Chapter Text
As soon as they got back to the shitty motel, Butcher couldn't close the door to the room fast enough, more than ready to be done with Soldier Boy for the day. If it wasn't for the fact that he needed him in order to finally kill that cunt Homelander, he would have left his sorry freeze-dried ass back in Russia where they had found him. More trouble than he was worth, it seemed more and more each day.
Butcher leaned back against the door and let out the sigh he had been holding in for the last hour, dragging a gore-covered hand down his face. The nerves behind his eyes twitched sharply, the comedown from the Temp V starting to set in. He had at least another two hours or so before it would get really bad, but it definitely ain't comfortable now. His eyes ache from the strain of the lasers, dry and irritated behind closed lids.
Rustling and the sound of the faucet turning on comes from farther in the room, Hughie having walked in before him. Butcher doesn't move from his position at the door, leaning his head back against the wood with a dull thud. He stands there listening to the lad move about the dingy motel room and bathroom. He's got the right idea, and Butcher should really follow in his footsteps - his canary, as always, showing him the right path to take - but he just needed a moment to collect himself.
This job doesn't affecting him anymore - hadn't in years. But some moments were more difficult than others. Maybe it was his old age, or the more troubling side effects of Temp V catching up to him, he didn't know. Didn't care to know either. He hated for the Boys to see him like this, seeing this shit get to him. But it was a bit easier in front of just Hughie.
"Oi," he called out into the room.
"In the bathroom," Hughie called back, "found the first-aid."
Resting his throbbing eyes a second longer, he opened them and pushed off the door. The carpet dragged under his boots as he walked to the bathroom, probably hadn't been cleaned since they were install fuck knows how long ago. The door to the bathroom was already open and the single bulb flickered, bathing the cramped space in a garish yellow light.
Hughie was sat on the edge of a grimy tub, open first-aid kit in his lap. Deep red blood was drying in his matted curls, trails of it flaking off on his face. A bruise bloomed a wicked purple on his cheek, emphasizing the deep lines under his eyes. The only thing mostly clean from the blood was his clothes, though they were dirty from having fallen to the floor when he teleported earlier. Butcher didn't need to look in the mirror to know he wasn't fairing much better. Hughie looked up at him with hunched posture, a bone-tired weary coming off him in waves.
"It's a cheap one - and is missing some parts - but it's got most of what we need." Hughie says, eyes falling back onto the components of the red box. "Sit," he jerks his head towards the toilet.
The room's not big enough for two grown men to be in there at the same time, but Butcher does as he's told and sits down on the lid. Their knees bump together and they fall into a quiet, familiar rhythm. This wasn't new, sitting in a shitty motel and cleaning each other's wounds. It happened much too often for Butcher's liking, but in their line of work, he considered himself lucky to not be a smoldering pile of gore on the floor.
Hughie works with a practiced ease, hands steady and gentle as he cleans blood from Butcher's temple. His movements are patient as the disinfectant wipe glides along the skin, lips slightly parted in concentration. Mindful of a long cut near his hairline, Hughie takes all the time he needs with his task, like it's the most important thing in the world. Like this cut was worth taking his time over. Like Butcher was worth wasting time on.
This isn't any different from the other times they've had to do this, the same song and dance they've done over and over again; go out, find a supe, get information, fuck something up, get the shit kicked out of them, kill the supe, lick their wounds - rinse and repeat. But Butcher can't help but feel like something is different this time, focused in on the repetitive movement of Hughie's hand. There's not a shift in Hughie or his actions, he's not acting like he's bothered with the job or like he even minds. He almost seems to be enjoying himself, enjoying taking care of someone.
His eyes follow Hughie's hand as he discards the disinfectant wipe for a butterfly bandage. There's blood under his nails, Butcher notes absentmindedly. He leans in a touch closer to give Hughie easier access to the cut, feeling the brush of gentle fingers as he smooths it down. Their eyes meet for a second, and the lad offers him something akin to a smile and a grimace. Butcher offers his own back.
Grabbing another plaster, Hughie takes his jaw in a delicate grip and tilts his head to look at a nick on his cheek. "You think we're any closer to killing Homlander?" He asks.
Butcher hums, "Sure as hell don't feel like it sometimes," he offers. The lad huffs through his nose, shaking his head. "If we weren't havin' to play babysitter to the world's oldest atomic weapon and his old chums, we'd be a hell of a lot closer."
"We'd also be closer to having to deal with Soldier Boy taking Homelander's place."
Grimacing, he nods. "That we would. But, I suppose that'll just have to be a bridge we cross when we get to it."
They fall back into the comfortable silence again, Butcher allowing him to continue with his work. He's practically putty in his hands, moving his head right along to where Hughie wants it as he doctors the last of the cuts and scrapes on his face. The entire time he finds himself staring at the other man's eyelashes - bit of an odd detail to be fixated on, but he's mesmerized. They frame his eyes perfectly, bringing out just how blue his irises are. When he looks down, they fan out along the bags underneath.
Hughie almost catches him staring, or maybe he does catch him but doesn't say anything, as Butcher casts his glance away.
He might be a bit more open with Hughie, but that doesn't mean he's willing to divulge everything just yet.
"Almost done," Hughie notes, cupping Butcher's jaw and tilting it side to side. He's checking his handiwork and Butcher gets lost in the motion. Before he can stop himself, he's leaning into the touch, practically stroking his cheek and beard against the lad's palm. This, Hughie does notice, and instead of jerking his hand away like Butcher wouldn't have faulted him for doing, he brings the other up to the other side.
His voice is soft, like he doesn't want the supe in the other room to hear, "You okay?"
Butcher nods, closing his eyes when he feels the familiar twinge behind them. "Haven't been touched like this in years."
Humming, Hughie strokes his thumbs along the tops of Butcher's cheekbones. He smiles, a real smile this time, and slowly - oh so slowly - pulls him in closer. Their lips are centimeters apart and he can feel light puffs of air against his own. Hughie hesitates for a just a second, giving Butcher an out if he wants to take it, but he doesn't. He closes the space between them, chapped lips brushing together in a chaste kiss.
It's a simple kiss; no demand for it to go any further, but not shutting the idea of it down either. It's not quite how he expected it to go - not that he had been expecting it to happen, he'd just envisioned it as a little rougher - but he'll gladly let Hughie take the lead. He wouldn't change this for the world though. It's perfect. Yet again, his canary knows just what he needs without him even knowing himself.
They pull apart - not by much, just enough to look each other in the eye. Hughie's pupils are blown wide and he's panting slightly, eyes shifting from Butcher's to his lips, and back again.
Butcher twisted his head to press a kiss into his palm, Hughie's hands still cupping his face. "You don't have to be gentle with me."
"I know," Hughie assured, "I want to be."
Not since Becca has Butcher allowed himself to be held like this. Allowed someone to be gentle with him. A couple of people had gotten close. But it never felt right, or real, or worth figuring out. It's different with Hughie - always had been, since the day he met him. They'd had their rough patches along the day, said and did things they both weren't proud of. But maybe the hurt and distrust was worth it to reach this point; being held in a cramped motel bathroom by someone he was terrified of losing.
He brought his hands up to Hughie's and guided them down. "Then allow me to do the same," He offered, emphasizing his point by bringing the hands to his lips and pressing tender kisses to the lad's bruised and bloody knuckles.
Hughie didn't say anything, just stared at him with those big blue eyes and nodded.
Now it was Butcher's turn to take his time and show his appreciation with his actions. He grabbed a disinfectant wipe packet and ripped it open with his teeth, so he could keep hold of one of the hands. As gently as he can, he cleans away blood from the scraped knuckles, movements slow yet assured. Hughie winces but doesn't pull away. So much fight in one lad, Butcher thinks as he takes stock on the bruises and nicks littering the younger man's hands. They would need to be wrapped and iced for a while.
He can feel Hughie's eyes on him as he works, following along with his motions. Watching as Butcher tosses the wipe and grabs the bandages. He begins the process of wrapping Hughie's knuckles, a task so ingrained in him he could do it with his eyes closed. He works with a quick practiced ease, still mindful of the scrapes. Over the knuckles, under the knuckles, around the palm, pull tight, repeat - it's all second nature to him.
Ripping the bandage and tucking it into place, Butcher gives them a quick onceover to make sure everything is in place. "All good?" He asks, looking for any signs of discomfort outside of what's to be expected when you fight a supe - even with the aid of Temp V.
"All good."
Butcher grins, "Glad to hear it. Care to come with as I grab some ice for those knuckles of yours?"
He shakes his head and frowns. "If I get up from this spot, I'm going to teleport, and I'd rather not get out kicked out of a motel for public nudity... Again..."
"Ah," replied Butcher, "yeah, can't have that." He clapped a hand on the lad's knee and rose to his feet, joints popping in protest. Stretching, he let out a groan and rolled his shoulders. "I'll be back momentarily, yeah?" Without giving it too much thought, he pressed a quick kiss to Hughie's forehead and headed for the door.
Grabbing a bag for the ice on his way out, Butcher closed the door to their room behind him. Give the lad a moment to himself, in case he needs to think over whatever just happened. Butcher hadn't quite wrapped his head around it himself. He wouldn't have said that it had come out of left field, but he definitely hadn't of expected it. At least not now, that's for sure. Like he'd said, he had hoped of something a tad rougher when he had thought about it. What does this mean for them? What does this mean for the rest of the Boys, once they were all together again? And what about Hughie and Starlight?
He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he hadn't of realized he had already collected the ice and was on his way back to the room, until he was pulled away from his mind by someone clearing their throat. Butcher's shoulders sagged and he breathed a sigh through his nose, rolling his aching eyes before turning to face an unimpressed Soldier Boy. He was leaning against the door frame of the room beside theirs, still dressed in his bloody suit with his arms crossed over his chest.
"Can I help you?" Butcher asked, not caring to hide the annoyance from his voice.
Soldier Boy eyed him up and down before responding, taking in his bloody Hawaiian shirt and doctored cuts. "Before you head back out again, you need to run by the liquor store - I'm out of my supply."
Already? He had just been by the other day and picked up enough liquor to kill an elephant! Damn bloody supe, he thought ruefully.
"Any other requests?"
"Weed."
The corner of Butcher's eye twitches and he resists the urge to deck the other man right there and then - but just barely. He grits his teeth and offers a smile, despite how phony he knows it must look. "The lad and I will head out in the mornin' to find you some."
The other man sneered at the mention of Hughie. "Good," he says with an air of disinterest and almightiness that irks Butcher, "go back to playing nurse with your little boyfriend."
Butcher squares his shoulders and levels the old bugger with a nasty smirk of his own, "Gladly." He then turned on his heels and stomped back to the motel room, knuckles white from his grip on the bag of ice. The sooner they can hurry up and find the rest of Payback, the fucking better. Butcher had just about had enough of the elderly nuclear bomb he was stuck traveling the country with. Just find Payback so Soldier Boy will help you take care of Homelander, then this will all have been worth it, he kept telling himself.
He all but slammed the door behind him once he reached the room, running a hand through his unkept and bloody hair. Rubbing his tired eyes and sighing once more, he headed towards the bathroom. As he approached the little room, Hughie looked up at him and smiled softly, looking relieved to see him.
Butcher paused in his path, slightly taken aback by the sweet look. Frozen in place and staring back at the lad for an embarrassing amount of time, his brain finally clicked into gear and he returned the smile with a tender one of his own.
Yeah, this would all be worth it.