#creative punctuation

M.M. had his hand on Judy’s shoulder as he guided her towards the door and Hughie was struggling to keep his grip on the very unhappy bulldog. Butcher hovered in the door for a moment, exceedingly reckless thoughts chasing through his head.

“Butcher?” Hughie asked, still suspicious after the suicidal behaviour he had shown before.

“Get ‘em out of here,” he replied urgently and, without waiting for a reply, threw the door shut behind himself. Then, for good measure, he tugged a chair under the handle to keep the others from coming back in.

“Butcher, wait! Wait!” Hughie shouted desperately and tried to shove the door back open, but to no avail. “Butcher! Butcher, what are you doing? Butcher, you don’t- Don’t do this!”

Completely ignoring the young man’s attempts to call him back, Butcher cautiously walked back into the wrecked living room.

“Alright, you fucker. Where are ya?” he called out into the silence, but before he even had the chance to take a breath, he was suddenly thrown into a wall.

The impact knocked the air out of his lungs, and he found himself on the ground. When he looked up, the black-clad supe was watching him, his head tilted to the side almost curiously. Butcher saw a poker lying halfway between him and the fireplace and while holding Noir’s gaze, he carefully inched his hand towards it.

The supe raised his gloved index finger and shook it in a mocking gesture. Noir moved effortlessly and in one swift motion stepped on his reaching hand, stomping down on his fingers. Butcher gritted his teeth in pain and tried to retract his hand from under the supe’s sole. Noir grabbed him by the collar and tossed him across the room like a rag doll.

Butcher crashed into the kitchen island, pain immediately shooting up and down his back as a loud crack signalled the breaking of at least one rib. In a reflex reaction, he hugged one arm around his middle, his other hand braced on the countertop to keep himself upright. The all too familiar, metallic taste of blood on his tongue made him feel lightheaded. A dark smirk curled his lips as he watched Noir move towards him, just like a cat on the prowl.

Suddenly, his eyes landed on the supe’s belt, and his attention was caught by the concussion grenade that was dangling from Noir’s hip. A plan formed in his head as he remembered the oven on the other side of the kitchen island and the gas pipes it was connected to. His smirk widened.

If Billy Butcher had to go out today, he’d do it with a blast and take as much of the supe with him as possible. In that moment nothing outside that room existed, his whole world had reduced itself to the walls of Judy’s house. All his rage was directed at the supe before him, even the thought of Homelander had vanished. He just needed to find a way to snatch the grenade from Noir, and quickly, because he knew he didn’t stand a real chance if he let the fight go on for too long. Afterall, he was already injured.

As fast as his legs allowed, he moved into action again and scrambled to get around the kitchen island, each step sending a shockwave of pain through his rib cage. Luckily, he had years of experience with ignoring his body’s responses to violence.

Noir’s gaze followed him attentively and it was excruciatingly obvious that he didn’t consider the other man a threat. Once again, he made Butcher think of a cat that intended to play with its prey before landing the fatal blow.

Figuratively speaking, it would make him the mouse in this scenario and that’s where the metaphor became faulty to him. Billy Butcher was no mouse. If anything, he was a rat, determined to fight and bite and do as much damage to his opponent as physically possible.

With one precise motion, he snatched a carving knife from the counter and just in time too, because it took Noir mere seconds to swiftly move around the kitchen island and land a well-aimed punch to his stomach.

Butcher gasped for air, his eyes wide in renewed pain. But he didn’t hesitate to take a swing with his knife-hand and plunge it into the supe’s shoulder where the material of his suite was slightly less protective to allow for better movement. Noir flinched in surprise and pulled the now bloody knife out of his flesh. Then he let it clatter to the floor carelessly. Apparently, all Butcher’s attack had accomplished was to anger the supe even further.

Without so much as a warning, Butcher found his throat enclosed by two fierce hands, gloved fingers digging into his skin and his windpipe dangerously close to being crushed under the pressure. This was it, the only chance he had. While struggling to get even a hint of air into his lungs, his right hand shot out and snagged the grenade from Noir’s belt. Fortunately, the supe was too preoccupied to even notice. Butcher just about managed to push down the lever and pull the pin before he was suddenly thrown across the room again.

He crashed back first into the knocked over sofa, the pain almost wringing a cry of agony from his lips. The only thing that made him restrain himself was the reassuring weight of the grenade in his hand. Scrambling to push himself up on his elbow, Butcher looked over at Noir who was staring down at him from behind the kitchen island.

Despite the harrowing feeling of suffocation that was still gripping him, he gave the supe a dark smirk. He knew he wouldn’t be able to kill Noir. But that certainly didn’t mean he wouldn’t try.

“Burn in hell, cunt,” Butcher grunted and put all the strength he had left into hurling the armed grenade at the oven right next to his opponent.

Time seemed to slow down as his eyes followed the missile. Even Noir’s movements appeared lazy to him now. Then he heard the door behind him being smashed open with brute force. There was no time to turn around and the sofa would’ve blocked his view anyway. But he knew it had to be Hughie and M.M.. He had counted on them being safe and sound outside.

“No!” he yelled hoarsely, but it was already too late.

The kitchen was suddenly engulfed in a massive explosion, flames licking at the black outlines of the supe before him. Then, as time sped up again, everything around him came crashing down.

* * *

Violent tremors shook Butcher’s body in waves and his head was pounding so badly, he was afraid it was on the verge of exploding. His throat felt like it was on fire, and it took him a few moments to realise that he was coughing. He tried to open his eyes, but his lids were heavy with dirt. With each uncontrollable cough he inhaled even more dust and his lungs seemed impossibly constricted. He tried to roll over onto his side, but something pinned him down and he couldn’t move. Not even an inch.

“Shit,” he pressed through gritted teeth, still tasting blood.

Finally, he managed to blink a few times and eventually he opened his eyes. The semi-darkness around him didn’t allow for much information about his location. There was nothing but dust and debris.

Then, as if his coming to had been the go-ahead for his body to catch up with recent events, he noticed the pain. It was everywhere. He took a sharp breath and tried to focus. There were different nuances to it, he observed detachedly. While his head was still pounding and his lungs were burning, there was also a crushing pressure on his chest, the searing ache radiating from his broken rib, and a stabbing pain in his right thigh. The last one was the hardest to explain.

With great effort he took control of his shaking hand and let it wander down his torso. Almost immediately his fingers came into contact with the sharp edges of a heavy piece of drywall that was pressing down on his chest. The further down he went, the heavier his breathing became. When his hand finally reached his leg, a frown formed on his face. His fingertips gingerly closed in on the source of his pain and were met with a slim, cold piece of metal. Carefully, he let them trace down the object. It was slick with blood. Shit. He’d apparently managed to impale himself on some broken off piece of rebar. Quickly, his fingers found the point of entry on the backside of his thigh. The rod had gone straight through his flesh like a hot knife through butter.

“Fucking fantastic,” he grunted as he let his head fall back to the ground.

Obviously, Noir had failed terribly at killing him, rendering his attempted suicide by supe a complete waste of his resources. Butcher had truly not given a single shit about dying when he’d been fighting Noir, had even yearned for it. But now, buried under a heap of rubble that had once been his aunt’s kitchen, his resolve was crumbling and his survival instincts kicked in. This was not the way he’d wanted to go out.

So, he tried to calm his breathing and consequently his fiercely pumping heart. It was his only chance to at least somewhat slow down the blood loss. He knew his only hope was for Hughie and M.M. to dig him out of the mess he’d gotten himself into. The big problem was that he couldn’t be sure if the two of them were even alive. Was the supe still there?

His best bet was to wait it out for as long as possible, seeing as he was physically unable to move and all. Butcher closed his eyes in something close to defeat, but not quite. He just needed to stay awake. Easier said than done, he soon realised. His head was getting woozier by the minute and his extremities were slowly going numb from poor blood circulation. While he had succeeded in steadying his breathing, his coughing fits had in no way subsided and the convulsions it sent through his battered body were painful.

It was getting harder to cling to consciousness as his body grew heavier and his thoughts became sluggish. Somewhere buried deep down in his brain resided the knowledge that he couldn’t give in to the sweet pull of oblivion. But it was ridiculously easy to ignore. He was completely exhausted and so, slowly, he felt the pain fade as he drifted off.

* * *

Hughie heard the footsteps before he was able to even think about opening his eyes. They were light but the rubble and dust on the floor amplified them. Although a groan was threatening to spill from his lips, he forced them to stay shut. Just as he forced his eyes to stay shut, too. If Noir saw him coming to, there was no way of telling what would happen to him. M.M. was on the floor a few feet away from him and he couldn’t be sure if the other man was conscious.

So, he tried to keep his breathing as shallow and undetectable as possible, lying on his front with his face pressed into the dust. Maybe it was a good thing that an ice-cold fear had taken hold of him because it as good as locked his limbs in a state of paralysis. Hughie just hoped that his wildly beating heart wouldn’t betray him as the footsteps came closer and then stopped right next to him. Without warning, the tip of a heavy boot collided with his ribs and the explosion of pain made him bite his tongue so hard, he drew blood.

Then he almost flinched in shock when the silence was broken by the sudden sound of a ringing phone. It did however save him from another kick to the chest. Noir picked up his phone halfway through the first ring. Hughie was able to make out a muffled voice on the other end of the line, but the words were indiscernible to him. He was quite sure Noir was able to smell the panic sweat that had broken out all over his body and it was taking a lot of effort to remain still.

Luckily and to his great relief, the supe hung up his phone and then quickly walked past him, through the door and out of the house. Whoever the caller was, Hughie was beyond grateful because they’d called off Noir and probably saved his life in the process, even if unintentionally.

Minutes went by without anything happening, but Hughie was too scared to move. M.M. still hadn’t given any indication of being awake either, a fact that made him worry even more. He was still trying to breathe as little as humanly possible, and his brain started to go fuzzy from lack of oxygen. Then, out of the blue, something warm and wet slobbered all over his face, and finally made him rip his eyes open in shock. Terror’s big, wrinkly face was uncomfortably close to him, and his breath was terrible.

“Shit!” Hughie shrieked and quickly scrambled to get himself into an upright position.

“Keep your voice down!” M.M. hissed and made Hughie flinch some more.

“You’re conscious!” he whispered – very loudly – while Terror tried to climb onto his lap.

“Would you just-” M.M. made a very insistent hushing motion at Hughie, then turned towards the living room door. There were footsteps in the hallway. Hughie held his breath as he followed M.M.’s gaze.

“What are you sitting around on the ground for? That black supe’s just left. Walked past me like I wasn’t there.” Judy announced briskly when she appeared in the doorway and both men sighed in relief. “Oh, bloody hell, what did you do to my kitchen? How am I supposed to pay for the repairs? Suburban drug dealing isn’t what it used to be! And where the hell is Billy?”

Hughie and M.M. silently looked at each other before finally glancing at the ruin that had been Judy’s kitchen. While most of the outer walls were still intact, there was nothing much left of the furniture and appliances. The backwall had crumbled down and the floor had given out. It looked like a sink hole had opened in the middle of the room and swallowed everything in its way. There was rubble everywhere and, as far as they could see, no sign of Billy Butcher.

“Noir was right by the oven when we came in. But I didn’t see Butcher anywhere,” Hughie said shakily as realisation hit him with the force of a truck. “I heard him shouting something, though! He has to be around here somewhere.”

Judy’s eyes widened in fear as she took a few steps towards the rubble, but M.M. had quickly gotten up and wrapped a hand around her wrist. She raised her eyebrows at him challengingly.

“My nephew’s somewhere under there. If you think I won’t look for him, you’re a very stupid man.”

“Mrs Atkinson, we don’t even know if the floor’s still stable,” M.M. tried to reason and looked down at the other man for support.

But Hughie wasn’t returning his glance. He was still frozen to the spot, no longer wrestling with the bulldog who was now comfortably sitting on his lap. A dreadful thought had taken over his mind and a cold fear was gripping his heart tightly. Noir had obviously been out to kill Butcher and if his breezy exit was anything to go by, then that had to mean… Had Butcher’s attempted suicide actually succeeded?

“Oh God,” Hughie swallowed and finally got up, ignoring Terror’s reproachful yaps.

He walked past the other two in complete disregard of the strained caution that M.M. was practically oozing. Stumbling over bits and pieces of rubble, he approached the kitchen area and almost scared himself when he opened his mouth and started yelling.

“Butcher! Fuck, where are you? Butcher!”

“Hughie, careful!” M.M. warned him. He let go of Judy again in favour of joining his friend, the woman hot on his heels. He too was afraid of what they might find.

So, the three of them scattered, carefully toeing the floor to check for instabilities and scanning piles of debris for any trace that might lead them to the missing man. Terror seemed to have grasped the gravity of the situation too, and was now strolling restlessly through the rubble, sniffing in random places, and whining along with Hughie’s continuing calls for Butcher.

There was no reply.

* * *

The sunlight was warm and soft as it flooded their bedroom. Her head was pillowed on his chest and she smiled up at him, drawing lazy circles on his bare stomach with her fingertips. She was everything.

Her face was glowing with pride at the praise she’d just received from the supe in the star-spangled cape. As the blond man left them standing there, she turned towards Billy and touched his face, his lips, with a sparkle in her eyes. She was happy.

They were sitting at the table, engulfed in a silence he didn’t know how to break. Her face was pale and her hair unkempt. She didn’t look at him, hadn’t looked at him for quite some time. He was desperate for her to say something, anything. She was slipping away.

Her arms were tightly wrapped around herself as she was sitting on the bench, looking like she was barely holding herself together. She hadn’t moved for hours. Then, suddenly, she got up and purposefully walked out of view. She was gone.

He was lying on the ground, blinking against the blinding sunlight and trying very hard to wish the supe above him out of existence. The man talked and talked but he didn’t understand, had no idea what he was saying. Then he saw her. Saw her looking at him, the disbelief he was feeling written all over her face, too. She was alive.

They were sitting in the boot of her car, her back against his chest, sharing a smoke. The night was warm, but there were goosebumps all over his arms. He still couldn’t believe she was here, she was with him. His love for her had never faded, but he had almost forgotten how strong it was when he was with her. She was a mother now.

Her hands were on his face again, desperation and defeat in her eyes. She loved him. She was scared of him, too. Not for herself but for her son. She loved him more. She told him he was wrong about her, that he’d always been wrong about her, and she rejected him. She was the love of his life, but she was lost to him.

* * *

A few long minutes of fruitless searching had passed, and Hughie’s panic was only growing stronger. Why hadn’t they found Butcher yet? Each second was crucial, he knew that. Even if they were able to find him, there was no way of telling what state he’d be in. He was becoming more and more reckless in his attempts to clear away the rubble and dig through the pieces of drywall and broken furniture. More than once, M.M. had to pull him back from the debris-filled hole in the ground.

“Shit, what are we going to do?” Hughie eventually asked into the tense silence.

“Keep digging,” Judy retorted tersely and through gritted teeth. “Billy’s the only family I have left on this side of the pond. So, keep. Fucking. Digging.”

“We’re doing our best here. But could someone get this dog off me?” M.M. requested in irritation. He wasn’t any less worried than the others, but as usual, he tried not to let it control him. Someone had to keep a clear head. “He keeps gnawing at my boots.”

“Terror! Stop it!”

Judy had looked up from her pile of debris and the dog gave her an accusatory bark. Then he waddled off towards a door at which he started to scratch insistently. Hughie’s eyes had followed him, and he observed him thoughtfully. Then he walked over and opened the door for Terror. The dog immediately ran down the stairs to the basement.

“Shit,” Hughie mumbled under his breath as realisation once again hit him. “SHIT!”

“What?” M.M. asked sharply.

“The basement! Why didn’t we think of that?” With that, the young man hastily followed the dog. M.M. and Judy wasted no time to do the same.

They quickly crossed the first room and then ducked through the open door to Judy’s “taffy room”. The front left part of the basement was completely wrecked and filled with remains of the crumbled kitchen. They had a hard time climbing over the heaps of rough wall fragments, blackened bricks, and singed pieces of wood, but eventually they all managed to enter. Terror was already pawing and sniffing at the huge pile of rubble again.

“We’ll find him,” M.M. reassured the other two, with his hands on one of their shoulders each.

Their resolve to find Butcher renewed now that they had better access, they once again started to dig.

* * *

He was clawing his way upwards. There were pipes and bricks and so many sharp edges all around him, scratching and digging into his skin, but he needed to get out. He felt like his lungs were filled with cement and each breath was painful. He kept fighting though, he had to.

Then sudden specks of light announced that he was getting closer, and he eventually pushed through the final layer of debris. Expecting more light and clean air, he blinked a few times and inhaled deeply. But the room was wanly lit at best, long shadows stretching across the littered floor, and he coughed as dust filled his airway once again.

He struggled desperately to free himself, but he was stuck from the waist down. Both his legs had gone numb from exertion and pain, and he looked around helplessly until his eyes fell on a slim figure in a far corner.

“Becca!” he cried out in agony as the figure slowly walked towards him, her head bowed.

Then she raised her eyes up at him, her hair framing her beautiful face like a portrait. There was pain in her eyes too, but her features remained cold and unmoving. She was paler than he’d ever seen her, and it scared him to death. Finally, she opened her mouth and all of a sudden her voice echoed off the walls as if she was screaming. She wasn’t, though.

“I don’t need you, Billy,” Becca stated, not a hint of emotion in her tone. “I’m safe here with Vought. Have been all these years while you gave up looking for me. Ryan needs his mother and the stability of a home. A home you cannot provide. You… You’re not safe. You’re dangerous. To me and certainly to him. I don’t want you around my son. We don’t need you.”

His throat felt constricted and his chest tightened painfully at her words. There, his worst fears laid out before him, he didn’t find it in him to even try and keep fighting. Becca didn’t want him and that was the truth. She’d told him before.

“Becca,” he whispered, on the verge of letting the first tear spill. “Don’t… Don’t do this.”

“I never knew how to save you,” she said, but now there was no regret in her voice, no sorrow. Not like last time.

Very slowly a huge but distinct shadow appeared on the wall behind her. The shadow of a caped hero that threatened to engulf her. She didn’t run. She made no move at all, her eyes still fixed on his as a pair of hands slipped over her shoulders and wrapped around her neck.

“BECCA!” he yelled in despair and started to struggle against his prison again. “Run! You can’t stay there! He’s right behind you!”

He needed to save her and suddenly, as if his pure force of will was enough, he broke through the obstructions that had held him in place. But it was too late. He stumbled and fell at her feet as the shadow swallowed her whole, his name on her lips in unexpected fear.

“Billy!”

“BECCA!”

* * *

“He has to be here, right? I mean, he can’t just have… evaporated?”

Hughie was standing in front of the ruins, sweating all over and slowly reaching his limits. Judy had sat down and M.M. was still digging. It felt like they hadn’t made any progress at all. No one had an answer to Hughie’s question.

He rubbed at his face with both hands, smearing dirt across his clammy skin in the process. With each passing minute his hopes of finding their friend alive faded a little more and he just couldn’t deal with that thought. He stood by what he’d once said. Billy Butcher was too much of an asshole to die.

Just when he was about to turn back to look at M.M. with dread coiling around his insides, his attention was caught by Terror. The dog was pawing manically at something he’d apparently found in the rubble. It was a blue piece of fabric and Terror was adamant in his efforts to retrieve the object. Hughie had to take a step closer to get a better look as the dog finally freed his prey and immediately started to chew on it. The young man had to supress an actual laugh at what he saw. Terror was slobbering all over a stuffed Homelander toy.

“Hey guys! GUYS! Look!”

Judy and M.M. quickly followed Hughie’s pointing finger and simultaneously raised their eyebrows.

“Where did he find that?” M.M. asked in confusion.

“He just dug it up,” Hughie explained, feeling excited for some reason as he looked over at Judy. “Is it his?”

“No,” the woman shrugged, nonplussed. “Billy must’ve brought it.”

“Definitely seems like something he’d do,” M.M. agreed, a hopeful smile curling is lips.

“BUTCHER!” Hughie started calling again, the other’s not wasting any time before joining in.

* * *

The voices weren’t just in his head anymore. There were sounds reaching his ears, waking him from his trance-like nightmare. He knew it hadn’t been real, but that didn’t mean the image of Becca wasn’t burnt into his brain. Her words of rejection still echoed through his skull, amplifying his headache by a hundred percent.

“Butcher!”

The voices sounded so familiar, yet he couldn’t quite place them. His eyes fluttered open once more and he was mildly surprised that he wasn’t, after all, dead. He tried to move but was thwarted in his efforts as the dormant pain from his leg shot up and down his body again. It made him groan involuntarily which in turn silenced the voices for a moment. Then a nervous kind of excitement seemed to be breaking out outside his confines.

“Did you hear that?”

“Butcher?”

“Here,” he tried to respond, but the word was torn to shreds on its way across his dry tongue as a violent coughing fit sent his whole body into spasms. His muscles cramped up uncontrollably and his thigh squeezed painfully around the piece of rebar his leg was still impaled on. “Fuck,” he spat out gruffly between heavy breaths and convulsive coughs, a thick sheen of sweat on his brows.

“It’s him! He’s alive!” Hughie. That was definitely Hughie’s voice.

“Butcher!” And M.M.. They were fine, thank fuck.

“Billy, talk to us!” Judy’s ever demanding tone almost made him smile.

He tried to clear his throat, but his insides appeared to have turned into sandpaper. Although the reply I’m here, tossers was on the tip of his tongue, all he could manage was a weak wheeze. Nevertheless, it seemed to do the trick because it was greeted with some urgent scratches and a low bark. Terror.

Then there was movement in the layers of rubble to his right, the piece of drywall that was pressing down on his chest starting to shift a little and dust rained down into his eyes. The voices grew louder, and he just about managed to rasp out a thin “Careful!”. One wrong move and the whole fragile mount could crash down on him. Again.

All of a sudden, a bright ray of light fell on his face and made him scrunch his eyes shut. They were slowly unearthing him, mindful not to injure him further. The bulldog was pressing through the remaining debris impatiently and it didn’t take long until Butcher was assaulted by the excited licks of a rough tongue.

“Good boy,” he chuckled, still very short of breath, and tried to free his hand to pat Terror. “Glad ya found me, aye?”

Next M.M. appeared in his line of vision, a relieved expression on his face. “Keep still,” the other man warned him and waved Hughie over to help him clear away the last pieces of rubble.

“Took you lot long enough. Careful with the leg,” Butcher instructed with a hiss as a sharp flash of pain shot up his body again. “Got a little skewered down there.”

“Jesus, Billy, you scared the hell out of us!” Judy said, her voice clearly tinged with reproach.

“Yeah, well… sorry,” he replied without the slightest hint of regret. “Had no other choice.”

“What do you mean, you had no other choice?” Up until now Hughie had kept quiet, but now he was as good as shouting at him. “You very clearly tried to kill yourself along with Black Noir! And he walked away without so much as a scratch!”

For a second, Butcher’s expression softened at the hurt look on the young man’s face. It was true that he’d been reckless and very disregardful with his own life. Yes, self-destruction had very much been on the table, and he hadn’t thought about what it would do to the others at all. Hughie’s confession that he was still thinking about just cashing it in after Robin’s death was permanently burnt into his memory. That had cut him deeper than he cared to admit and triggered images of his brother he’d suppressed for years now. Maybe Hughie was right to be angry.

“Calm down, lad. I’m alive, ain’t I?” he retorted bluntly, then added in a somewhat muted tone, “Though… I am sorry. Guess I wasn’t in me right mind.”

M.M.’s eyes widened in disbelief as he paused in his efforts to free his friend and looked back and forth between him and Hughie. The honesty of Butcher’s apology was unprecedented. He could count the times he’d heard those words leave the man’s mouth on the fingers of one hand, and they had never, in all the years he’d known him, been this genuine.

“Well… okay, then,” Hughie replied lamely, obviously as dumbstruck as M.M. was.

“Now, I don’t wanna piss on your moment, but would you be so kind and just get on with it?” Butcher inquired with a groan as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows.

Hastily, they went back to work and when Hughie lifted a smaller piece of drywall from the man’s leg, his face immediately turned a sickly shade of pale green. He had uncovered the rebar that was sticking out of Butcher’s thigh.

“Oi, don’t you dare throw up on me now,” Butcher commented drily at the look on Hughie’s face. Then he finally managed to push himself into a sitting position and inspected the piece of metal himself.

“Shit,” M.M. breathed out in shock at the sight. “How deep does it go?”

“Went straight through,” he responded in unsettling nonchalance.

The former medic turned to Judy and urgently asked, “Do you have any medical supplies around here?”

“Of course, I do. What kind of woman do you take me for?” she replied brusquely and quickly went to scramble over the remaining rubble and to her shelves.

“We need pressure bandages, disinfectant, pain meds, and something to stitch him up with,” M.M. gave his list as she started her search. Then he looked back at the patient, instantly turning alarmed. “Butcher, what the hell are you doing?”

The man in question had wrapped his right hand around the intrusive piece of metal tentatively, his left hand pressing down on his thigh close to the entry wound.

“Ya might want to look away for this,” he mumbled in Hughie’s direction with his tongue between his teeth.

“Wha-“ Hughie started, but got yelled over by M.M..

“Butcher, no!”

But it was already too late. In one swift motion Butcher had pulled the rebar out of his leg, the wet sucking sound making Hughie wretch.

“What the fuck, Butcher?” the young man cried out, utterly horrified and turning impossibly paler.

“Are you insane?” M.M. yelled and swiftly jumped to his side to press down on the wound.

“We need to get out of here,” Butcher stated between heavy, shallow breaths, and tossed the rebar to the side. “Let’s not make this a bigger deal than it is, alright?”

“You’re not going anywhere like this,” the other man shot back and searched the room for a more appropriate location to treat Butcher’s thigh. “Hughie, come one. Help me get him over to the sofa.”

The young man was still a little shaky, but he nodded nevertheless as he stooped down beside them and, with a little more force than strictly necessary, wrapped Butcher’s arm around his shoulder. No one commented on that. Together with M.M. he got him to his feet, but he was physically unable to put any kind of weight on his injured leg. Even the few feet over to the sofa were a struggle. Terror followed them, the Homelander toy in his mouth already dripping with saliva.

When they lowered Butcher down again, the dog clambered up onto the seat beside his owner and nestled into the pillows, chewing contently on the plush supe. Despite the pain he was in, he smirked down at his dog.

“Good boy,” he said again and scratched Terror behind his ears.

“Focus, Butcher. You need to get your pants down. And before you say anything, this is as uncomfortable for me as it is for you,” M.M. requested of the man before him.

“Yer a medic, this shouldn’t be uncomfortable at all,” Butcher replied offhandedly, but started to undo his pants without further comment, lifting himself with a grunt to push the jeans down to his knees.

“Yeah, but you’re not my usual type of patient,” the other man grumbled and looked at the wound. “Mrs Atkinson, did you find the supplies?”

“I got some bandages, disinfectant, and a syringe for the pain killers. They’re morphine based, though. Might be a tad strong,” Judy said when she joined them at the sofa.

“I wouldn’t mind some stronger drugs,” Butcher asserted through gritted teeth, his hands clamping down on the pillows with each wave of pain. “I have a bleedin’ hole in my leg, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Yeah, yeah," his aunt said, the accompanying eye roll audible in her tone. Then she turned around, walked over to Hughie, and dropped her findings into his hands. “You’re the nurse now, boy. I’m going to go upstairs and keep a look out. The fire brigade’s sure to be back soon, so hurry up.”

The young man fumbled around with the supplies for a second, trying not to drop anything, as Judy left them to it. After everything that had happened, he felt a little detached and very far away from what was going on around him right then. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears as he saw Butcher’s seeping out from his wound and running down his thigh. It was like he was frozen to the spot and couldn’t help himself staring at the injured man’s leg.

“Hughie! Hey, snap out of it!” M.M. looked a little concerned when he waved him over with an urgent gesture. “Come on, we don’t have time for this right now.”

Hughie shook his head, trying to get himself back to reality, and clumsily hurried over to them while struggling not to stumble. Then he crouched down beside the other two men and laid the supplies out on the small coffee table. It was nothing if not sheer good luck that the sitting area was still more or less intact.

“What do you need?” he asked M.M. in a jittery voice.

“Just hand me the bandage,” M.M. replied before addressing Butcher again. “The bleeding’s still too strong to even think about disinfecting the wound. I’m just gonna put a pressure bandage on it. Hopefully, that will be enough until we find a safer place to stay, and I can stitch you up.”

“I’m good with whatever,” Butcher shot back and lifted his leg as much as his position and the pain allowed. “Now, get on with it.”

Without further ado, M.M. began to wrap the gauze bandage around the other man’s thigh, careful to put the right amount of pressure on it. Butcher ground his teeth and screwed his eyes shut. When he was finally all bandaged, he let out a relieved breath and looked at M.M. again.

“What about the morphine?” he asked curtly and looked over at the table.

Although it was obvious that he was in pain, he didn’t want to let them know how bad it actually was. It took all his remaining strength to keep his leg from shaking, and his rib cage still felt like it was on the verge of being crushed. To channel at least some of his tension, he kept biting down on his cheek, the taste of blood a constant reminder that he had once again survived when he shouldn’t have. He wasn’t usually one to welcome care or attention of any kind, but he was also smart enough to know when it was time to accept help. Now was that time, and help couldn’t come soon enough in his opinion.

“I’m going as fast as I can, asshole. But you really don’t want me to rush this part,” M.M. responded testily while painstakingly drawing up the liquid pain killers into the syringe. “Now, give me your arm.”

Butcher wordlessly slipped out of his coat and held his bare arm out to finally receive the sweet gift of pain relief. Each movement took effort, and he wasn’t even sure if he’d be able to make it to the car because fainting was very much still on the table. He’d have to literally lean on the others for that.

“Hughie, put some disinfectant on a tissue and clean the crook of his elbow,” M.M. ordered, and the young man quickly jumped into action, trying very hard to keep his hand from trembling as he dabbed at Butcher’s skin.

“I’ll only repeat myself once, lad. If you throw up on me, I’m gonna kill you.”

“Not helping, Butcher. Shut up and let him do his job,” M.M. mumbled with his tongue between his lips in concentration. Then, as Hughie moved away again, he unceremoniously stuck the needle into Butcher’s skin and injected the morphine into his vein. “Should take about ten minutes before the meds kick in. So, any other injuries I should know about?”

“Nothing major,” Butcher replied offhandedly and started to pull up his pants again with a few awkward movements and the odd groan.

“Come on, man. This is not the time for strong and silent,” the other man insisted with an irritable look on his face.

“Might’ve cracked a rib or two,” he conceded with an eye roll. “Nothing you can do about that right now. I’ll just wait for the morphine to work its magic.”

“Fucking hell, Butcher,” M.M. grumbled and gave a long-suffering sigh. “Show me.”

“We ain’t got time for your doctoring,” Butcher grunted and was about to push himself up, but M.M. stared him down again pretty easily.

“You really wanna argue with me right now, asshole?” He gestured his impatience at the stubborn man before him, clearly willing to use force if needed.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Butcher mumbled under his breath but eventually proceeded to unbutton his shirt without further resistance.

All the while, Hughie had kept quiet again, still trying to shake the picture of the bloody metal bar sticking out of the soft flesh of Butcher’s thigh. On both sides. The horrible sucking sound of him pulling the thing out was still echoing around his skull. His stomach was in tight, painful knots and he expected to throw up any second with his bile still very close to passing the threshold.

Inwardly cursing himself for having had eggs for breakfast, he tried to focus on the present and the two men around him. But when Butcher had finally opened his shirt and Hughie’s eyes fell on the huge, blackish red bruise that stretched across his torso, he immediately felt faint again.

Of course, he’d seen worse ever since Butcher had stepped into his life, had even been hurt himself a few times. But for some reason the events of this day had shaken him to the core. Tracking down Butcher because they were worried for him, the threat of potentially being killed by Black Noir, Butcher throwing himself into a suicide mission, explosions upon explosions, and finally the very real fear of having lost their friend.

“Hughie! Eyes up here!” Butcher was snapping his fingers very close to the younger man’s face, and they locked eyes for the first time since they’d dug him up. “I’m fine, okay?”

“Yeah,” Hughie muttered and shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts. “Yeah, I know.”

“Okay, focus up,” M.M. butted in and quickly got back both men’s attention. Then he stretched out his right hand and very carefully touched the swollen skin just beneath Butcher’s chest. The injured man sucked in a surprised breath and narrowed his eyes at the former medic. By this point his struggle to control the quick, shallow rise and fall of his chest was too obvious to fool any of them, so M.M. ignored him. “I can’t really be sure, but it looks like your sixth and seventh rib are at least contused. Did you hear any cracking?”

“Ya mean when Noir tossed me into the counter or when the kitchen almost crushed me into a pulp?” Butcher deadpanned. “Because in both cases, yes, there was lots of cracking.”

M.M. retracted his hand in favour of rubbing it across his face. “Okay, we definitely need to get you to a hospital as soon as possible. Just to rule out any internal injuries.”

“Let’s not make a fuss about this, alright? I’m fine.” Butcher replied, but the way he hissed the words through gritted teeth instantly refuted his statement. He was getting short-tempered now, very much just wanting to get out of there. So, he decided to at least keep the splitting headache to himself so as not to offer M.M. another target and pray for the pain meds to kick in instead. “We’ve got the authorities as good as up our asses, the hospital’s not an option.”

“Shit, Butcher!” Hughie suddenly burst out in frustration. “Would you please, just for once, shut the fuck up and listen to us? You owe us at least that much. What good would it do any of us if you kicked the bucket just because you’re too stubborn to go to a fucking hospital? Jack squat! You’d just hurt us and… and Becca! So, stop acting like a selfish jackass!”

The young man was breathing very hard as two sets of eyes lay on him in a mixture of utter disbelief and shocked awe. It was obvious that Hughie had kept his anger and worry to himself for far too long, his eventual escalation apparently having been inevitable. For some reason Hughie couldn’t meet their gazes now, and Butcher finally cleared his throat.

“Okay, then.”

Now it was Hughie’s turn to be taken aback. He had expected a lot more resistance and, as he looked up again, was met with an expression best described as defeated compliance. As much as he despised Butcher’s methods most of the time, he found that he'd come to heavily rely on his unceasing determination to make it through no matter what. So, it made his heart clench to find Butcher so void of… fight. But just as he was about to apologize for his bluntness, the other man gave him a crooked smirk and a wink. The moment lasted less than a few seconds but almost completely relieved Hughie of the ominous feelings that had curled up his guts before.

“Let’s get a move on,” Butcher announced with yet another groan as he started to lift himself up again.

M.M. was by his side immediately, helping him back to his feet and supporting his weight with an arm around his back. Butcher, in turn, slung his arm over M.M.’s shoulder and reluctantly let himself lean on his friend. Meanwhile, Hughie had quickly scrambled to pick up the remaining medical supplies and stuff them into his pockets as best as possible. Then he followed the other two to the door and, with a look over his shoulder, made sure that Terror was also tagging along.

Their journey upstairs was slow and arduous because Butcher’s right leg was as good as useless, and he needed to pause every few steps to catch his breath. The dog kept pulling on the legs of Hughie’s jeans each time they had to stop and although he really loved pets, this was getting seriously irritating. But he got it. They were all worried and anxious.

“What took you so long?” Judy greeted them impatiently when they finally arrived at the top of the stairs.

“Butcher’s been hurt worse than we expected,” M.M. explained, renewing his grip on the man in question.

“Oh Billy,” she sighed, taking in the sight of her battered nephew. “What have you done to yourself?”

“Nothing this one can’t fix,” Butcher tried to smile as he awkwardly patted his friend’s shoulder.

“I can’t tell how bad it really is,” M.M. stated seriously. “We need to get him to a hospital, stat.”

“As I said before, it’s not an option. We’re wanted and-“ Butcher started but quickly got interrupted by his aunt.

“Shut up, Billy,” she said sternly before addressing M.M.. “I know a doctor in Staten Island who’ll gladly do whatever you need. He owes me one.”

“Quit making a fuss about this. I’m fine,” the injured man once again tried to downplay his situation, but to no avail.

“Fucking hell, Butcher!” This time it was Hughie who cut him short. “Just get with the program.”

Butcher pursed his lips in evident annoyance, but kept his mouth shut for now. Judy produced her phone from her pocket and started to make a call. Meanwhile, they made their way out of the wrecked house, onto the street and towards their cars. As if they’d come to a silent agreement, Hughie and M.M. moved towards Butcher’s pick-up, already having decided to abandon the car they’d arrived in. After a few moments of silence Judy caught up with them, already having hung up her phone.

“Dr Martinez has agreed to do a check-up on you,” she said and quickly typed something out on her display. “I’m texting you the address right now.” Only a second later Butcher’s phone gave a short ring, announcing the arrival of her message.

“Thanks Judy,” Butcher sighed and gave her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry I pulled ya into this mess.”

“Nonsense,” she replied curtly. “I’ve known you your whole life, boy. Don’t start making apologies now.”

At that he just grinned and turned towards Terror who was sitting right by his side. Now that he was supporting himself with a hand on the car’s rooftop, M.M. and Hughie had proceeded to get ready for their departure and give them a bit of privacy.

He looked at his dog and would’ve very much liked to crouch down beside him to give him a proper pat good-bye. Neither his leg nor his ribs allowed for that, though. So, he contented himself with addressing Terror in a low voice.

“Well… here we are. I’m sorry. I almost threw in the towel like a bleedin’ twat. We’re harder than that, ain’t we? I will get your mum back. I swear to God, I’ll get your mum back. Just take a little bit longer.”

The dog watched him attentively and for all intents and purposes looked a lot like he understood every word of it.

“You hang in there. Alright? You be a good boy for Judy.”

Terror gave a soft bark and panted a little more excitedly.

“Yeah, that’s a good lad.”

With that he turned back to his aunt who was watching him with half a smile, her arms crossed over her chest. He extended one arm in invitation and Judy took a step closer to carefully hug her nephew.

“You’re alright for an old bat,” he said, almost softly.

“Yeah, yeah,” she scoffed and waved him off, the smile never leaving her face.

Then she patted her leg, signalling Terror to follow her to her car. The dog gave Butcher one last bark, then made after the woman. Not wanting to watch them leave, Butcher turned back and was met with an oddly empathetic look from Hughie who was on the other side of the car, about to climb into the passenger seat.

“You did good today,” Butcher conceded in a muted tone of voice. “And for what it’s worth… I’m glad ya came after me.”

Hughie’s lips turned into a knowing smile and he just nodded. “You’re welcome.”

It was then that the events of that day seemed to finally catch up with Butcher, and although the morphine was doing its job, he was suddenly overwhelmed by the dull ache left in the wake of true pain and an all-consuming weariness. His head started to swim, and he slumped against the car, doing everything he could to keep himself upright.

“Butcher!” Hughie called out in alarm and, together with M.M., hurried back around the car.

They both grabbed him by his arms and M.M. quickly pulled the backseat door open. Then they helped Butcher to carefully lower himself into the car.

“Okay, try to stay awake and take deep breaths. I know it hurts, but we need to prevent any chance of pneumonia, okay?” M.M. asked before turning to Hughie. “You gotta sit with him and make sure he doesn’t go out.”

Hughie nodded and swiftly made his way to the other backseat door to squeeze himself in beside Butcher. M.M. hopped into the driver’s seat, started the car and pulled it out onto the street.

“Told ya I’m knackered, didn’t I?” Butcher gave Hughie a weak smile and leaned back into his seat.

“Yeah well, we all are. But it doesn’t mean I’m above singing Billy Joel at you if it keeps you awake,” Hughie mumbled while watching the other man intently.

“Fuck no,” Butcher coughed out a hoarse laugh at the threat. “I’ll do me best, then.”

“That’s what I thought,” the young man retorted.

“Yer a good lad, Hughie.”

Butcher furrowed his brows in confusion but didn’t hesitate to follow him. With a few long strides he made it into the pawnshop’s backroom and through the beaded curtain. Michel had already joined his friend at the front of the shop, and Butcher could hear very insistent pounding on the glass door.

“He said he lives under a pawnshop in East Flatbush!” He would have recognised that voice anywhere and it made his pace quicken considerably. “He has to be here.”

Then he saw her. Becca. She was pleading with the two men, looking completely devastated.

“Hey. Let her in,” he said as he came up behind them.

“Fucking help me…” she was still begging as Michel finally opened the door. Then she saw him, too. Relief seemed to wash over her as she started to cry. “Billy. They took him,” she breathed out shakily and wrapped her arms around his neck. Butcher felt overwhelmed by her sudden appearance, and it took him a second to catch up with her words. “They have Ryan.”

“Who’s got him?” he asked worriedly and took a small step back to look at her, his hands on her shoulders. Becca’s distress was shining in her glazed eyes, worry carved into her every feature, and she was alarmingly pale.

“Homelander… and that new supe, Stormfront,” she sobbed, clutching at Butcher’s sweater. “They just… They told Ryan that I’ve been lying to him. But Billy, I had to. To keep him safe.”

“I know, luv, I know,” he tried to reassure her and gently pulled her inside. Then he quickly closed the door again. The two other guys had already returned to the backroom, seeing as Butcher apparently had the situation under control.

“I need to get him back. He can’t stay with that maniac,” Becca whimpered hoarsely and stumbled when Butcher tried to guide her away from the shop windows.

“Hey, hey! Easy,” he said, becoming more concerned by the second as he slipped an arm around her waist to keep her from falling down. “Are you alright, luv?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she replied stubbornly and tried to get her legs back under control. “Don’t worry about me.”

It was only then that Butcher realised how much she was actually leaning on him, her shoulders slouched and her breathing terrifyingly shallow. She had broken out in cold sweat and, although she was trying to hide it from him, kept pressing one hand to her side.

“Bollocks! Becca, what’s going on?”

They were standing in the middle of the shop as he turned towards her, still propping her up with one arm. He carefully wrapped his free hand around her wrist and pulled it away from her abdomen. Her jacket was still covering most of her stomach, but he could clearly see blood staining the t-shirt she was wearing underneath. His heart skipped a beat at the sight, and his head went into overdrive.

“Billy, it’s nothing,” Becca tried to divert his attention. “We need to find Ryan.”

Butcher took a deep breath, completely torn between the need to reassure her and flipping out about her obvious injury and how little she cared about it. Just when he decided to scoop her up and carry her downstairs, her legs finally gave out. So, instead, he gently lowered her down to sit on the floor, kneeling right beside her.

“We will get yer son back, luv. I promise,” he spoke softly, cradling her cheek with one hand, stroking away a tear with his thumb. “But first things first, okay? Ya won’t be doin’ anything in this state.”

Becca looked at him for a long moment, her eyes narrowed in defiance. But there was no scenario in which she could have won this battle of wills, and, besides, she knew he was right. So, she closed her eyes and gave him a weak nod.

“Good. Now, let me see.”

Butcher gingerly pulled away her jacket, then lifted up her t-shirt. She had improvised a pressure bandage with a piece of fabric that was completely soaked in blood. Smoothly, he pushed it to the side, smearing blood across her skin in the process. It made her groan in pain and he flinched a little at the pitiful sound.

“Sorry,” he muttered, and his breath got caught when he saw the angry, jagged wound that stretched across about three inches of her abdomen. There was no way of telling how deep the laceration went. “Fuck, Becca! How did this happen?”

“Barbed wire on the wall,” she explained between laboured breaths and her eyes started to flutter. “Fell down a few feet.”

“Hey! Hey, stay with me,” Butcher said fiercely, and stroked a stray strand of hair from her face.

“Don’t worry,” Becca mumbled feebly and touched his hand with hers, trying to keep her eyes from falling shut.

Finally, Butcher looked up and towards the basement door, holding her close to his body. “M.M.!” he shouted, his deep voice echoing off the walls. “Get the fuck up here! Now!”

There was audible rumbling going on downstairs at his howl and it took M.M. less than a minute to appear in the doorframe, looking alarmed.

“Butcher, what’s going on?” he demanded instantly, before he’d even had time to take in the scene that was playing out before him. His eyes widened significantly when he saw the woman in Butcher’s arms. “Shit, is that Becca?”

“Yes,” the other man grunted grimly, “and she’s hurt.” Then he looked back down at his wife who was barely awake now.

M.M. hurried towards them and quickly knelt down, taking an expert look at Becca’s wound. He pursed his lips in concentration as he carefully pulled the makeshift bandage up a little further. Becca hissed in pain and Butcher gave him a sharp look.

“Careful, mate,” he warned him in a low, tensed voice.

“We need to get her downstairs,” the former medic finally announced while completely ignoring Butcher’s covert threat. “Try not to move her around too much.”

Butcher nodded determinedly and scooped her up, trying to cause as little disturbance to her injury as possible. Her head came to rest in the crook of his arm and for some reason her lips curled into a small smile.

“I’m so glad I found you, Billy,” she whispered softly, definitely starting to sound delirious now.

“Yeah, me too,” he replied and swiftly followed M.M. towards the door. “Now, you’ve gotta stay with me, alright?”

Each step he took seemed to make Becca shake a little bit more and he hated every second of it, knowing he could do nothing about it. She was losing consciousness so quickly, it was almost unbelievable that she’d been out on the streets mere minutes ago. The sheer power of adrenaline must’ve been the only thing keeping her upright until then.

“Frenchie, clear the table!” M.M. ordered the second they came down the stairs. “Kimiko, get my medical kit! Quick!”

“Who is this?” Frenchie inquired as he did as he was told and laid out a sterile blanket on the steel table just when Kimiko came back with the big bag M.M. kept his medical supplies in.

“Me wife,” Butcher said without looking at any of them, unable to tear his eyes away from her face.

“This is Becca?” the shorter man asked, sounding inappropriately amazed.

“Butcher!” M.M. called out sharply to pull him back into the present. “Put her down. She looks like she’s already lost a lot of blood.”

Without a reply, he walked up to the table and very gently laid Becca down, cushioning her head with his hand. Finally, she opened her eyes again and the fear he saw in them made his insides turn into an impossibly tight knot.

“It’s okay, luv. We’re gonna take care of you,” he breathed out soothingly.

Meanwhile, M.M. was disinfecting his gloved hands and looked over at Frenchie. “You’re going to have to assist me.” Frenchie nodded resolutely and put on a pair of gloves, too.

When the two men stepped up to the table, Becca made a grab for Butcher’s hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong, and he tried to return the pressure without crushing her hand. His need to reassure her was threatening to overwhelm him. So, he leaned down and placed a soft kiss on her forehead.

“You’re doing great,” M.M. encouraged her while placing a gauze bandage on her wound. The sensation made her hiss under her breath. “Listen, we’re gonna have to try and stop the bleeding now. Frenchie’s going to put some pressure on your wound.”

He threw a quick glance at the man in question who immediately jumped into action. Very carefully and with an apologetic look at Butcher, Frenchie put both hands over the bandage to press down on it. Becca couldn’t suppress the miserable groan that escaped her lips, and she tightened her grip on her husband’s hand instinctively.

Butcher laid his free hand on her shoulder, trying to convey some comfort. Then he looked up at the others, an almost manically desperate look on his face. He knew they were doing their very best and he trusted M.M. with his life. Becca’s life, though… That was a completely different matter. Seeing her suffer like this made him angry and restless beyond anything he’d ever felt.

M.M. pinned him to the spot with a hard stare. The man knew exactly what was going on in his friend’s head. “She needs you right now, man. Just stay with her and let us do our job.”

Butcher eventually conceded and looked back down at his wife. Her body had begun to shake violently, and it seemed like it was getting harder for her to keep her eyes focused. The only thing that eased his worries at least a little bit was her strong grip on his hand. He knew she was fighting.

“Okay, Becca,” M.M. said after a few minutes and made Frenchie remove the gauze so he could have a look at her wound. “It seems we’re good to go. The bleeding has almost stopped and no major arteries were damaged. You did a great job with your improvised bandage.”

Becca just looked at him, her lips pressed into a thin line and her face white as a sheet. The former medic quickly proceeded to clean up the skin surrounding the laceration with some water and soap, making her bite her tongue to keep herself from crying out. He gave her an apologetic look.

“Now, I don’t wanna lie to you. I need to stitch you up and it’s gonna hurt like hell. Usually, I wouldn’t treat this kind of wound without anaesthesia, but unfortunately we don’t have that kind of luxury here. I promise I’ll do my best to make this as quick as possible,” he explained with guilt written all over his face already.

“Marvin,” she pressed out through gritted teeth, “just get on with it.”

M.M. raised his eyebrows in surprise but nodded. Then he looked over at Kimiko who was standing a few feet away, hugging herself and looking antsy because she didn’t know what to do with herself. For once, this was a high-stakes situation she didn’t know how to handle.

“Kimiko, come here,” he waved her over to the foot of the table. “I need you to hold down Becca’s legs in case she starts moving around too much.”

Butcher took in a sharp breath at M.M.’s request and fixed his eyes on the supe who was now approaching his wife. He saw her fearful expression, but it did nothing to ease his apprehension. Kimiko looked up at him, her hands hovering over Becca’s shins, apparently searching for his permission. He closed his eyes and gave her a small nod.

“If you hurt her, I’m gonna have yer head on a stick,” Butcher added on an afterthought, narrowing his eyes at her.

Kimiko pursed her lips and frowned at him in a mix of defiant determination and worry but proceeded to gently lay her hands on Becca’s legs anyway. Meanwhile, Frenchie was watching the exchange with alarm, but not daring to actually intervene. If it really came to it, Kimiko was more than capable of defending herself against Butcher. And she wouldn’t hurt Becca, Frenchie could see the trepidation carved into her every feature.

“Frenchie, hold this.” M.M. handed the other man a flashlight and a gauze pad. “I need you to clean up any further bleeding while I stitch up the wound.”

“Oui.” Frenchie quickly returned to the task at hand, knowing full well his head would probably end up on a stick too, if he messed this up. Luckily, he worked very well under pressure and took every job seriously, no matter how menial it was.

“Becca, put this in your mouth,” M.M. requested and handed her another bandage. “You can bite down on it when the pain gets too much.”

Butcher took the piece of fabric from him because she had trouble lifting her shaking hand. He tenderly put it to her lips and she opened her mouth, biting down on it tentatively. Then she looked back up at him, trying to communicate that she was ready. Butcher gave M.M. a grave nod, then bowed down to touch his forehead to Becca’s, cradling her face with his free hand.

M.M. didn’t waste any more time and went to work. Each stitch made her whimper and moan around her gag, and she had become too weak to keep her limps from twitching. Frenchie was continually dabbing away blood residues while holding up the flashlight for the former medic. Kimiko’s job was the least demanding, mostly due to the fact that she was considerably stronger than Becca. Every time Becca’s legs were threatening to start thrashing, she gave them a comforting squeeze and it seemed to be enough to keep her still.

Butcher had closed his eyes again, his forehead still against hers. He was trying to find a balance between soothing her and keeping her head still at the same time. Ever since he had found out that his wife was still alive, he had been holding out hope to finally get her back even though she had refused to leave with him. She had chosen her son over him, and that still hurt, yes. But he couldn’t blame her. Thinking about it now, it had been incredibly cruel of him to make her choose in the first place.

“Luv, I’m so sorry,” he whispered against her damp skin. “All of this, it’s my fault. I should’ve found a way to get the both of ya out of that shithole. None of this would’ve happened if I hadn’t put you on the spot and told ya to leave yer son behind.”

Becca shook her head insistently and ground out a muffled “No!” around the bandage in her mouth.

“Butcher, could you postpone your guilt trip? You’re riling her up and she’s in enough pain as it is,” M.M. shot at him fiercely while concentrating very hard on stitching up the angry wound before him.

Instead of acknowledging the comment, Butcher placed another soft kiss on Becca’s forehead and let out a deep sigh. The silence that followed was full of tension and only occasionally broken by her faint whimpers and groans. It took M.M. another ten minutes until he placed the final stitch. By then beads of sweat were running down his face in abundance and he had Frenchie put down the flashlight to dab them away with a tissue.

“And we’re done,” the former medic eventually announced in obvious relief as he tied up the end of the thread he’d just sewn into Becca’s skin. He put away the needle and quickly disinfected his hands again, then proceeded to clean up the tender skin around the suture one last time.

Butcher carefully pulled the bandage out of Becca’s mouth, and she took a few shaky breaths. He grabbed a tissue and started to wipe the sweat and tears from her face while M.M. put a bandage and a sterile gauze dressing on her stitches. The tension slowly started to lift, and Frenchie and Kimiko exchanged relieved smiles.

M.M. produced a few pill bottles from his bag and placed them on the table before fetching a glass of water. He poured a few pills into his hand while Butcher helped his wife sit up. She was still pale and shaking but at least the most painful part was behind her now. Instinctively she leaned into her husband’s embrace, burying one hand in the fabric of his sweater to steady herself. With her other hand she took the pills from M.M. and looked up at the man questioningly.

“Those are just ibuprofen against the pain and some antibiotics to prevent infections,” he explained and offered her the water when she had popped the pills in her mouth.

Becca emptied the glass in one big gulp and gave it back to M.M. “Can I get some more?” she asked in a raspy voice.

“Of course,” he said and hurried to the sink. “Butcher, you can carry her over to the sofa now. It’s more comfortable than the cots.”

Butcher complied more than willingly and carefully scooped her into his arms again. Completely worn out from the whole ordeal, she rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. It seemed like she was already falling asleep when he put her down on the ratty sofa. When he made to stand up again, though, he realised that her hand refused to let go of his sweater.

“Don’t,” Becca mumbled, sounding distressed at the loss of contact. “Don’t leave. Please.”

It was in that moment that Butcher finally felt the tension leave his body and his lips turned into a very rare soft smile. The one he had just reserved for Becca. So, he sat down on the edge of the sofa, lifted her up a little and slid in behind her. She came to rest between his legs with her head pillowed on his chest, and she blindly reached for his hand. He happily entwined his fingers with hers and let her pull his hand over her shoulder and cradle it against her chest. Then she kissed the back of his hand and relaxed against his warm body.

“I’m sorry, Billy,” she sighed almost inaudibly. “About what I said to you.”

“Look, don’t you worry, alright?” he muttered into her hair. “You’re gonna be okay. And so is Ryan. I’ll find yer son.”

“Thank you,” Becca breathed out on an exhale and turned her head up towards him. He leaned down just enough to touch his lips to hers, trying to put all the sincerity he could muster into that kiss.

“You need to rest, luv,” Butcher finally stated while starting to stroke his fingers through her hair, a gesture that had always managed to calm her down when she’d been sick or upset in the past.

Meanwhile, the others had started to quietly shuffle into the room, shooting the pair awkwardly adoring looks. Frenchie and M.M. had sloppy smiles plastered across their faces and Kimiko looked like she was actively fighting the urge to bounce around the room.

Billy narrowed his eyes at them as Becca nestled up to him and was slowly drifting off. He hadn’t felt this alleviated in a long time, so his cuss came out very half-heartedly.