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The first time he does it, he doesn’t even bloody know the lad.
He’s just a mark. One he’s had the patience to watch for about a week before he’s ready to have a go at him. Does the usual. Bugs his phone. Watches ‘im for a few days.
Listens to him refuse that Vought cunt with something close to pride. And somethin’ way too close to hope.
It’s that night when the thought first occurs to him, lying in his bed and trying not to think too hard about what he’d do if it worked. Too early to celebrate.
Had noticed the lad was pretty enough soon as he laid eyes on him. Hadn’t made an impression on ‘im until he was lying in his bed that night, thinking of those dark, nervous eyes staring up at him as he took his mouth.
Comes over his fingers thinking about how he’d choke, about how he’d probably never taken a cock. Cleans himself up and rolls over without thinking about it.
Wasn’t even really enough to be a passing fancy.
-
Thinks about fucking him through the mattress so hard he forgets his own name after he does Translucent. Lad deserves a reward after that performance, now doesn’t he?
-
He sits for hours outside the little motel Hughie took his supe girlfriend to. Knew what he was up to. That they were prolly asleep by then.
Doesn’t make him wanna murder a cunt any less that he broke his promise. That he’s bloody endangering them all.
Refuses to leave until he sees Hughie come out, some mixture of- bloody fucking dread and resentment he can’t shake. Entertains himself with the thought of what he could do to ‘im to get it through his thick fucking skull that he doesn’t need her.
Imagines bending him over the table in his flat and making him cry for it. Leaving red handprints on his arse and slim hips. Biting him until he bleeds.
It’s a good fantasy.
It leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
He tells himself it’s disgust at what Hughie’s done and not anything else.
-
He finds himself back in the car after Mesmer. Thinks he can still feel the blood on his hands even though he's long since washed it off.
His father never got the blood on his hands. Good at that.
Butcher pulls into an abandoned lot and roughly fingers himself to the thought of Hughie tearing him open. Doesn't know if he wants it sexually or for the lad to pick apart his guts with a knife.
Tries to imagine his eyes as dark and angry and cruel.
He can't.
He can't.
Because that's not Hughie. It's never been.
It's Butcher.
He gives up. Leaves himself sore but uninjured. Hates himself for it.
It's never been Hughie, and that's why he's tryin' to leave now. Butcher can tell himself it's just the supe- but it ain't.
He won't let him go. Because he is.
And he always gets what he wants.
So Butcher pulls his tracker up on his phone, sets it on the dash, and starts his car.
Was time to get back to work.
-
Butcher ends up in a motel after- after seeing Tom. It’s far off the beaten path, enough for him to kip for a few hours at least.
Has to be. He can’t drive anymore without ending up in a ditch.
Can’t end up in a ditch while Becca still needs him. While they- while maybe they could still have the life they always deserved.
He lays down and shivers. Tells himself it’s the cold even though he’s fully dressed and under two layers of blankets.
Tosses and turns for- he doesn’t know how long.
He only ends up taking himself in his hands just because- because he wants his brain to stop. Just for a bloody second.
Imagines someone’s body against his. Soft and undulating. Nails digging into his back and lips against his.
Pressing his forehead against theirs. Butcher arches up into his hand and comes at the thought of looking into their eyes.
Not Becca’s, but Hughie’s. Wide and vulnerable with something- something-
Even though Hughie left him. Or maybe it’s that Butcher drove him off.
Even though he was probably dead, and Butcher would never see him again.
Even though he should forget the lad because Becca’s still alive, even though Hughie was always just a passing bloody fancy-
Butcher vomits in the shitty hotel bog and gets back on the road. Can sleep when he’s dead.
-
The relief he feels at Hughie being alive is just about undercut by him being such a cunt. The kid stops him from bringing down Kimiko’s baby brother. Looks so shocked and betrayed when Butcher tries to drive him off.
Looks shocked again after Butcher lays him out.
He imagines those shocked eyes underneath him that night. About fisting a hand around that slim neck.
Soothing the bruises with a kiss.
About pushing an entire fist up Hughie’s arse and listening to him whimper and scream.
Working him open before.
Biting his shoulder so hard he hits bone and swallowing the blood down with it.
Comes only at the thought of Hughie whimpering his name.
His stomach feels sour after. Doesn’t know if it’s with guilt because of Becca or- or-
No. That must be it.
Already done her wrong once. Couldn’t do it again.
-
He imagines washing the blood off of him after the whale. Drowns out the sounds of his screams, the way he’d looked laid out in front of Starlight, by turning up the shower. Turning it hot enough to sting.
Touches himself and imagines Hughie there with him. That it’s Hughie he’s touching instead of himself. Washing the gore away.
The stain.
Erasing that empty, devastated expression off his face with pleasure. Kissing his shoulder.
Pressing his lips against his pulse.
Butcher goes to find him once he’s done. Sits next to the lad where he’s reading on the couch. He feels Hughie’s thigh press against his and thinks that it’s enough.
It has to be.
For both their sakes.
-
Becca tells him to leave.
And the thing is- she was right about ‘im. Right about his plan.
Maybe even right about him being a bloody animal.
So he goes and gets himself pissed. Gets the beating of his life from what felt like an entire bloody bar.
He lays in a motel room after and stares up at the stained ceiling.
Wakes up in the middle of the night, restless and drenched in his own sweat.
What would happen to her now?
What would happen to him?
He knows the answer.
He goes to the bathroom for a glass of water, meets his own eyes in the mirror, and thinks about Hughie.
He wonders if the lad misses him.
Probably. Always was a too soft cunt.
He sets the glass down and rubs himself off against the sink thinking about Hughie holding him. Just holding him.
Butcher feels so disgusted with himself after that that he shatters the glass against the mirror.
Doesn’t wanna look at his own wet eyes anymore.
-
It’s the night after his Aunt’s. He’s having a drink on the shitty couch of their little bolthole when Hughie comes in.
He looks cautious. Gentle in that awkward way of his.
Butcher ignores it until he comes and sits down next to him, mumbles a, “Hi,” that Butcher returns with a grunt.
He can feel the warmth radiating from Hughie’s side. Butcher takes a deeper drink.
“Are you alright?”
Butcher waves the glass at him and says, “Gettin’ there.”
The sigh is all exasperation. All Hughie. He takes the glass out of his hand and Butcher lets him. Lets him hold his eyes.
“What?” He says irritably, when the silence stretches.
“I’m just- I’m glad you didn’t die, okay?” Hughie flattens his mouth, “I wish you were too.”
Butcher glares down at the glass, “Yeah, well.” He reaches for it again, and Hughie stops his hand. When he looks back up at him the lad is- too close. Too bloody determined.
“Did it ever occur to you that people love you too much just for you to- to throw your life away?”
Hughie swallows thickly, “That- that I do?”
Butcher can’t answer. Doesn’t bloody know how.
So he snogs him instead.
Hughie lets him.
Butcher presses closer, and Hughie’s leg flails hard enough to kick his glass off the table-
And Butcher wakes up to a whiskey stain and glass shards on the floor. He stares down at the puddle. Pushes himself up off the couch.
The room is dark and empty.
Love you.
Love you.
I love you.
He goes straight for the bottle instead.
-
Becca’s dead.
And Hughie’s gone. On to better things and the like.
Maybe they both were.
Butcher twists onto his side. Feels Becca’s necklace slide against his neck and closes his fingers around the pendant. Runs his fingers over the worn grooves in its face.
Becca was gone.
He’d used to think it would be easier. If he had a body. A gravestone. The surety of a- bloody coffin.
But it ain’t.
It’s worse.
It’s worse when her own kid were the cause of it. It’s worse that he can’t bloody blame him.
A tear slid down his nose.
He let it.
Weren’t no one around to pretend for.
Part of ‘im wonders what it would be like if he didn’t pretend in front of Hughie. If the lad would hug him, voluntarily, after all the shite he’s done to him.
How it would feel to bury his nose in Hughie’s hair and finally just-
bloody let go.
It’s not in the cards. He knew it years ago.
There’s no point in pretending now.
He still falls asleep to the thought of Hughie behind him. Putting his arms around him. Kissing his hair and murmuring that it was alright in that timid, stubborn voice of his.
No point in pretending.
He supposes he’s good at doing shite that’s pointless though, isn’t he.