Chapter Text
Okay, Hughie thinks to himself. He can do this. And even if he can’t, he’s just going to have to fake it ‘til he makes it because he really needs this job.
It kind of follows the same thought process as a lot of his life decisions. He has to think it pretty intently, though, because he’s not convinced. His dad got him the interview -and that kind of says it all, really- because the ad asked for relevant experience and although Hughie has worked in customer service and retail, apparently a coffee shop can afford to be more selective.
It’s not exactly the average coffee shop though. It’s called Black Coffee, and the sign is clearly spray painted by someone with more enthusiasm than talent, so it kind of looks hipster. From what Hughie has heard, though, this is the place all those hipster joints aspire to be.
He steps inside. The room is full of mismatched furniture that Hughie can tell -from personal experience because, alright, his family’s never had that much money- is genuinely used and worn, not just designed to look that way from the start. There’s some exposed brickwork and copper pipe around the walls, but it looks like more of a neglect issue than an aesthetic choice. Still, the tables are- actually, no, they’re not clean either, scattered with crumbs and covered in coffee stains.
Hughie hadn’t realised they served food, but beneath the smell of roasting coffee there is the glorious scent of baking, flour and sugar and spices. He can hear someone clattering around in a kitchen, too, and it takes him a moment to realise why that seems unusual. There’s no music playing. There’s very little ambient noise at all, only a low murmur of occasional conversation, not even the clink of mugs because all the drinks seem to be served in disposable paper cups.
Cautiously, Hughie approaches the counter. There’s a young man sat behind it, perched on a stool, looking moderately intimidating and incredibly bored or at the very least deeply high. He’s attractive -yes, Hughie notices- with dark hair, dark eyes, although his features are a little drawn, shaded.
He nods an acknowledgement at Hughie.
“Uhh- hi. I heard you guys were hiring. I’m here for an interview?”
“Name?”
“Uhh- Hughie. Campbell.”
“Hughie,” the man repeats, thoughtfully, fiddling with something behind the register. Hughie smells the acrid tang of permanent marker before he’s handed a name badge with his first name written on it. “Tables are there. Garbage bin is behind the counter. Recyclables go in the blue bin. Liquids down the sink. I will show you how the coffee machine works. Do not go in the kitchen. Yes?”
That last part, spoken in the same ambivalent French accent as the rest, isn’t directed at Hughie. There’s a customer behind him. He ducks out the way, too confused to override his natural inclination towards anxious manners.
The customer orders two black coffees and they’re produced with quick, efficient movements at the espresso machine, two dollars taken as payment with a tap of a card before the cups are handed over in silence. Hughie blinks, but the customer seems unsurprised, maybe even grateful as they leave.
The man behind the counter turns back to Hughie. “Aprons are hanging on the wall just there. We close at seven today, so-“ he stabs at a few buttons on the register so the drawer opens with a chime and then counts out a few bills. “Four hours at twenty dollars an hour- eighty.”
He literally hands over eighty dollars in cash, and Hughie stares at him, open-mouthed. “Do you not need my- social, or something?”
“Ask me again at seven. If you still want the job. Yes?”
Well, that smile doesn’t exactly fill Hughie with confidence, but here are more customers, somehow, so Hughie retreats again, this time in the direction of those aprons, pocketing the cash. It’s more money than he’s seen in weeks. If he’s given free coffee as well it might just tip him over the edge. He dons the apron, ties it around his waist, takes a few deep breaths and a moment to pin his name badge on, not that the guy behind the counter is wearing one.
“You the new guy?”
“Uhh-“ Hughie stammers at the large, intimidating guy who’s emerged from the kitchen, tray of scones in hand.
“Try this.”
Hughie takes a scone as he’s bid, cautiously bites into a corner of it and groans as fruity, buttery goodness dissolves on his tongue. “That is amazing.”
The guy hums thoughtfully. “Frenchie. Try this.”
“They could taste like ambrosia itself, he will still hate them.” But Frenchie -apparently- reaches for one all the same, takes a bite and nods appreciatively before turning to the next customer while continuing to eat. Hughie’s pretty sure that violates a number of health codes. But he’s basically doing the same thing. He vaguely hunts for a cloth behind the counter so he can sneak another bite, so much more satisfying than the last few days of instant ramen, to the approval of the baker, who doesn’t bother to introduce himself before he disappears back into the kitchen to clatter around some more.
Hughie tucks his scone away in a corner, grabs some disposable paper towels and something that resembles disinfectant spray, and starts clearing tables.
Considering it’s a weekday afternoon and there’s a Starbucks down the street -and the next street, and the next- it stays steadily busy. Hughie’s grateful it doesn’t give him too much time to think about the cash burning a hole in his pocket or about feeling Frenchie’s eyes on him whenever his back is turned. He wipes tables, recycles what he can, hasn’t seen a single reusable cup in the whole place actually, he realises.
Occasionally, between jobs, he manages another few bites of his scone. Frenchie doesn’t comment or even appear to notice or care. A few people request baked goods from the display cabinet that’s filled with pretty standard fare; cookies, muffins, brownies, all handmade with labels handwritten in the same script and sharpie as Hughie’s name badge.
A few of the customers -regulars, he guesses- double-take when they see him although nobody says anything. People don’t really say much in there at all, Hughie notices, only the bare minimum to order or exchange between those sat at the same table. If people only want black filter coffee, sometimes they don’t even say the words. They just hand over cash. It should be peaceful. It’s kind of disconcerting.
At around six o’clock, a car screeches to a halt outside in what’s marked as a delivery bay. It’s an old car, the paint mismatched. And Hughie is no expert on human behaviour, but he notices a gathering tension about the place in the few moments before the driver of the car strides through the door. It slams open so loud the glass rattles in the frame, and Hughie knows enough that he focuses more on looking busy than he does on staring but even so, he notices that fuck, he’s hot. Tall, dark and smouldering in an outwardly furious sort of way, dressed somehow terribly but in a way that definitely works for him, he shoots Hughie an alarmed look and then keeps walking.
“Frenchie,” he greets, gets a nod in return, before he unceremoniously shoulders past him to print out a report from the register. Hughie is still studiously not staring.
“MM’s been working on potential new products today,” Frenchie says. It would be casual, conversational, probably seems that way since the two of them are in the wrong place to see MM -really?- shoot a look that is both betrayed and murderous at Frenchie through the wall.
Hughie needs to throw some things in the garbage, doesn’t dare get between them. He piles up a few more cups and stays out of the way.
"MM!" the man calls. He's got some sort of accent or something, one that becomes more pronounced when MM emerges from the kitchen with a single scone on a plate and earns a definitive, "No."
"At least taste it."
"What is it?"
Hughie frowns. He's kind of staring, now, along with half the customers. MM sighs, rolls his eyes, eventually begrudgingly admits, even though the problem isn't immediately apparent. "It's a scone."
"No it fucking isn't. Bin 'em."
"Butcher!"
“You know my views on scones-“ he says it like the word is scons, and Hughie realises with a start that he’s British. British and kind of militant about baked goods, apparently. “Make them properly, you can sell as many as you want. Now get these iced triangular atrocities out of my fucking sight.”
Butcher -is that a nickname, too? Hughie wouldn’t be surprised- walks away, leaving MM to call after him. “If I make them round, can I sell them?”
“You make them round, I’ll try them. You-“ Butcher points a finger at Hughie, who does his best to look helpfully accommodating rather than startled and anxious- “Office, now.”
Hughie hurries to follow, because he has no idea where the office is and Butcher shows no intention of waiting for him to catch up. He throws away the cups he’s been hoarding, wipes coffee from his hands onto his apron, heads down a corridor behind the counter that leads to a few doors, one of which Butcher is unlocking. Hughie is entirely unashamedly given a thorough once-over as Butcher turns to usher him inside although, Hughie notes, despite the tight space offering him the opportunity, he doesn’t touch. It makes him feel a little better about being crammed into a tiny office with a terrifying stranger, just a desk between them.
Butcher takes the chair behind it, leans back and props his booted feet up on the desk. Hughie’s never seen anyone make a Hawaiian shirt look intimidating before. He sinks into the seat on the other side, glances around. The room’s tiny, barely big enough for those few items of furniture, the two of them, a cash safe and a filing cabinet. If Butcher sat properly, his and Hughie’s knees would be touching.
“You’re Hugh’s kid, right?” Butcher asks, and Hughie has so many fucking questions for his dad.
“Uhh, yeah. Hughie. Nice to meet you.” He risks holding out his hand. Butcher takes it with a knowing smirk and fuck, his hands are huge. He’s a big guy, and Hughie’s not exactly tiny. He learns, too, that he is talking to Billy Butcher. Not a nickname, them.
“We worked together once. Back in the day,” Butcher says, as he settles back in his seat again. “He worked hard. Was good at what he did. Says you’re the same. We’d be happy to have you on board. Reckon you can handle it?”
It can’t be sexual. It just can’t. This man worked with Hughie’s dad, has hired him based on his recommendation. “Yes. I’m happy to be here.”
“Alright.” Butcher sighs, looks around, picks up a form that’s been left on the top of the safe and slides it across the desk to Hughie. “Fill this out. I’m getting coffee.”
He strides out. Hughie is left staring at a piece of paper with the words For Employers Only emblazoned across the top. He guesses it is only his information that he’ll see, begins to fill it out as best he can. After a while Butcher returns with coffee for both of them, sits and drinks his in silence while he watches Hughie struggle.
“Do you- is this your registered office?” Hughie risks asking, receives a nod in response amiably enough. “Are you the- business owner?”
That -for some reason Hughie may never know- brings a shadow across Butcher’s expression, although he does nod.
“Is it- William?”
Butcher grimaces but nods.
Like that, they get through the form. Hughie slides it back over the desk and Butcher locks it in the safe, presumably for someone else to deal with later.
By the time they make it back out, Frenchie’s flipped the sign on the door and is running the coffee machine through a cleaning cycle. It looks like he’s cleared the tables. Hughie sips his cooling coffee, feeling awkward, but Frenchie gives him a wink that seems reasonably friendly.
“You’ll work the afternoon shift. Twelve til eight, Monday to Friday. If you finish early, find something to clean. Twenty quid an hour,” Butcher grins at Hughie’s lingering uncertainty; that still seems like a lot, but- “Plus tips,” he adds, nodding in the direction of the empty, dusty tip jar. Yeah. Point taken. “Any questions? Good. Mop the floor or something then fuck off. If you’re not out the door by eight I’m locking you in here with me.”
He's already walking away, doesn’t see Hughie’s expression crease with the conflicting dread and desire that threat triggers.
Frenchie sees, though, and he rolls his eyes, points wordlessly at the mop and bucket propped in the corner. Hughie hangs his head and goes.
-
He learns a lot that first week.
Frenchie doesn’t say much to customers, but he’s incredibly talkative once he gets going. His English is fluent, usually flawless, although he miraculously loses a great deal of his understanding and plasters on a benign smile when anybody is rude or entitled.
Hughie’s a little worried the first time Butcher emerges from the office to witness that in action. Frenchie hasn’t seen him and Hughie can’t get his attention, just watches the customer get more and more aggravated until she demands to see the manager.
Even then, Frenchie doesn’t look concerned. He turns, apparently surprised, but pleasantly so, to see Butcher.
Butcher listens to the woman’s complaints with an unreadable expression and narrowed eyes. If anything, his indifference intensifies when she starts talking about immigrants and their place in the job market. When she’s done, she demands a free drink, “For the trouble.”
Butcher calls her a cunt four times before she finally snaps and storms out. Hughie doesn’t count; he’s too stunned, staring, but Frenchie holds up another finger each time, keeping track, and he’s laughing by the time the door slams behind the poor woman. Butcher shakes his head, rolls his eyes, unphased.
Hughie can’t stand it. It goes against every single aspect of consumer culture he knows. “Free coffee for anyone who leaves an honest, positive review on our google page right now.”
It looks like Frenchie considers the genuine merit of that particular offer. Butcher’s staring at Hughie like he’s just spoken another language but he nods when Frenchie glances his way, questioning whether to serve the first person who shows their phone screen as evidence.
Honestly there are too many negative reviews for it to make a real difference, but it ups their average score a bit anyway. The entire pool of reviews is made up of those who love the place and scored it five stars, and those who upset Frenchie or Butcher and left unappeased. None of them ever say anything about the coffee itself.
Butcher looks begrudgingly impressed by Hughie’s quick reaction, anyway, claps him on the shoulder when he checks the updated score on his phone.
Hughie gets a less favourable reaction when he tries another of MM’s creations. It’s delicious, more savoury than he had been expecting when he bit into it and before he can think, he asks, “Is this a biscuit?”
Something shatters in the storeroom, close to where Butcher was last seen.
“Why, man?” MM asks Hughie, throwing his hands up.
Hughie’s not exactly sure what he’s done wrong until Butcher storms out to say his piece with about all the emotion Hughie has so far seen him muster. “It’s a fucking scone.”
“This one actually is a scone,” MM tells Hughie, although he ignores Butcher’s pronunciation and the glare he earns for it. “You said you’d try it.”
“Did you follow the recipe?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly?”
“Yes, damnit.”
“Well, then, I’m sure they’re fucking delightful. I’m going out.”
He doesn’t come back until after Hughie leaves at eight even though he lives above the shop.
Frenchie doesn’t seem too worried. “He is- oh what is the word?- an asshole. Don’t let him get to you.”
It’s probably good advice. Hughie doesn’t take it.
-
“He’s good to you though, isn’t he?” his dad asks, when Hughie risks asking whether Butcher’s always been so- like that.
“Yeah, he’s-“ Hughie recalls various moments of affectionate swearing; the time Butcher had winked and hooked an arm around his waist to deter a particularly friendly customer who had been accompanied by six other women having some sort of bachelorette party. “He’s good. Just- intense.”
“He’s British, though. I think they’re all like that.”
Hughie doesn’t think that’s true. They’d never get anything done over there. Wouldn’t have managed to accumulate an empire. “He seems like- I don’t know, he should be some kind of old school cop or something. Not running a coffee shop. What did he do when you knew him?”
His dad changes the subject. Hughie doesn’t want to let it go, but all he manages to figure out by pushing it is that Butcher was some kind of smooth operator existing vaguely outside the law, and he got involved in some project his dad was working on, apparently legitimately. They were drinking buddies. Hughie can’t imagine that. Sort of doesn’t want to.
“You guys never-“ he ventures without entirely wanting to hear the answer for any number of reasons, doesn’t examine his resultant flood of relief too closely when his dad shakes his head and laughs.
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“I mean I can’t say I would never have considered it.”
“Dad!”
“He’s got that whole tall, dark and handsome thing going for him. Always did. But- I had you, and God knows he would never have strayed. Such a shame what happened.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, I guess you would have been too young to really remember. His wife just disappeared one day. Never came back. She was nice. What was her name? Bethany? Brenda?”
-
Becca, Hughie realises with a by-now familiar stabbing sensation through his heart when he’s searching through old receipts and finds the signed invoice. As always, he wonders what she’s like, doesn’t dare ask, gets called a cunt twice in a day for getting lost in his thoughts instead of working. Butcher doesn’t seem that annoyed, though. It’s a kind of culturally accepted, and with the way Butcher treats MM and Frenchie, it would actually feel more like some kind of discrimination if Hughie were left out of the- banter.
Butcher uses that word to describe what a lot of other employers would call bullying, abuse or sexual harassment. Somehow he makes it work. He’s got a kind of bluff charm and Hughie is utterly enchanted by every aspect of him. He’s hopeless.
There’s a sound system in one of the back rooms. Hughie finds it when he’s cleaning late one night, when Frenchie’s left him to it, but he’s forgotten to close the door to that room. There’s other stuff in there, too, just the fuse box and the electric meter.
The sound system is dusty, unused for some time, although it seems like it works when Hughie experimentally switches it on at the wall. There’s a laptop connected to it, too, an ancient one, although it boots up fine. iTunes opens automatically and Hughie grimaces at it, although at least it’s easy enough to scroll through the playlist marked Shop. There’s a disconcerting amount of nineties pop on there, and Hughie honestly can’t reconcile any of it with the people he knows until he minimises the window and nearly has a heart attack when he sees the desktop background.
It's a gorgeous, sunny photograph of a beautiful woman and -Hughie’s mouth falls open and he covers it with a hand- a smiling, clean-shaven Butcher, looking years younger and making Hughie’s heart ache with how badly he wants to see that smile light up Butcher’s face again. He touches the screen, and then he realises what the fuck he’s doing and he needs to get out, except he needs to shut this ancient machine down and for some godforsaken reason it’s connected to the internet and needs to install roughly eight thousand updates and the touchpad mouse thing is fucking terrible and somehow he manages to hit play.
The Spice Girls are bad at the best of times, but at ear-splitting volume that makes the whole building vibrate, they’re fucking awful. Hughie scrambles to correct his error, struggles with accursed shaking fingers and a heart rate of about one-eighty, and it takes a strong arm looping around his waist and hauling him back against a broad, solid chest to convince him to stop trying, a steady hand already coming down on the keyboard shortcut that makes it stop.
Hughie lets out an actual sigh of relief and Butcher chuckles in his ear, is practically holding him upright as he sags.
“Sorry,” Hughie breathes, after the indefinite period of time that makes him realise just how inappropriate their positions are.
“Accidents happen.” It can’t be unintentional that Butcher speaks directly into Hughie’s ear, so he feels the warmth of his breath, the brush of his beard against his cheek, and shivers involuntarily.
Somehow, Hughie manages to say, “If you wanna talk about it-“ although at that point he kind of trails off, because he’s not really sure what he’s offering.
“Fuck off, Hughie,” is murmured with warm affection, anyway, and if the sound of his name in that voice, so close, makes Hughie swallow wetly, well, Butcher definitely hears it, and he doesn’t let go.
Not until Hughie relaxes, anyway, and then Butcher eases him out the door and tells him to fuck off again, only this time he means it.
When Hughie looks back, he’s staring at the computer screen, and he reaches out to slowly close the lid of the laptop.
Hughie goes before Butcher can catch him watching, but as soon as that door closes behind him, he regrets it.
“Fuck,” he says.
And then it starts to rain.
-
“You any good in the kitchen?” MM asks him the next day, as they sample peanut butter cookies.
“I’m- not bad,” Hughie says, which is technically true. He can’t be terrible at something he never does.
“We’ll get you on a food hygiene course. Means I might get a couple of days off once in a while.”
It’s- not completely a surprise. Hughie already knows how to work the espresso machine, has covered for Frenchie a few times. He knows that no amount of enthusiasm will get him tipped; mostly it just freaks people out. But he’s paid enough to make up for it, and it means the work is less exhausting. He’d never realised how much energy he expended on pretending to be happy, before.
He also earns weird, approving smiles from Butcher whenever he hands over coffees without saying a word. It makes him feel good, even if he knows that entertaining a crush on his unattainable, gorgeous older boss is going to be fruitless and deeply depressing in the long run.
He can dream. It’s been a long time since he’s felt like he even wanted to.
“Can Frenchie not bake?” he asks, though, because it does sort of feel like he’s upsetting the hierarchy a bit, here.
“He’s a fantastic baker. Back when we started, he was the one in here. Now he won’t even cover my shifts.”
“What happened?” Hughie asks, and even mid-sentence he realises it’s a ridiculous question. There’s only one thing that could possibly have happened. “Butcher?”
MM sighs. “Butcher.”
-
The food hygiene course is terrifyingly easy, and a number of his classmates make him despair for the future of every restaurant in the state.
With nothing to really do for the day, he goes back to the shop after he’s done, makes a start on his knowledge of the kitchen now he’s actually allowed to set foot in there. He’s not going to be cooking up any new ideas anytime soon, but he can follow a recipe easily enough, gets a few hints from MM before he needs to head home.
At eight, a beautiful woman walks in. She makes no attempt to speak to Hughie, who’s cleaning up behind the counter, and he’s just about to ask if he can help her when Butcher emerges from the back room.
“Kimiko!” he greets with a beaming smile and open arms she steps into with ease. They hug. Hughie tries not to stare. He fails. She looks so tiny in his arms.
“How are you, love?” Butcher asks, too, and she smiles benignly, gives a sort of half-shrugging nod. So-so. “Well, you look fantastic, as always. Want coffee?”
She shakes her head, although she concedes when Butcher procures a bag of decaf from behind the counter. The coffee machine is clean, but he fills a French press and talks to her quietly at one of the tables while it brews. He pours her a cup, and he pours one for himself, and he snaps his fingers in Hughie’s direction to offer him one, too.
Too surprised to decline, Hughie nods. Kimiko eyes him curiously but not rudely, smiles when he approaches.
“This is Hughie. He’s been keeping us all in line.” Butcher winks at him, then, ignores Hughie’s doubtful look and Kimiko’s raised eyebrows. Still, she doesn’t say a word.
“I don’t think you even know where the line is,” Hughie speaks to Butcher instead, not wanting to pressure her. He doesn’t know if it’s a physical thing or an anxiety thing, but it’s none of his business if she doesn’t choose to share.
“More than welcome to go work and fucking Starbucks if you want, Hughie.”
“No, don’t!” Hughie clutches at Butcher’s arm, pleads with his eyes. “I’ll be good. Don’t send me to Starbucks. Green is not my colour.”
Kimiko watches them with her chin propped in her palm and a smile that broadens when she catches sight of something behind them. She slides out of her seat to go to Frenchie, who picks her up, spins her around, murmurs affectionally to her in French.
They’re adorable.
“Wow,” Hughie says, without really meaning to, and Butcher eyes him, smiling himself.
“Yep. Perfect in every way but for her taste in men,” he says, loud enough to be overheard, and he snorts when they both give him the finger without turning their respective adoring gazes away from each other.
As they leave, hand in hand, she waves to Hughie, and kisses Butcher’s cheek.
-
MM’s wife, on the other hand, glares with such open vitriol that Hughie can almost see her imagining how best to hit Butcher around the face. Her car’s outside, her kid staring through the window at them all, not even allowed in.
“What the fuck?” Hughie asks, almost rhetorically, as she and MM leave.
“Yeah, she hates me,” Butcher replies, though, and even though it’s almost eight, he gestures to one of the tables, makes them both coffee, pours a shot of whisky into his. He offers Hughie one too, and he nods, because he’s not about to risk losing another important moment.
After a sip, a grimace and a trip to the fridge to retrieve whipped cream, Butcher continues, “She thinks I’m holding him back. MM could be a baker, he could have his own business, he could be making anything. Working at some swanky hotel and earning a decent wage, doing decent hours. But instead, he’s here with me.”
“He could leave, though, right? If he wanted. You’d let him go.”
“I’m not fucking holding him hostage. But- I was supposed to open this place with Becca. It was all her idea. Without her, MM thinks that leaving me and Frenchie to run it on our own would be like signing a fucking death warrant. I can’t really blame him.”
Hughie’s not going to ask what happened. He’s going to let Butcher have his privacy, and only share what he chooses, but his thoughts are entirely derailed by the sight of Butcher licking cream from his top lip and the words are out before he can stop them. “What happened?”
“She’s not fucking dead, Hughie, you don’t need to look so fucking terrified. We were setting this up. I was still working to try and help pay for it, while she sorted out actually running the place. She went on some- management course, and then about a week before we were due to open she ran off with some cunt who runs a Starbucks.”
“Wow.”
“Yep.” Butcher sloshes more whisky into his coffee, doesn’t offer, this time. “All my fucking money was in this. MM and Frenchie helped me out. Just while I get started, I said. Eight years later-“ Butcher gestures to the room at large, sighs.
“My girlfriend did die,” it seems as good a time as any to bring up. Butcher is giving him that same almost-bored look he gives customers when they rant at him and he’s refusing to react in any visible way. “A car mounted the pavement. Drug driver. I was stood right there. And he was- working for some big corporation, I guess. They paid me off, so I’d agree not to say anything. I still have the cheque. Haven’t cashed it. Don’t want it. My dad wouldn’t let me tear it up. And then I lost my job because I just kept having anxiety attacks all the time.”
It's not something Hughie really talks about, outside the few months of therapy after it happened. The Vought corporation was willing to pay for it as part of the settlement and he hadn’t been able to think of anything better to do at the time, but it had helped.
Before he can begin to feel conscious of all he’s offloaded, though, Butcher says, “Sometimes I smash the windows at Starbucks just because I can.”
Hughie’s laughing before he’s even really realised what’s been said. “What? Butcher.”
“You should cash the cheque.”
“Don’t-“
“No, I fucking mean it. Doesn’t matter if you use it. Fucking get it out the bank in dollar bills and have a fucking bonfire, if you want. The point is, after you’re done, they’ll have less. Sometimes it’s all you can do. Bring them down a bit. Maybe they’ll go under a few months sooner ‘cause of you.”
Hughie can kind of see the twisted logic and he fucking hates it. That cheque is an insult to Robin’s memory, a vicious calculation of her worth that will always come up infinitely short.
He considers it for a while.
Staring at forty-seven thousand dollars in his bank account gives him the same empty, aching feeling as staring at the cheque had. He does a little research. And then he invests the money in one of Vought’s competitors.
And that makes him smile.
And if his smile sticks around all day because he didn’t quite invest all of it and Butcher laughs for a full five minutes when he finds the gift-wrapped brick on his desk, well. Nobody needs to know his reasons.
He probably shouldn’t have stopped seeing that therapist.