite.
you tilt your chin up anyway. “what?” you push.
he frowns, just for a second. like you’ve said something mildly confusing. like he’s not used to being talked to that way. then he laughs. it’s low. easy. a little too amused.
“sweetheart,” he says, voice rough in that i’ve been talking over explosions for decades kind of way, “you always this mouthy, or is it because you’re single?”
your spine straightens. your mouth curls. you feel a vein pop in a place it shouldn't. “excuse you?”
his mouth twitches. not annoyed. not angry. interested. amused.
which—no. absolutely not.
he steps closer, slow, casual, like the space between you is something he owns. something he can take.
“back in my day,” he starts, and you already hate where this is going, “girls who talked like that—”
“let me guess,” you cut in, rolling your eyes, “you said something wildly inappropriate and everyone clapped?”
he pauses. actually pauses. and then he grins. wider this time. sharper.
“nah,” he says. “we didn’t clap.”
a beat. just enough to get you take the bait and arch a brow.
“we just bent ‘em over something sturdy and taught ‘em some manners.”
okay.
yeah.
no.
no.
you open your mouth—ready, loaded, fully prepared to tear him apart—and nothing comes out. nothing. your brain just stalls.
because that was offensive. objectively. completely. horrifically outdated.
and yet—heat creeps up your neck.
traitor.
he notices. of course he does.
his eyes flicker, just for a second, to your face—lingering, catching the flush before you can hide it—and something in his expression shifts. not softer, not really, but... pleased.
smug motherfucker.
“what?” he says, tilting his head slightly. “cat got your tongue?”
you hate him. you do. “you’re—” you start, and god, this is humiliating, “butcher—”
the entire crew is staring—not subtly, no. eyes wide. jaws slacked. hughie seems on the verge of a heart attack. annie and kimiko are staring at you like you’re a stranger. like you’re you but not really you. because you don't hold your tongue. for anyone. yet...
he snorts when your eyes meet again. like you just proved his point.
you huff, stepping back, putting space between you and the way he’s looking at you—too direct, too aware, like he’s already figured something out you haven’t even admitted to yourself.
“you talk like a man that deserves to have his mouth shut,” you mutter.
there it is. finally. something sharp again. something yours.
he chuckles. “you volunteering?”
your stomach does something stupid. something annoying. you hate that too. “in your dreams,” you fire back, but it’s weaker now, thinner at the edges.
he leans in just a little. not enough to touch, not enough to be obvious—just enough that you can feel it. that presence. that heat. “careful,” he says, voice dropping, “you keep looking at me like that, people might get the wrong idea.”
you blink. “i am not—”
“yeah,” he cuts in, smirking, “you are.”
you’re not. you’re definitely not. you—
you might be.
just a little.
god, this is a disaster.
you look away first. you hate that too.
“you’re insufferable,” you mumble, folding your arms again like it’ll fix anything.
“and you’re still standing here,” he points out.
you don’t have a comeback for that. not a good one, anyway. and that’s worse than anything he’s said so far.
because you’re not used to this—being thrown off, being caught.
he watches you for a second longer. then just hums under his breath and steps back, like he’s done enough damage for one day. which—yeah. he has.
you exhale slowly, trying to get your bearings back, trying to shake off the lingering heat under your skin, the stupid little buzz in your chest that refuses to settle.
from across the room, butcher’s returned and is watching. grinning, of course. traitor.
you don’t look at soldier boy again. not right away. but you feel it. the way he’s still looking at you. and you hate—really, truly hate—that part of you that kind of wants him to keep going.