A Fangirl Space

Much to your dismay - and most likely his as well - Butcher did not return that night to your bed. Which had been plenty warm thanks to him giving you plenty to think about in the car. Another cold shower to shock you into the day ahead, a rushed cup of caffeine, and you'd managed to get to work on time and in a…tolerable mood. By the time you had finished your shift, your mood had improved from tolerable to okay. And once you were knocking on Hughie's apartment door, Annie greeted a pleasant version of you.

“Perfect! You're right on time,” she beams.

“You look particularly perky,” you comment, watching her glide about as she gathers her things. Hughie just shrugs, smiling at her buoyancy with you.

She pulls a ball cap snug to her crown. “Homelander has started his apology tour. Both he and his entire team of wranglers have been fucking insufferable. He's like a man-child stuck in the corner with the PR dunce cap.”

Annie shrugs on a mini backpack, swoops in and wraps an arm around your shoulder. “And you got me out of the tower before I blew every fucking fuse in the building. Soooo, yeah. I'm glad to be anywhere but there right now.”

She blows Hughie a quick kiss, which he makes a show of catching, and practically lifts you through the door. She jams her sunglasses on, hissing, “Let's go, go, go!”

For the first few minutes, you stumble after her as she winds you over a convoluted route through the city. Finally you just step onto the subway as the doors begin to close, and slump into a seat next to her. Annie sighs briefly before digging into her backpack. She rummages until her hand emerges with a couple of granola bars and hands one to you.

“So, this Torsten guy,” you ask as you unwrap the treat. “What do I need to know?”

Annie shrugs after a bite. “He's surprisingly down to earth for some of the people he's made costumes for. Before they became really famous, I mean. Sassy on a good day. Not much to say. But he'll do great work. He always did for me.”

You almost ask her for the nitty, gritty on the Seven. And Vought, and Stormfront. And especially Homelander. But you don't see yourself spontaneously obtaining the ability to rip his head off, and therefore have no desire or intention to meet him any time soon. Plus you know Annie has been through it already. Hughie admitting to manipulating her the way he had in the beginning had shocked and appalled you. You never thought he had it in him. But things were supposed to be different now, and you wanted to help keep it that way.

Instead, you sit in what counts in New York as semi-comfortable silence, making quick work of the snack. Soon enough the train pulls up to a stop in lower Manhattan and you follow Annie's lead. More for her benefit than yours, you do your best to not draw any attention to either of you. You can't imagine what it feels like to have little to no anonymity like she does.

Within two blocks from the station, Annie turns you down a more cramped alley, reaching a small steel door tucked just off the pavement. She knocks twice, then twice again. When it swings open she pulls you in behind by the sleeve. 

It's dim for a small second before you turn a corner and enter a warm, welcoming parlor. You see one wall lined with bolts of fabric, the other with a few mannequins sporting custom suits, one with what you presume is a prom gown. But you see no signs of any supe work done here.

Just as you see an archway with a curtain, a sewing machine beyond just peeking behind, a wry old man with wild white hair passes through it. “Starlight!,” he grins, a crisp hint of German in his accent when he greets her.

“Hey Torsten. It's so good to see you. I know we’re both on a tight schedule, so I'll make this quick. This is Y/N, my friend I told you about.”

“You are the lady who needs a gown for a gala, correct?,” he inquires as he shakes one of your hands in both of his, peering at you over half-rim glasses.

“Yes, and unfortunately on short notice.”

“And you need full range of motion is my understanding. Are we expecting…trouble?” Before you can reply he winks. “No need to answer.  Your reasonings are not for me to know nor pry. If you're comfortable, I need to begin measuring you right away. You can tell me your ideas as I go. Yes?”

You nod and Annie finds a bench to sit on as he begins to work. He flicks and tracks a soft measuring tape about you, tossing you fabric and color ideas, muttering numbers in between. He is quick, precise, and you see exactly what Annie was talking about.

In a matter of short minutes, he drapes the tape over his shoulders and strides back through the curtain. He returns with a rack of what you assume are sample dresses. “Starlight, you know how your movement is when working. Help her compare these silhouettes, please.”

When Torsten disappears behind the curtain again, you turn to Annie. “He's …efficient?”

She nods. “Very. He's no bullshit. I've always liked that about him. I wish he could be my designer at Vought. But he's too good for those soul sucking leeches.” She pulls out a beige, chiffon dress off the rack with a teasing look. “So? Are we going with a puffy princess theme?”

“Go to hell,” you laugh.

You set to the task of raking over the samples your new tailor has presented. It's easy to shove aside anything overly glitzy or flashy. The mission requires you to be subtle, not draw attention. By the time your fingers skim over the last sample, you feel like a fish out of water.

“Help me out here, Annie. What would you look for?”

She contemplates the rack. “Well what are they teaching you? Are you sneaking in weapons?”

Your stomach drops for a split second when you feel the words form on your tongue; Billy is teaching me jiu jitsu. But you swallow them back and shrug, unnerved at how close you just came to letting the cat out of the bag.

Why don't you tell her all your wet dreams about him while you're at it?, the little voice sneers.

“Umm…what about the less you know the better? How far does that go?”

“I need a little context to be helpful here,” she deadpans behind a sequined nightmare.

You clear your throat before answering, “I think…some grappling stuff? Definitely some hand to hand. And some weapons training, but I doubt I'll be able to sneak anything into the event.”

“Okay. So our priorities are mobility, subtlety and classy enough for black tie.” Annie swipes out three of the samples and shoves them into the flashy reject pile. “Absolutely no mermaid cut.” She taps her chin before adding four more. “And nothing poofy, or has excess fabric.”

After a little more refining, the two of you manage to trim the choices down to three. Torsten returns to eye each one, glancing at you in between his silent judgements. “Do you favor one over the others?”

You shake your head.

He smiles slowly. “Would you like me to surprise you?”

You glance at Annie, who nods emphatically. “He's never been wrong. Trust me.”

You shrug. “What the hell. As long as I have it by the event, and I can take care of business, I'll leave it in your hands.”

“Wunderbar. I will begin immediately.” He shakes your hand. “Starlight, which of you should I deliver it to?”

^^^

You had made far quicker work of getting your dress taken care of than either of you expected. In which case, Annie had just enough time to grab a bite to eat before returning to Vought. You snag some quick delicacies at a food truck and slink off to one of Annie's favorite spots at the closest park.

Sitting on the bench, watching others wander about the park and each other, you eat your fill, making conversation with Annie between bites with a bit of contentment. A rare feeling with all the chaos that usually drowns your life. And you allow a little gratitude to silently wash over you.

You glance at her, certain Annie must be more grateful to have this brief moment this evening than even you. You catch her eye as she gives a slow smile. But the look in her eye doesn't seem to be gratitude. It's almost mischievous. Or suspicious.

You stare back, waiting. When her smile just grows, you shrug. “You know I'm not telepathic right?”

“Mmhm.”

“So what's the look for?”

“You just look happy. Like really happy.” She shrugs back. Then without missing a beat, “You got laid, didn’t you?”

You gape at her. “Jesus, Annie! That was subtle! No, I did not. Not that it's your business.”

“Shame,” she giggles. “I don't know what they taught you about body language last night, but they sure as hell didn't cover how to check your own. So…” She tilts her head in a dramatic flair of pensiveness. “Glowy, not getting laid. But your frustrated tone says you wish you were.”

“Oh God, Annie…”

“So must be new, something budding-” Annie stops dead. You stare back, aggravated as a new look on her face appears, dramatics and teasing gone. “Oh.” Her eyes widen a little. “Oh wait. Holy shit, you're seeing someone.” Then conspiratorially, “Are you in-?”

“Don't you dare finish that sentence,” you snap, your chest tightening. This was not happening. This was not supposed to be happening!

“Okay, okay, sorry.” She shifts in her seat on the bench to turn towards you. Full attention now and you resist the urge to squirm. “But you…you have someone, don't you? You're seeing someone.” She smiles, more reassuring now. “That's a good thing. Right?”

“I don't know,” you sigh. “It's-”

You hear more than see her eyes roll. “If you say ‘it's complicated’...”

“It is. It's complicated.”

She scoffs before lowering her voice. “I'm one of the Seven and my boyfriend is a former supe-killing vigilante, now a prominent member of the FBSA. And that's just the shorthand version.You wanna talk about complicated?”

You nod in defeat at that. “Then maybe you of all people will understand when I say…”

The words are difficult to catch, put them in a way that won't have you completely spilling your guts. You're in big trouble if Annie, whom you see fleetingly, is already catching a whiff of your feelings. You can only imagine Hughie's face if she figured it out and relayed it back to him. And Butcher..?

“Understand what?”

You turn to face her with a tinge of earnestness. “I don't know what this new thing is with this - person I'm seeing. But it's new, and complicated and exciting. And so very fragile. Which is why I would hope you, of all the people I know and talk to, would understand when I say I'm trying really fucking hard to keep it away from work. From this life we all live. For as long as possible.”

Not a complete lie, the little voice chirps in your skull.

Annie gives you a sympathetic look. “Yeah.” She heaves a sigh. “Fuck, yeah, I understand way more than I want to.” Just as you think you're off the hook, she asks, “Can I at least get a name? Tell Hugh-?”

“No,” you answer sharp, quick and unyielding. “No. I think this…thing should develop a bit more before I…you know.”

“Fine. If that's what you want, I'll keep your secret lover on classified.” Annie wags an eyebrow at you. “You just want to make sure they can rock your world before bringing them around, huh?”

“You're insufferable, Annie. Hughie is rubbing off on you.” The two of you share a few giggles over the bad innuendo before your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull out the interrupting device and feel a jolt run through you. Speak of the devil.

The Boys about to clock out. Ditch Tinkerbell and get to the Flatiron in an hour.

“Is that them?,” Annie teases, pretending to crane her neck for a peek.

“Just Butcher,” you reply, sighing in exasperation to hide your eagerness. Maybe finally another rolling session. “More work, and on the double.”

Annie scoffs as you both begin to gather your things. “God, definitely keep him away from your love life.”

You prickle a bit, nearly remind her that she and Hughie technically met only because of Butcher in the first place. But then, from what Hughie had told you, Butcher had also made sure that their beginning had been one big, manipulative lie. And they both had been nearly killed for it. So you take advantage of Annie not even entertaining Butcher as an option, and nod tersely.

“Guess I should head back to work, too,” she sighs. She adjusts her cap low on her head again. “I'll escort you back along the way. Home or straight to the office?”

^^^

After a brief stop at home, you stroll through the office door with perhaps a touch of barely concealed enthusiasm. “Where's the fire?,” you call across the space.

“Did your lil britelite friend scurry back to her ivory tower?,” he ignores your question as he hunches over something at his desk. 

“Annie went back to the tower,” you answered, emphasizing her name, turning down the TV and its news babble as you pass.

“Good. Have fun shopping for yer prom dress? Giggling about like proper schoolgirls, I'm sure.”

You sidle up next to him at the desk, a witty retort forming before you get a glance of the papers stretched under his fingers. Dashes, letters, numbers and polygons catch your attention. “What's this?”

“Frenchie's work. Or the half-ass he could figure out anyway,” he grumbles at the chemical compounds.

“And? What did he find?”

“Still fuck all. Said the shit ain't adding up. And still nothing on that arsehole Walsh. This Persuasion shit is gonna persuade me to drink if we don't get anywhere soon.”

“Is that why you got a hold of me?”

Butcher finally turns from the science scrawling  to greet you. But the trademark smirk you're expecting is missing. “Nah. I needed you to get your pretty ass up here for training.”

“No ambush this time?”

He shakes his head. “No. I already cleared the space.”

You peek over your shoulder. Just as he said, the area was already cleared, floor bare and ready to go. How you didn't notice that upon walking in is beyond you. You begin to feel on edge. Is this a new lesson? Is he putting your new body language decoding to the test already?

You watch him as you follow him over to the open area of the office. Butcher gives no indication of his intentions, not any that you can read that is. But you can feel something off with him. Unreadable as ever. It's honestly beginning to get a little old.

You keep him in your peripheral as you start to move into position for your usual warm ups. He stops you short, saying, “Not this time. We're switching things up.”

“No warm up?”

He pegs you with a hard eye. “You think they gonna let you stretch out there when shit goes sideways?”

“No.” You stare back. “But I'm not out there just yet. Shouldn't we-?”

“Get your hands up.”

You do it almost in knee jerk response at his tone, an eerie level compared to his usual roguish cadence. It's …unnervingly calm for Butcher.

Your hands are barely up in time to catch his right arm as he swings at your head. 

Whatever lightheartedness there had been while out with Annie, it's all withered now. You step into him out of reflex, expecting he's setting up for a review of a throw. Butcher however has other plans, and you narrowly duck out of reach as his left hand snatches forward. You stumble back, back, back.

“What are we doing?” It comes out a little breathless as you watch him, not daring to blink. He had by no means gone full speed. But it had been too close even at that. Just the right amount of effort to put you on your toes, make you wary.

“Told ya - mixing things up. Right time you get your hands a little dirty.”

“Dirty how-” You're cut off as you manage to block a knee coming at you with your hands. It leaves you stumbling. “Butcher, the fuck?!”

“You can't go out there with just grappling. You know that.”

He's nearly on you in one long stride, and you duck past his left arm as he jabs. But you dodge too carelessly, right into his right hand. You flinch as you brace for a punch, but he grabs the back of your neck instead. His other arm becomes a vice. You're wrapped tightly against him and you try to catch your breath as he stares down at you.

“You do know that, yeah?” When you don't respond he continues with some frustration. “If I had a knife in my hand, the rest of it would be buried in your bloody guts right now. And a gun? Not a fucking chance.”

“I get that,” you bite out against his tight grip. “So what do you mean by getting my hands dirty?”

“I mean some shit that's a lil bit meaner.” He lets go and steps back to wag a finger at you. “If you think I'm gonna teach you to play fair, yer wrong.”

You take a couple steps back, trying again to read him, practicing your other new skills. The tension in his shoulders and chest tell you he's irritable. What's new there? His eyes give no other clues. His tone is still too level. You still can't figure out what's going on with him.

“So what dirty trick comes first?”

Butcher swings again, no warning. You step into him for a more careful block. He counters, locking your arm in his and you flinch again as he stops just short of headbutting you. His forehead presses against yours instead.

“That was easy, right? Throwing my skull about. And I've broke many a fucker’s face with that. But I've broken my own a time or two in the process, some I can't even remember. So don't ever do that unless you really fucking have to. Got it?”

Before you can say anything he pushes away from you. “What you do go after is all the tender bits. Eyes, nose, ears, throat, and everything with the short and curlies. Nothing is off limits.”

You nod.

“Say it!”

You blink at his snap and bark back, “Nothing is off limits! So what the fuck do I do to it?” You cut him off before he can answer. “Actually, no. I'm not doing shit.”

“Beg your fuckin’ pardon?,” he growls.

“The fuck is your problem, Butcher.”

“Oh, I'm looking at it.”

You quickly weigh your options of how to handle him, trying one last time to get a read on him. Then take a deep breath and throw the sane ones to the wind. “Stop pussyfooting with me. Give me a straight answer.”

His silence is heavy and glaring.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Another beat. “You could've taught this no different than the other times. What do you want?”

He keeps his lips sealed. He's been ornery before. But this is bodaciously aggravating. You feel hot, and not in the way he usually makes you feel.

“What is your problem asshole?!”

Finally a crack, and it slithers into that all too familiar smirk across his face. “Guess I didn't tell ya before.”

“Tell me what?”

“You look good enough to eat when you're this mad.”

And we're back to the other hot.

Oh no. You're not letting him get off that easy. “Give me a straight answer, or I'll walk.”

The smirks slightly falters. But his eyes still glint back at you. With that, you turn to call his bluff, catching a glimpse of the TV again as you do so. It's a news segment on the upcoming gala. Several photos of previous Vought parties and galas roll across the screen as the anchors give their spiel, showing off the supes.

“When you'd get the bullocks?”

A hand grabs yours. You didn't even hear him cross the floor. He continues, “You never talked to me like that before. Not really.”

You arch an eyebrow at him. “Thought that was the point. Growing a backbone and all that jazz before I have to go waltzing with those Vought pricks.”

The huffy tension in him slides just a little. “It is,” he admits. Finally. He glares at the TV. “And I don't nearly have enough time to teach you all you might need.”

You look back at the TV just in time to see a picture of a Vought Christmas party with Homelander and Maeve…

Oh.

…shit.

You turn back to Butcher, unsure what to say. All the options that came to mind felt pointless as your brain scrambles. What do you say? That was over a decade ago? There won't be any supes at the gala? You're gonna be fine? And then the words are out your mouth before you think, before you can catch them- 

“I'm not her.”

His eyes latch onto you, and surely as fast your own slip, he replies, “No you're fucking not.”

It has no bite to it, but it hits you in the gut all the same. And by the way he rapidly blinks, you realize it hit him, too. He rubs a hand over his face. Softer, almost hard for you to hear, “I meant…you're not. And I never taught her enough to not be either. Even if I had… it wouldn't've been fucking enough against him anyway.”

The uncertainty of what the hell to say to that is heavy, choking. Maybe it's your own foot in your mouth. It's almost certain you'd bungle it more and you were lucky enough he was still here in the office with you, let alone holding your hand. You don't know what the fuck to do.

Should've thought more about that widower thing, huh?

Butcher withdraws his hand. “That straightforward enough for ya?”

You nod, your brain no longer scrambling. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

He nods. “Yeah. Good.” He backs up, making a come hither motion. “Let's try this shit again. Start over.”

You can read him plenty well now. Because he's closed off, the subject is not to be brought up again. You feel more than see it in his shoulders, the way his mouth is set, the forced air of nonchalance. There's only the slightest undertone of anticipation, as if he's half waiting for you to leave.

“I'll take you home when we're done,” he says, a hidden message there in his eyes. Not a heated one with lusty promise but the closest to an olive branch he probably knows how to give. You might have asked for a straight answer. But you were damn sure not getting an apology. And you felt that he wouldn't hear one from you either.

You nod slowly. “Ok.”

^^^

You're not certain but the session felt short to you this time. Only an hour or so of Butcher walking you through all the vicious little ways you can hurt somebody. Simple tricks to remove an ear barehanded, where to strike at the throat, how little pressure it actually takes to blow out a knee. But even in that time you had become tired, more tired than normal it seems. You never quite shook off the heaviness of that moment and you noticed it clung to him, too, when he followed you into your apartment.

The idea of small talk to break the silence makes you almost cringe, so you turn to your bedroom to change into your sleep clothes. When you return, you walk out to find him leaning against the counter, staring into space. You pull him from his thousand yard stare by squeezing two of his fingers. You want to offer him some food but instead it comes out as, “You can stay.”

Butcher looks at you, mulls something over. Before he can say it, you offer an olive branch of your own. Not the only one you can think of but the only one you know he'd take.

“I want you to stay.”

Butcher eyes grow just a little softer. Then he nods. “Yeah. I'll stay.”

He pulls you into him, and you wrap your arms around him for an embrace that is too short for your liking. He gestures to your bedroom. “You're knackered. Get you some sleep.” Then after a beat, “I'll be here when you wake up.”

You nod, trying not to feel slighted and wish him a good night. As he heads to your couch, you try to just feel grateful that he's even here and hadn't ripped your fucking head off for your slip back at the office.

The rollercoaster of the day, however, leaves you just as restless as it does tired. You toss and turn into the wee hours of the morning, not quite asleep, not quite awake. Somewhere in that limbo you slip out of bed and pad back to your living room. You find him standing at the end of the couch, staring out the window, his dark eyes sweeping the rooftops and the skyline. As if searching the dark for something.

Two things ripped you from sleep that morning. The first was your final alarm blaring from the coffee table. The second was the abrupt awareness of a particular body missing behind you. The combination of the two had your muscles spasming into a flailing upright position, immediately revealing a slight kink in your neck as your brain tried to catch up. Your fingers fumble and flutter over the table in search of the obnoxious sound coming from your phone. Just as your hand starts to slap against the wood in groggy frustration, your eyes just make out a different set of fingers.

“Billy?” It comes out cracked and garbled from sleep.

The alarm dies quickly under his fingers and the blur in your vision shifts in time to bring him into focus, kneeling before you beside the couch. “Morning, sunshine,” he greets you with that crooked smile. “Gotta tell ya, I hear that alarm again, I'm throwing your fucking phone through the wall.”

“You -ah!” You wince as your neck twinges sharp at your attempt to swing your legs to the floor.

“Yeah, your couch did the same number on me,” he mutters. He slips his fingers to your nape, rubbing the smallest of circles there, just on the new knot. It's brief, his hand withdrawing before you can even sink into it, reaching back to bring forward a cup of coffee.

“Here. Can't send you off to Hughie with bags like that under your eyes.”

You give your thanks, taking a long draw before turning back to him. “Speaking of not looking so good, what about-?”

“Nuh-uh.” He wags back a finger at you as he stands to head out of the living room. “We had a deal. You're done playing nurse.”

You roll your eyes, knowing full well you're not going to argue with this mule. Butcher appears unfazed from the previous night's events, strutting in your apartment as his usual. The only outward indication of his escapade was the faintest peek of the liquid stitches on his head and the missing Hawaiian atrocity the blue t-shirt replaced. A very good looking replacement if anyone bothered for your opinion. But bravado and machismo are not enough to throw off what you already know - he was probably bluffing.

Taking a full gulp of coffee, you shuffle behind him towards your kitchen. The pizza box sits empty and abandoned on your counter. But next to it Butcher rifles through an unfamiliar bag, pulling out to-go boxes.

“You brought me breakfast in bed?,” you ask, smirk tight against the rim of your mug.

“Breakfast on couch,” Butcher replies without missing a beat, sliding warm styrofoam towards you before hooking a palm onto your hip. “Since ya made such a point of avoiding your bed.”

“Actually it was you making a point of avoiding my bed. You did say you wouldn't go near it if I wasn't in it, did you not?”

“Awfully cheeky for just starting that coffee.” He pushes away from the counter and pulls you in as you shrug in response. “And we could remedy that in a hurry, yeah? Being in your bed, I mean.”

“I, on the other hand,” you continue, bluntly brushing off the reply, “was avoiding sinful acts so as not to kill you.”

“Not a bad way to go, innit?” Butcher manages to wrap his arm around your back without sloshing your morning brew over either of you.

“Maybe not. But I'd hate to traumatize the others with the vivid details of what you look like naked,” you grin.

“Fuck off,” he hums before hushing you with a kiss. Then, purring into your ear, “You still haven't answered me…Your bed?”

Butcher doesn't give you much of a chance to respond. Not verbally that is. He kisses you again, longer, firmer. Warm steadily turning to hot, a slow delicious simmer. Your free hand slips along his side, just hitching under the hem to brush skin, and you can't remember this shirt feeling this soft. But you're not going to forget now.

Until he gives you something else to remember.

Butcher's grip on your hip grows firmer, and when you part your lips in invitation, his response is no different than how he handles much else - he does not hesitate. He delves to taste and you're quickly preoccupied with his own, enough to kiss back with more fervor. He nips your bottom lip and you know it's still not safe for him, not really. The concussion is still a danger…but you feel your bed pull at you like his fingers starting to tug at your jeans.

Until his phone buzzes loudly in his pocket.

“Billy…”

He shakes his head, whiskers whispering against your face. “It's nuthin’,” he breathes between kisses. “So? This a yes, lov-”

Another buzz.

You catch his wrist as he rips the cell from his pocket, barely saving the offensive thing from a warp speed trip across your apartment. When yours buzzes too on the other side of the room, the noise that rumbles out of him makes you bite your lip. He leans back from you snarling to the roof, “Fuckin’ cockblocks every fuckin’ one of ‘em!”

“That confident were you?” It comes out just a tad breathless.

He stabs a brief glare at you with a snort before finally looking over the interrupting notification. “Surprise, surprise. Hughie.”

“What did he say?”

“New orders, new case. And a little under the table meeting. Same bullshit,” Butcher grumbles. “I'm sure yours is near identical.” He looks up at you, some of the frustration leaving his face to give you a hint of a smile. “All things considered, I'm guessing you'd like me to let him know we'll be each other's plus one to the meeting?”

Butcher gives a little wink before you place your hand over his phone. His hint of humor falters when he sees you staring with furrowed brow at the text message waiting to be answered.

“...No.”

His face mirrors yours. “No? No what?” 

You look up at him, shaking your head.

He stares for only a second. Then, “Ah, I get it. I'm your new dirty secret, eh? That it?”

“No,” you reply louder, more abrupt. Had that been the tiniest edge on his playful tone? You look up at him, shaking your head. “I didn't mean that. You're not that. I mean I don't know what you - we-!” 

Something twitches in his face at ‘we’, something that makes part of you flinch, and you take a breath before speaking. “What I meant,” you answer slowly, “is that we shouldn't say anything just yet. Not to the others. I don't want anyone thinking that I didn't earn my place here, pull my weight. Especially Hughie.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“He's already shown me once how quickly he can change his mind, even more so when it comes to me doing field work. I hope I won't need you to speak to him on my behalf. But if I do, how much will your word weigh to him if he thinks it's only because we're past being friends…coworkers…what have you…” 

You trail off on that thought, cutting back to the point. “Anyway, more importantly, we've got a big mission here. And I think it would be best if the team has no questions or doubts about where everybody's heads are at. No distractions. Right?”

Butcher gives a slow nod as your words sink in. “That'd be the thing they'd do wouldn't it?” Then with a humorless laugh, “Like they don't question me, bust my balls enough already. And Hughie!” He makes a tsking sound. “Yeah, none of that. We'll deal with this Persuasion business proper first.”

He nods and makes a quick reply to Hughie before sliding his cell back into his pocket. “I best get a move on, meet up with MM while it's still early. And you best get your ass in gear. You need to keep an eye on the congresswoman.” 

Butcher smirks as he shrugs on his coat. “Real shame,” he drawls, giving you a long, parting kiss before beginning to back to your door. “Still wouldn't have minded breaking your bed.”

“Could've died,” you sing-song at him.

“Sounds like a good way to go.”

“Sounds like you're trying to tell me you wouldn't be worth a second round,” you tease.

Butcher shakes his head, a dark, heavy look rolling in his eyes at your sass. “When did I ever say it’d take only one round?” He pauses in your door. “That's a shame, love. I thought you knew me better than that.”

With a smirk your way and a glance over your apartment, he closes the door. You let out a sigh somewhere between relief and disappointment, picking at your to-go box as you remember the coffee somehow still in your hand. “Not yet,” you smile in response to his parting words.

As you eat the breakfast Butcher had delivered, you did your best to focus on the little spark of excitement in you, and ignore the last look he'd given your apartment. Ignore the sharp flicker he'd given the windows.

^^^

“We got one!”

You nearly jump as a news article slaps onto your desk. Hughie beams down at you, almost smug before sliding it closer to you. “Got one?”

“A supe. That fungi one, what's-his-face -”

“Cordycep?”

“Yep,” Hughie grins. “The asshole who was caught spraying those spores everywhere to hypnotize people. His case finally went to the judge. And the judge threw the book at him.”

You skim over the article as he leans against your cubicle wall, clearly pleased. “You're not kidding. Found guilty of all twenty-six counts of fraud, identity and grand theft, and forgery.”

“Every single one,” he says. “A long sentence. And no chance of parole at this time, or bail. We did that. We did that!”

You suppress a laugh as he takes back the article with a fist in the air. “That's kinda the point, isn't it? That's why the bureau exists.”

“I don't mean the bureau. I mean us,” he replies. Then he continues with earnest, “I know that the team has been kinda frustrated lately. We covered this case, and several like it, and it feels like we've been trying to climb shit mountain every time. But this shows that it's working. We're making a difference. And we didn't have to scrub blood out of our clothes to do it.”

“This time,” you emphasize. “We didn't have to this time. Forgive me for raining on your parade a little. But let's keep a little pragmatism here. Cordycep was a push over. Most of the supes aren't.”

He waves you off but you still notice the slight slump in his shoulders. “Whatever. Point is that we are making a little progress.”

You feel a twinge of guilt for being a bit of a realist on him. But despite that, part of you wants to celebrate with him. There has been progress for both the Boys and the bureau. Slow, grinding, frustrating progress. But still progress. Although, if Butcher were the one to measure, you would be found short today. You hadn't been able to keep an eye on Neuman as intended. Even those at work had only seen her in passing glimpses by her office.

With that in mind, you lower your voice just slightly. “Speaking of progress, are we still going over reports tonight with the team? That quarterly thing?”

Hughie nods as he straightens a little, eyes scanning for the congresswoman. “Yep. Right. Quarterly reports. Gotta make sure we're within budget and all that.”

“And are Annie and I still on for girls night?,” you ask, absently shuffling through some files. Not like you care what they are.

“Yes. Actually she hinted that she might - might - be able to stop by tonight. You know, say hello. Iron out some stuff for your upcoming bonding time.”

That certainly puts a little edge in you. You'd be lying to yourself if you thought you weren't hesitant about how the meeting would go. Yes, the whole mission and its variables were certainly part of that. But so was the fact that you now had to keep pretending like nothing was going on between you and Butcher, jiu jitsu or otherwise. Throw in the ever looming threat of Neuman's shadow, and the mutual disdain to put it politely between Annie and Butcher…

“That sounds great,” you smile wanely. “Is everybody else in on that particular detail?”

“Butcher knows,” Hughie deadpans.

“And how many new expletives did you learn from him after telling him?”

“None. Not yet, I mean. He's probably composing a whole list to shove down my throat after the meeting as we speak.”

“Wrapped with a C4 wire bow, I'm sure,” you smirk at him. You slap three files into his chest. “Here. You'll need those for tonight.”

He glares at the manila as if it's offended him while he thumbs the pages. “The hell is this?”

“Budget reports.” Your expression goes flat when his remains confused. “Neuman would want you to have those for the meeting…?”

A beat passes before you see the light bulb come on. “Oh,” he smiles sheepishly. “Riiight. Need those.”

“...How the hell are you my boss again?”

“Shut up,” he grumbles before pushing away from your cubicle to avoid the return of your smirk. Before he dips out of sight he peeps around the corner one more time. “Oh, by the way…”

“Yeah?”

Hughie spares a genuine smile. “I just wanted to let you know that, uh…I'm glad you're working again. You're kicking ass already.”

Fondness fills your chest and you return the smile before he jokingly barks an order to “kick those papers asses!”, and heads further into the bureau. You sigh at the small mountain of work on your desk before dragging a file towards you. 

Kicking more ass than you know, Hughie. Just you wait.

^^^

Homelander's too-piercing blue eyes stare at you through a thin veil of false contrition as you stare back from your seat in the Flatiron. The act is thinner than a blade's edge, and you're grateful for the filter of the LCD screen and a brown-nosed interviewer hired by Vought between you - and everyone this side of the screen - and the supe. It's the second time you've seen it air today, but it still irks as bad as the first time as Homelander lays his woes and regret about Stormfront for the first time publicly since she'd been “apprehended”.

“Fuck him,” Frenchie mutters, snapping your attention away from the TV and back to the crew. He snaps off the TV just as viciously. “And fuck that nazi bitch, whatever is left of her.”

“Can we focus?,” MM asks at his desk, his fingertips burrowing deep in his temples. “We got a lot to cover and very little time to do it.”

Hughie heaves a sigh and nods, looking at each of those present to recollect the room as he stands in the center of it. “He's right. We gotta crunch these last numbers. I'll make it quick. Let's see…MM is good on the books. You submitted that last bit of papers for that druid-wannabe supe, right?”

“Yes. Ready for you to hand off to your attorneys.”

Hughie flashes a thumbs up before turning to the seats near your desk. “Cool. Frenchie, Kimiko. Looks like I just need that last budgeting sheet for…is this a flamethrower? This looks suspiciously like a flamethro- why?”

Kimiko signs before Frenchie grins, “Research purposes.”

You hold back a snicker as Hughie presses on. “Fuck, fine, whatever. Mallory can deal with that, I guess. So that just leaves-”

“Yours truly.” Butcher's chair creaks next to you at his desk, opposite side of Kimiko, as he swivels slowly with a bit of impatience. “It's all there, mate. Double checked the numbers me self.”

“All of it?,” Hughie presses. “Your ammo and armory form was off a couple digits last month.”

“Yep. Even corrected the pornhub subscription cost on the miscellaneous page.”

“Okay, okay. That was lovely news,” Hughie grimaces as everyone else shares a chuckle. “Bleaching that from my mind and moving on. Budgeting is done. Now for the real meeting.” He glances back and forth between Butcher and MM. “Any new leads on Persuasion or Walsh?”

“Only that Walsh is hiring third party goons to try to keep Vought from crawling up his ass. Ambushed me at the club the girl talked about,” Butcher shrugs. “Patched myself up away from the hospitals, so we don't have any tails there.”

Your mind slips into the memory of your fingers running through Butcher's damp locks. It hazes briefly at the memory of calloused hands and warm lips before you remind yourself that there's a reason you and Butcher are not sitting directly next to each other right now.

“I found two other cases from the same night,” MM cuts in. “One male and one female victim, not as lucky as our first. They were from different sides of town. Vought got to them long before me though. But from what I could gather, the situations are uncannily similar. If this is a test run, this drug is going to spread fast.”

“No faster than what Walsh will allow, you mean,” Hughie interjects. “He still has to keep ahead and under Vought’s radar.”

“Any clues what it's for?,” you ask.

“I have less leads than them,” Frenchie replies, rubbing the back of his head in agitation. “After what happened with the last sample, I've had to take the experiments a little slow.”

Hughie shakes his head. “Not gonna lie, that's not great news for our timeline before the gala. How are we coming on that?”

Frenchie perks up a bit. “That I do have good news. My surveillance equipment should be here within a few days. But I will need to know where in the gala we are playing our roles. I need just a little time to make any necessary changes to it.”

Butcher gestures around the room. “So? Where do you lot all wanna be?”

There's the crackle of paper as Frenchie smooths out the schematics splayed out on his desk, Kimiko and MM leaning to peer behind him. “We all start at the top and work down, right?,” MM begins. “Fifteen floors down. We should stack. Nobody more than one floor apart from each other. So I'll take fourteen and every third floor on.”

Hughie starts ticking off fingers. “So that means…”

“Means MM,” Butcher says, rising from his desk to stride to view the schematics, “will take fourteen, eleven, eight, five, and two. The love birds have to split what's left, and they all converge in the sublevels.”

Kimiko types rapidly into her phone before showing the display to everyone. I want to be closest to either of them if they need backup, it reads. I'll take thirteen down.

“I guess that leaves me with levels divisible by three,” Frenchie shrugs.

“What kind of modifications are you thinking?,” you ask him.

“Mostly wardrobe, so I know how to disguise your surveillance gear.”

Kimiko and Hughie smile, confusing you until you hear a voice behind you pipe up, “I guess I snuck out at the right time then.”

All eyes turn and you find Annie coming into the office. While you feel Butcher's not-so-welcoming smirk bloom from his spot, you and Kimiko each greet her with a warm hug before she greets Hughie the same with a kiss tagged on. “I'm guessing this isn't the budget report we're talking about?,” she asks the room.

“We could go back to that,” Butcher grins. “Being the altruistic soul you are, Starlight, I'm sure you'd be more than happy to make a generous donation to our cause, no? And using that Seven member payroll to stick it to Vought?” He lets out a low whistle. “It'd be poetry.”

“Tempting,” she responds tersely. “But even my money is micromanaged. Getting my charity for at-risk youth off the ground has been like pulling teeth, even with all the good PR Vought is expecting. And the last thing all of you need is for Vought to be sniffing further into my ‘donations’. Don't you think?”

“If you're a stingy bitch, you can just say that.”

“Okay!” Hughie quickly cuts in, placing his thin frame in the direct heat of their glaring. You're surprised he doesn't melt like butter in the thick of it. “Let's remember we're all on the same side here. We'll give you ladies a chance to talk over things while we, uh, find the best place to put our surveillance team.”

“I won't keep her long. The less I know, probably the better. At least in this case.” Annie gives Butcher one more pointed glare before shuffling you off a few paces. “It's been awhile since he's worn a shirt that didn't look like he stole it from a Miami retirement home,” she grumbles.

Oh, you had definitely noticed. He was still wearing the blue shirt from your closet, and Hughie had made a similar comment when he had walked into the Flatiron. Butcher merely brushed it off with something about laundry day. Thwarting away the image of what lay beneath said shirt, all stretched out on your couch, you asked, “We're still on tomorrow then?”

“Yes. I know a guy from my Christ for Capes days, his name is Torsten. He doesn't work for Vought but a lot of his clientele have been supes. He's got a hole in the wall for a shop in Manhattan. He can definitely tailor something for what you need.” 

She glances at Hughie, who is preoccupied arguing with Butcher that no, they can't park the van in the goddamn venue lobby. Then says, “I get wanting to wear something you can fight in. But can you? Not saying you don't know how to take care of yourself. I'm just hoping you're going to have enough time to learn what you need.”

You wave at the team as MM seems to get them back on track over the schematics. “If there's anybody that can get me ready with this kind of time crunch, it's these guys. Right?”

Her eyes crinkle as she looks over each of them. “I mean…kinda? A little. I don't think their insurance would agree, but...”

“Says the one who can take a bullet to the chest,” you jibe back.

“Well I don't know what the hell they'll teach you. But we'll get you fitted for it.”

The idea of pitching Annie to supplement your training flits in your brain. What better way to learn than from the one friendly supe in your corner? But immediately you reject it. Annie is already under constant suspicion from the Seven, Homelander most of all. Not to mention what little spare time she has is just that - very little. And again, would she be able to hide your training from Hughie till the right time? Especially if she knew Butcher was involved, in more ways than one?

Not likely, the little voice huffs.

“Hughie told you about meeting at the apartment at 4, right?,” she asks, dragging you from your thoughts.

You nod.

“Okay. We'll meet there, then head to Torsten's. My window will be small though before I have to get back to the tower. So think about what you might like for the gala. He's a damn good tailor but not a miracle worker, and we're calling it pretty tight as is.”

“Sounds good. But one problem. I don't exactly have a budget for a custom fit. And Butcher wasn't completely wrong about needing financing for this.”

Annie shakes her head. “Don't worry about it. Torsten owes me a favor anyway. And it helps me get away from the tower for a time. Which…” She glances at the clock on her phone. “...I am nearly out of myself already.”

“You're not staying?”

“No,” she sighs. “I wanted to get the details to you in person, less risk of our plans being tracked or leaked that way. That and I need to talk to Hughie for a bit. I meant what I said about knowing less. Our resident asshole-”

“Which one?,” you ask in a cheeky tone.

“Our resident asshole,” she continues, “doesn't need any more reason to doubt my intentions. The less I know, the safer all of us will be if shit hits the fan, especially with Vought. Gotta keep my nose clean after the last time I was accused of treason, too.”

“I appreciate your help, Annie.” You glance over at Hughie and Butcher, still mapping out the eventual parking spot of the surveillance van. You notice MM approaching you. “I'll let you talk to your boy toy and see you tomorrow. I have a feeling I'm needed now.”

“That would be correct,” the big man says as he steps up beside you. “We need to start working on your ability to read the room. More like you should've started yesterday. So if you need anything, snacks, restroom break, whatever - now is the time. We're gonna be here late tonight.”

You give Annie another hug before she motions for Hughie to join her for a hushed discussion. You move back towards the others and the venue map with MM. “So what does this entail?”

“Body language is the big one. You use it all the time, you just don't know it. A lot of social cues are given and read more subconsciously. Your role in this depends on it.”

As Hughie and Annie call out a good night, explaining that they needed to headout, Butcher waves them off dismissively and walks towards his desk at the end of the office. “Already we got a snag in your little lesson here, MM. You think four of us is gonna be the same as reading a packed ballroom?”

“No, I think we are her training wheels and that's better than nothing.” There's a hint of exasperation in his tone. You have the distinct impression that Butcher has voiced his charming opinions to the crew on you being their spy for the event. If said impression was right, then at least you knew the crew was on your side.

Frenchie slides across his own desk with a small smile at the corners of his mouth. He disappears for a brief second before bobbing back up with a Bluetooth speaker, and begins setting it up with his phone.

MM watches him incredulously, palms up in confusion. “The fuck is he doin’? The fuck you doin’, Frenchie?”

“I am setting up for the lesson. We are teaching her body language cues, the gala is in a ballroom…” He thumbs over his phone screen before beaming at you. “So dancing serves for both, non?”

MM wipes a hand over his face as Kimiko sticks out her hands in invitation to Frenchie. “Oh my god, fucking really?”

“We're working, not fucking about!,” Butcher growls as a song comes on at random. The sound of a howl and three single notes flow out of the speaker, and Frenchie looks at it with doubt. But he shrugs and begins to turn and shuffle about with Kimiko.

You recognize now that his random playlist had chosen “Lil’ Red Riding Hood”. Not something you even expected with all the French rap you usually heard him play. You highly doubt this will be played at the gala either, but you just smile, enjoying the duo's antics as MM vents his frustration. 

“As you can see, Kimiko's body language is open. She smiles! She is relaxed!”

“Fuckin’ Christ, Frenchie…”

You nod with thick enthusiasm, ignoring Butcher grumbling. “Yes, yes. I see.”

The duo continue to wheel about in the limited space as the song progresses. “Now notice that both of us have some tension in our shoulders? That is from suppression. Why?”

“Why?,” you play along.

“To not laugh at these two boring fuckers!”

MM flips them both the finger, which they return in kind. After another moment, MM finally steps forward. “Hold on, hold on. Let's at least do this proper. Kimiko? May have your hand?”

They paused, confused. But you catch a glint in MM's eyes and you give her the thumbs up. To Frenchie’s surprise, MM takes her hand, doing his best to maintain proper dance form with the size difference. He makes a “eyes on me” motion at you.

“Watch and learn. If you didn't notice, poor Kimiko's body language was giving all the subtle signs of distress.” He begins to move into a different dance than the awkward shuffle from before. “And why? She needed saving. Because he, and his white ass, ain't got no rhythm, and this is clearly a motherfucking tango!”

“Oh fuck you! You think I can't fucking tango?”

MM sweeps Kimiko further away. “Nah, you don't get her back now. You hijack my lesson, I hijack your dance partner.”

You can't help but laugh as Frenchie stomps after them, apparently offended, and MM dancing just out of reach round the office with Kimiko standing on his toes. After the apprehension you'd had about this meeting, this is a pleasant change of pace. But you know the song is just about over, and there's still work to be done. Not to mention there was still the hardass who definitely would not be dancing.

You tear your eyes from the three cavorting about, ready to catch Butcher scowling across the room. Instead, you catch him taking advantage of the trio's distraction to stare right at you. A small knowing smirk appears as the last verse plays.

Lil’ Red Riding Hood

You sure are looking good

You're everything a big bad wolf could want.

You're hit with the memory of that night at the motel, him staring up at you with that same damn look. Those wolfish eyes. He's being awfully bold, right in front of the others. But was he really anything else?

You are not going to make this easy, are you?, you think.

And in the blink of an eye, it vanishes and he is glowering at the others. Teaching you not to be distracted it would seem. He approaches them as they settle. “Turn the music off, and it stays off,” he snaps. “All she's learned in the last three minutes is how to look like a right wanker in a crowd. Which is exactly what she doesn't fucking need when she's supposed to sneak in, and then sneak the fuck out.”

He snatches Frenchie's phone and tosses it to him. Giving the other two one last huff, he turns to you. “Let's start with identifying when someone has a concealed weapon. Something you'll actually fucking use…”

^^^

Hours later, far later than you had even expected, you sit in Butcher's car, head propped against the cool glass of the window. You had originally hoped that he would insist on a rolling session after the training you'd done with the Boys. Or rather a rolling session and seeing where it would lead. But when Butcher had volunteered to drive you home - before the others could - on the ride in the elevator down, he had informed you that he would be out looking for leads again.

You admit, you were a little disappointed. But turning your head to look at him in the passing lights, you see just a trace of fatigue in the wrinkles by his eyes. A ghost of his concussion. And to be honest, you were still a little haggard from a long day, and the long night before playing Florence Nightingale to his stubborn ass. It was better this way.

That didn't stop him from cursing your fatigue. He peeled his hand off the steering wheel and placed it on your knee, rubbing firm circles there with the pad of his thumb. Just like that night at the motel, whistling low and slow that damn song in the Flatiron, as if in case you weren't remembering it.

You arched one eyebrow at him as he parked at the curb outside your building. He arched one back at you with a devilish look. “What? Something on yer mind, love?”

“Just wondering if I'm going to have to patch you up again tonight.”

“Are you now?” His voice is thick with disbelief. He gives your thigh a warm squeeze. “That all?”

“Yep.” You make sure not to bat an eye. “Not much else to think about tonight.”

“Well in that case…” The seat creaks as he leans in and kisses you. Firm and slow. Like that hand that glides up your thigh. Like the way he presses it against the center seam of your jeans…

And he pulls away just as you inhale sharply. “...In that case, since you got nothing to think about, I'll let you dance on up to bed for the night.” He unbuckles your seat belt for you with a cocky twist of his lip.

Fucker.

“Yeah. Not much to think about.” You make no attempt at hiding the frustration in your tone. You hear Butcher chuckle as you step out of the car.

“Give Tinkerbell my regards tomorrow,” he nods. Then with a wink, “And keep that bed warm in case I need a nurse, yeah? Be seeing you real soon, love.”