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Becca was gone. Ryan was under Mallory's wing. The Boys operated with Neuman as their new retainer.
After all was said and done, and the new routine was set, and the days dragged on, Butcher was left to his own thoughts about Becca, and Ryan, and himself, and…
Butcher dragged his tongue over his teeth. Peered up at the bleary four-o’clock sky. He watched the clouds sag heavy with rain to come while he drew his breath inward. While the smoke sifted ‘round his lungs, he let himself wonder for a moment if Becca were looking down on him.
Really, he knew it as well as he knew he had a spine in his back that no such thing as God or Heaven existed. In fleeting moments, he indulged a side of himself that wanted to hang on to the belief in something higher. Something that would justify the shithole that was this life.
He dropped the butt of his cigarette into the grass and smushed it beneath his foot, blades burning into cinders before he left it in his wake. He trailed himself back into the vague direction of the Flatiron building. Today he’d found himself forgoing his lunch break for an extended walk-and-cig-break. Hardly made a difference; the nicotine and the muggy, sprinkly weather killed his appetite, anyway.
He wasn’t sure when he’d started letting himself think about such things like God again. Might’ve been after the millionth time he’d made it out of a scrap alive by the skin of his teeth. Might’ve been after getting the Boys back together. Might’ve been after Hughie pulled him aside one night to offer him unsolicited words of wisdom, in that fretful, nervous way of his. He’d murmured to Butcher with the gentleness of a doctor whispering to a dying animal – which he may as well have been, the way he’d let himself get plastered at his desk during ungodly hours of the night – that surely, Becca’d gone out with no regrets in life. That she was happy to have reunited with Billy again. That Billy’d done everything he could, and that he owed it to himself to forgive himself and to move on.
That was just the thing, though. He couldn’t forgive himself. He couldn’t move on. Not after the raging, white-hot fire that lit his entire nervous system as his eyes flitted between Becca’s still body and the sobbing child that he could only identify at the time as the incessant byproduct of a homicidal rapist that’d just murdered the love of his life. His hand twitched back to life as he brandished his crowbar.
If Homelander hadn’t showed up when he did… if Ryan hadn’t shuffled behind Butcher when he did…
There was no way Butcher could harm the boy with such an open and desperate display of trust.
A silent request. A plea to the only other grown-up in the situation who might have a semblance of his safety in mind. “Please protect me.”
Nearly made him sick to his stomach to imagine how he might’ve beaten the life out of the kid, if left to his own devices.
It wasn't Ryan's fault, after all. Becca herself had said as much in her last, dying breaths.
It was Butcher's, he couldn't help but think instead.
That was the part that would require extensive torture for him to ever consider speaking about.
Butcher denied any chances to talk about Becca’s passing or departing Ryan onto Mallory. He instead opted to spit back with an insult about “poking around in his business” if prompted by MM or Frenchie. No matter how gently they’d asked, and no matter how hard they pushed. No matter how much MM bugged him to see a goddamn shrink about his problems. Nah. Butcher’d made it his whole life with the shit he’d seen by drinking and smoking and punching, and he was right as rain. He’d be quite fine. He knew he would be. He had to be.
He was wasting his time thinking about this bollocks, he figured. All he needed was to rectify his mistakes by catching Supes, one happy little punch at a time.
Butcher meandered down the streets of Manhattan. Always keeping an eye out, 24/7, in case some bugger tried to get the jump on him. He tried not to let his mind wander too far as he shouldered past people, pace remaining steady even as the rain picked up, breathing in the smell of old garbage and ankling away from beggars and hustlers on sidewalks attempting to accost him.
This heavy feeling of drowning in his darkness seemed to suit him.
As Butcher had always suspected, there would be no God and no Satan to welcome him with open arms after it all, anyway.
Butcher shuffled up the steps to the entrance of the Flatiron building. Just in time. The tinkling rain had evolved into heavier drops of warm water bouncing off of awnings and catching Butcher’s eyelids.
He swung the door open and made his way to the office where the rest of the crew was working. He’d been noticing more little things than usual, today. Like the way his boots reverberated against the high-ceiling hallways, his steps heavy and clumsier than usual. Or the scent of mildew hiding in the vents of this old building. He’d wondered if he was going softer in old age; slowing down, stopping to smell the flowers, or some bullshit.
He opened the doors to the office with a deft nod in greeting towards the Boys, all of whom looked bored out of their god damned minds.
MM’s brows furrowed in concentration as he was turned towards his monitor, but Butcher could tell after spending years around the man that he was spacing out, the way his eyes didn’t seem at all focused on anything in particular. Certainly overthinking their latest report to Neuman, or something or the other.
Kimiko looked like she’d spent her day building a goddamn miniature stage play with the origami animals littered around her desk – The Paper Menagerie, Butcher wagered it'd be called.
Frenchie was even more chilled than usual, not even pretending to work what with his feet kicked up on his desk as he lolled a joint back and forth between his teeth. He fiddled with his lighter as he dragged his gaze out the windows, seemingly indecisive on whether he wanted to try lighting a spark in the rain outside or risk getting yelled at by MM for “hotboxing everybody.”
Butcher shook his head lightly to himself at them as he made his way to his own desk. Slackers, the lot of them.
Things were slow, right now. After Neuman had stepped in as their retainer, Homelander stopped making trouble for the time being, and Ryan safe and sound with Mallory, it felt like they lacked urgency. No updates by way of potential methods to take out Homelander, either.
He wondered what Hughie was up to, now.
Likely listening to Billy Joel while working on a report for Neuman. Or smiling ear-to-ear while checking on a text from his little Supe girlfriend. Or fretting about something inconsequential, like whether he wanted to put French Onion or Garden Vegetable cream cheese on his goddamned Everything Bagel.
A chuckle almost sparked its way up to Butcher’s mouth as he recalled the many times he’d witnessed the lad frozen up in decision paralysis. Things like which coffee creamer to put in so his coffee would taste more bearable. If he should get takeout that night or just finish off his last shitty microwave dinner. If Starlight would notice his socks were mismatched that day and if he should bother going home to change them before their date or risk her making fun of him.
Truly, Butcher couldn’t imagine how one could stand so still so long over something so trivial. But it was that little personality trait he almost found himself missing on a day like today. Just a little something to bring entertainment to his day – if he could only witness someone else going in amusing little circles, rather than having to experience it himself.
The last hour went by unceremoniously. Butcher listened in on police scanners for any sketchy activity, documenting possible notes of interest, but nothing was catching today. He contemplated just snatching the god damned joint out of Frenchie’s hand and smoking it himself if only to cause a stir from MM and to get Frenchie and Kimiko on his ass for stealing their joint.
But, looking at the lot, they all seemed quite spent on energy, too. Didn’t seem like they'd care to take the bait in an entertaining way even if he’d tried.
In the last few minutes of the shift, Butcher checked his phone subconsciously. He wasn’t expecting the string of texts he’d gotten from Hughie, starting from an hour ago.
Suspicion hit him like a truck, at first. He wondered if the set of messages was because he was in trouble. Butcher’s shoulders relaxed as it was just the kid bugging him about something utterly trivial.
“Hey! :P”
That corny fucking text face with a fat tongue sticking out. Butcher wanted to roll his eyes at the sight of it. What were they, giddy schoolgirls writing in each other’s yearbooks?
One hour ago: “Just wanted to ask if you ever reached out to any of the therapists we found?”
Forty-five minutes ago: “It’s chill if you haven’t, and all.”
Thirty-nine minutes ago: “Just been wondering if you’re OJ lately.”
Thirty-five ago: “OK**. I mean I wanna know if you’re OK lately.”
The fuck is Hughie, his goddamned grandmommy? Made Butcher scratch at the top of his neck where he’d nicked himself shaving that morning in irritation. Almost made Butcher want to respond and pretend like he was on the verge of suicide just to see what would happen.
Ten minutes ago: “Can I call you in a bit?”
Eight minutes ago: “If you don’t mind”
Butcher’s thumb lingered over the empty text box. Wasn’t sure what he’d say. Ironically he’d just been thinking how it’d be nice to have Hughie here, worrying about something. Except he didn’t sign up for that something being him.
Butcher readied his thumb to hit the box to start typing a prompt “fuck off, mate” in response (not that he was really that angry currently about Hughie checking in on him, as the lad was prone to do, Butcher was just bored), but didn’t catch that the call screen had popped up right then and there from Hughie calling him and, as it were, his thumb happened to hit that green answer button before he could realize it.
“...Oh, hello? Butcher?” Hughie’s voice sounded from the other end, as if surprised himself that Butcher picked up so quickly.
Butcher didn’t know why, but a sense of panic spiked in his nerves from accidentally picking up a call from Hughie, of all people. Must’ve been the lack of action all day, he thought to himself. He stood from his desk to shuffle out into the hallway, separating the phone from his ear as he put it on speaker (couldn't be arsed to bust an eardrum trying to listen too close to the shitty phone audio). He nodded at Frenchie and Kimiko as they headed out. Kimiko brandished an umbrella and the pair exited the building, shielded from the oncoming rain, their elbows practically glued together. Strange how close the two were, but oddly, Butcher wasn’t upset by it. Grossed him out just a tad, yeah. But that bond seemed to be what glued as valuable a weapon as Kimiko to their little ragtag squad. Really, he just wanted to understand it.
“...Uh, anyone there…?” Hughie spoke up again with increasing uncertainty creeping into his voice. Butcher realized that he hadn’t been speaking, and that Hughie might’ve been worried that Butcher had gotten, like, killed or something, and his murderer answered the phone just to hear what his contacts sounded like. He probably owed it to the lad to let him know that he was alive.
“Yea, I’m here,” Butcher spoke begrudgingly.
“Oh! Great!” Hughie replied in a tone that was all-too-cheery, evident that it only took three words of acknowledgment from Butcher to lift Hughie’s mood entirely. He went on to babble about what he was up to: he was about to head home for the day, but just waiting in his office for the rain to pass, something about forgetting to bring an umbrella, waiting for Starlight, and…
“Yea, yea, what do you want?” Butcher sighed into the phone. He couldn’t even bring himself to sound pissed: moreso just tired. He watched the droplets that stuck to the window in the hallway.
“Uh, did you read my texts?”
“No, you know I don’t got time for checkin’ every little tweet that you kids send me,” Butcher half-lied. It was a known fact among the group that Frenchie loved to send useless Twitter shit to them all the time. Butcher yelled at him to stop flooding his notifications and eventually gave up on reading or responding to things on his phone that didn’t involve life-or-death situations altogether. Decent ruse to hide behind, Butcher thought.
“Uh, but they weren’t Tweets? Just regular text messages. …You do know how to check which is which, right?”
“Make your fuckin’ point, mate,” Butcher snapped.
“Right. Well, you know.” Hughie paused and cleared his throat. “Just wanted to know if you ever checked out the counselors we researched. You know, ones who actually know how to handle Supe trauma. Uh, I heard Kimiko was interested in seeing one, actually. You might want to ask her about it – er, maybe get it in an email from her –”
“Why’re you callin’ me about this shite? You know I’m fine,” Butcher said, growing increasingly irritated. The more the Boys brought the topic up, the more it felt like rubbing sandpaper against a scar that was just trying to heal.
More like rubbing sandpaper against an open gaping wound.
“...Define, fine?” Hughie asked, voice pitching up at the end in such a way to suggest he either was playing dumb, or being sarcastic.
“Christ, Hughie. You know wha’ I mean. Long as you’re fine, and the Boys are fine, and Homelander ain’t rippin’ apart masses of children in other countries, I’m fine.” Butcher insisted, pacing a few more steps down the hallway. He watched the swaths of raindrops on the windows coagulate into one another as he spoke.
The line was silent, for once. Butcher watched anxiously as one raindrop fell slowly to the bottom of the window, but didn’t quite make it quickly enough before it conjoined into another stream. He found himself speaking again.
“‘Course, could always be better. You know. When Homelander’s finally bit the dust, an’ all.”
Or if Becca were still alive and if Butcher hadn’t contemplated fucking murdering the innocent boy he swore to her he’d protect.
If only it weren't all Butcher's fault.
It took a second for Hughie to respond to that. His tone geared upwards, like he was revving his voice to speak back up again.
“...Uh, yeah. Yeah, totally. You know, I feel the same way lately. I’m surviving, but like, things could always be better. Like you said.” He spoke in a fake-cadence of increasing confidence, like he was getting ready to pitch Butcher on a sale. Butcher just sighed, folding the crease between his brows with his fingers. He couldn’t be arsed to have this conversation right now.
“Quit beating ‘round the bush and spit it out.”
“...I signed you up for a remedial therapy session.”
“You did bloody what, now?” Butcher spat through the phone.
Hughie’s tone picked up in speed and urgency, like he was trying to defend himself from a murder accusation.
“I still have all your contact info, so it was easy, and also, she's a really good therapist, from what I’ve heard! Vicky mentioned her to me, so I looked her up, found a lot of good reviews–”
“Hughie, it’s a fuckin’ shrink, not a goddamn hooker–”
“Oh my god, Butcher. You can’t just say shit like that."
"Got a problem with that? Plan on cancellin' me, hmm?" Butcher replied, swiping his tongue over his teeth in a little grin as he paced the hallway.
"It's not wrong to get help. Especially not after..." Hughie's voice trailed off, but Butcher could easily fill in the gaps of what that pitchy bastard wanted to say. After Becca.
"The only help I need is to be left the fuck alone! Jesus, you twats with your 'mindfulness' routines, as if that's going to get any results. A shrink won't help me gut Homelander–"
"You know this is the shit that gets people ending up alone, right? Denying when you need help, even when it's offered to you on a silver platter?”
A brief flash to his father’s shrinking, ugly, pathetic little head pressed up against his mum’s porch window.
“People are assholes, Hughie. Who’s to say I wouldn’t rather be left alone, hmm?” Butcher responds, a smirk tinging at the corner of his mouth.
“Uh, I do?” Hughie responded in earnest, confusion littering his teeny little tone.
A beat passed.
“...Doesn’t that count for something?”
Rising hope in Hughie’s voice. Peaking in both pleas and uncertainty. Like his argument was a hail Mary threatening to crush Hughie if it didn’t work.
Footsteps sounded behind Butcher. MM brushed shoulders with him and patted him on the back firmly, his bag in one hand and umbrella in the other. MM shot Butcher a stern look, his brow cocked downward.
“Take it from me, man. Some demons you can’t punch your way out of," MM spoke resignedly, having had this argument with Butcher time and time again himself. He paused, then shook his head, seeming ready to dismiss the conversation already. "Just do it for the kid."
“Thanks, MM.”
“Oh, fuck off, mate,” Butcher bit back, scowling, talking to the both of them but his voice ending up not particularly hitting either.
“Will do,” MM ended coolly as he headed out the front door finally, unfurling his industrial-grade umbrella before trudging out into the onslaught of rain.
Leaving just Butcher alone in the Flatiron building. Butcher, with his thoughts, trapped inside from the sounds of the steady pitter-patter all along the windows of the Flatiron. Oh, and this petulant fly buzzing in his ear about “self-care” or some bullshite. Like the little flying lighthouse he was. His canary.
“What the fuck even is remedial therapy, anyway?” Butcher spat into the phone, watching two raindrops slide down the frosted glass of the window. It was interesting, in a way, how parallel they fell to one another. He already knew he'd lost the battle.
Not that he’d ever admit that to Hughie, or to anyone else, for that matter.
As fate would have it, said therapist was no longer available by the time Butcher’s allotted appointment came. On account of, she became collateral in Horrible Supe Accident Number One-Million, just hours before the appointment. Showed up in the news, hours later: local pedestrian became the victim of a piano falling on top of her head after a high-speed chase through a fifty-story penthouse.
Course, Butcher didn’t know that, at the time. He cursed at himself the entire walk to the shrink's office while promising himself a blissful night out at the bar afterward, if only to drown out whatever the fuck it would've been that the shrink was gonna attempt to pry out of him.
Figured he'd go in and treat it like a regular doctor’s visit: complain about whatever aches were plaguing his back and his shoulders and what have you in his old age. Hum and haw and agree to whatever bullshite exercises she recommended and pretend to go along with the stupid questions she might ask.
Office was closed. Fucking figured. He even waited around a few minutes to see if she would show up. After five minutes of kicking some pebbles around the hallway, with no shrink, he was happy to steer the course the fuck away from the entire thing.
He felt oddly hesitant, in a way. Like he wasn’t sure what he was going to say to Hughie about it (the kid would definitely accuse him of skipping it). Wasn’t sure what compelled him to, but he pulled his phone out to snap a photo of the “closed” sign over the office door. Like proof that he wasn’t a filthy fucking liar (even though he was, at times).
Took him a second to scroll to the bottom of a string of text reminders from Hughie about the appointment, but Butcher had sent the photo with a simple comment: “office is bloody closed. can I get my refund?”
Which was how he ended up at a bar tonight, chatting with Hughie over the ordeal instead.
“Shrink became the victim of a real-life Looney Tunes gag. Told you this shit weren’t Photoshopped,” Butcher said, pointing up to the TV behind the bar showing the news footage alongside (censored) crime scene photos of shattered piano shrapnel amongst pixelated fleshy colors all along the cement.
“I know, I know,” Hughie said, almost tiredly, into his margarita (Butcher was always telling the kid to try a real man’s drink, put some hair on his chest, but Hughie refused each time).
Hughie glanced up into the TV screen with dejected, sagging eyes.
“Don’t tell me you were seein’ the shrink, too? What, worried that an old man like me can’t handle a bit of hardship? Think I’m gonna wither away from sadness?” Butcher mocked, whiskey on his tongue.
Hughie just shook his head, as if to let the comment roll right out of his hair.
He just stared into his glass full of red-pink liquid for a while. The damn salt around the rim can’t possibly be that interesting, Butcher thought to himself. A few more seconds of silence, with mellow concentration stitched into Hughie's brow, his fingers tightening and loosening around the handle of the glass, and Butcher realized that Hughie might’ve been taking this harder than Butcher would’ve assumed at first glance.
It wasn’t that long ago, really, that Hughie himself was robbed of someone due to ‘collateral damage’ from a Supe. Wasn't unlikely that this story hit too close to home, for him...
That someone who was the love of Hughie’s life.
One who Hughie sought vengeance for.
Just like with Becca.
Then Hughie took a deep breath, holding it all in for a few moments like a balloon nearing to pop, and in one sharp exhale, pushed the air out from his lungs. He tilted his head back up. Stared not up at the TV or down into his fruity drink, but straight to his left, towards Butcher.
A smile crawled upon his face.
“But you tried anyway. I’m actually… really proud of you for that, Butcher.” A round little curve creased around the corner of Hughie’s smile. Dim lights of the bar reflected on the pale skin of his cheek behind the stubble. A genuine twinkle in his eye fought to the surface, in spite of everything.
“Oi, cut that out. You ain’t my daddy gradin’ my report card, you twat,” Butcher grumbled, speaking into his fifth glass of whiskey for the night, covering the warmth rising to his cheeks.
Another few glasses and he’d be able to forget about the ordeal completely. Just put the whole thing behind him.
Butcher said, sneering into the air, “Well, suppose now that I’ve tried, we can sing kumbaya and say I’m feelin’ better now, yea?”
“I mean… there are… more therapists in New York. I could try asking Vicky if she knows anyone else who’s, uh… less prone to having pianos fall on their heads.” Hughie looked sheepishly down at his phone.
It was sweet, in a way. The canary just wanted to keep singing for him, didn't he?
“Don’t you worry ‘bout that, lad,” Butcher gruffed, a solemn look in his eyes. Something strange was happening to him. Making him sappier than usual. It was this god damned boredom, Butcher had told himself. He slapped Hughie on the back. Gave the lad a reassuring shoulder rub like Butcher wasn’t the one whose therapist-to-be died in a sudden accident.
“Promise ya I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Except to Hell, possibly.
Hughie looked back to Butcher with that shine on his face. Eyelids upturned with the most earnest of smiles lining his cheeks. Like he was made for this very expression.
“So that means you’ll go if I book you with another one?”
“Christ, Hughie. Think it might be a sign that this shite weren’t meant to be." Butcher massaged the crease between his brows.
Hughie's shoulders sank in dejection.
"‘Sides, don’t think I’ll have much time for this ‘talking-about-feelings’ bollocks anytime soon. We’ve got a piano-hurling Supe to investigate, hm?” Butcher gestured up towards the television.
Whether he saw the shrink or not, it didn't change what happened with Becca.
Didn't change that it was Butcher's Ryan's Homelander's fault.
Didn't change that there were no God and the only solutions that existed were ones involving righteous vengeance and much-needed drowning in alcohol.
“Doesn't mean you can't have time for both,” Hughie replied, pulling his phone out and smiling wryly towards Butcher. Butcher rolled his eyes and yanked the phone right out of Hughie's hands.
“Just leave it alone. I'll be peachy once we catch the damn Supe.”
Long as he had his canary by his side, at least.