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It isn’t a new sound.
It isn’t different.
It should be, it used to be.
The first time it was alarming.
Tonight it’s just a clink, a plink, the sharpness of the glass as it hits some dejected and cracked remnant of a mug, the click of it making contact before the liquid it’s dripping with cushions the fall and makes it slide.
Slide.
Slide, leaving a viscous trail in its wake, painted against that dirtied yellow of time and overuse and undercoating.
Hughie shouldn’t be watching it, shouldn’t be staring, before, back then, at the beginning, doing so made him nauseated and nervous.
Now, it just is.
Just is, like it just is the way he winces at the dig of the tweezers, jerking without intent or meaning away from the man who is trying to be helpful.
At least as much as he can be.
As least as much as he ever has been.
He, the man, Butcher, who makes a sharp tsk. He’s got Hughie by the hair, too-big fingers from those too-big hands wrapped around one side of Hughie’s neck before they disappear into his nape. Until they tangle and pull and position, turning Hughie’s face just so and then the tweezers are back.
It’s like plucking hair, one tiny small exacting piece at a time. One harsh yank, one jolt of quick pain.
There’s more mess with this, though. The brilliant, blatant splatter that matches the stains on Hughie’s shirt, that matches the dampness of his jeans.
His shoes. Shoes stained a different color now, wet, sopping, ruined.
They had squelched with each step. And there’d been a lot of steps. It wasn’t like he could get on the subway.
Okay, he probably could have gotten on the subway and no one would have noticed but the danger of it, the possibility, was too much. So Hughie didn’t risk it.
He didn’t try.
He was already so tired.
Tired.
Moments like this used to leave him pumping with adrenaline, buzzed and wired and trembling but ready to go for more even as he felt like he couldn’t believe it and it couldn’t have happened and he could never do it again.
If only.
Instead, each step had been a squelch, each moment had passed like hours, each thought in Hughie’s head the echo of why, why, why and what does it ever amount to?
Other than exhaustion. Other than being late. Other than the brief flash of something on Butcher’s face when he’d opened the door. Disappointment. Anger.
Relief?
There’s been nothing since.
No words, at least. No conversation. No question. Just the firm guiding by that too-big hand as Hughie is herded into the bathroom. Just the shove against Hughie’s shoulder to force him to sit on the edge of the tub. Just the clink, the plink, the sharp hiss of each of Hughie’s indrawn breaths, each deep grunt as Butcher bends and contorts and sits forward, attempting to balance his massive body on that five-inch span of fiberglass, digging out each and every last shard.
Butcher’s face is strange to see this close up, it’s strange to see, to note, the smattering of grey that’s worked its way into his beard, the silver strands that threaten at his temples. Hughie can’t say that he’s never looked at Butcher, that he’s never let his gaze linger.
Never like this, though.
Never like this.
It’s gotta be better than counting each splinter, right? Better than watching each trail that follows behind each piece of glass like some strange and demented slug had left it along its journey. Better than being fixated on the fact that each one had just been buried in his skin, that the diamond dust of them had sprayed across him in those moments however long past, one shotgun blast sending shrapnel flying.
Flying.
Flying back at him.
Hughie shouldn’t have dropped the gun. Shouldn’t have dropped it and run, squelched off, bolted, but he’d been surprised and shaken and there’s a mess, mess, mess back there in that already dirty alleyway and Hughie should worry that someone was going to find it but he doesn’t.
Doesn’t because Butcher is just about as good at cleaning up messes as he is at making them and when Hughie had been late, when Hughie had missed the first rendezvous, when Hughie had taken however long he had taken to get all the way from midtown, well.
Hughie was pretty sure there wasn’t a mess anymore.
Butcher tilts him again, pulls, angles, Hughie can’t figure out what Butcher’s doing, what Butcher’s trying, but Hughie is smart enough not to object so he just lets himself be manhandled. One way, then another, before Butcher huffs out a little exhalation of victory and then he’s digging in again.
Must have been the light, all those angles, all that turning, looking for the glint. How Butcher can see it through what’s running down Hughie’s face, okay, well, it’s not really running so much more as it is oozing now, and most of the all of it on Hughie, especially neck down, doesn’t actually belong to him.
Technically, it doesn’t belong to anyone anymore.
But the glint of the shard, the light reflecting off it, from that miserable bare bulb that’s too low in wattage although Hughie doesn’t want it any higher in that shithole of a safe house.
No one needs to see any more of that place than they have to.
One pluck. Another. A third. Butcher makes another noise, another breath, this time halfway between a passing thought and obtaining the amount of required oxygen needed to survive.
Their eyes meet for a second, catching on each other.
Honestly, it’s hard to focus on someone when you’re nose to fucking nose, but Hugh’s been making a point of trying really hard not to look, not to reinforce the weirdness of it all, not to just, well, it’s an intimate kind of thing, right? Sharing all that air, all that space, all those moments.
But they snag, then, there, snag on each other like a jagged edge on silk and stutter to a stop.
Butcher ceases his work, stills the movement of his hands.
Hughie stops breathing.
What’s he supposed to do, supposed to say? Is this the place where he apologizes, or tries to explain, or tells Butcher that he doesn’t know if he wants to do this anymore because this isn’t what he’d imagined it to be?
Being a vigilante - if they could even call themselves that - is a worthless fucked up self-righteous kind of life.
There’s a moment, one, one where Hughie isn’t breathing but his heart is pounding and when he’d been on his way there, there to the second meet up, when he wasn’t even sure Butcher would be there or if Butcher would be sad or disappointed or, or, or…
No, no this moment is none of those moments.
It may not be a moment at all because Butcher has only moved Hughie inside and sat Hughie down and now Butcher’s here, there, on the tub and leaning forward, leaning closer.
Fuck.
Fuck.
What does this mean and how is it a possibility or an inkling or anything and what is Hughie supposed to do about it?
Is he supposed to be leaning forward, too?
Closer?
One of those too-big hands is on Hughie’s face, the one not still wrapped around Hughie’s neck, Butcher’s too-big thumb sweeping gently over the rise of Hughie’s cheekbone and oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, this is just as terrifying as the shotgun blast.
And then the one that followed.
Plus all that came after, all that came in its wake, but this is that too, so maybe at the end it’s all just one in the same.
One. Except not. Because as Hughie does lean forward and as he does lean in, Butcher makes an irritated sound from somewhere in the back of his throat that’s a mix between a growl and a hiss, before his thumb runs over something on Hughie that hurts.
More glass.
Another piece.
Another piece and then Butcher is back at it, yanking against Hughie’s hair, tilting Hughie’s chin up so that Butcher can better see and then plucking oh so precisely with great meticulous optimism at that last shard.
Hughie should thank him.
He should say something.
He doesn’t. He just shrinks, deflates, feels cold and lonely and fucking sore as Butcher moans and groans and creaks as he stands, moving the whole step and a half to the sink before running it.
The clink and plink is harder to hear over the water, harder to hear as Butcher rinses out the mug, but they tinkle, sounding briefly against cracked and dirty porcelain as Hughie wonders idly what he’s still doing there and if he should move and how washing shards of glass down the sink can’t be the best idea.
Then Butcher’s back.
He’s got a bar of soap in one hand, the word soap is used generously as is the word bar, because it’s worn down and old and there are things sticking to it that Hughie doesn’t want to think about but when it comes to safe houses you get what you get and oh yeah.
This is the one where the shower is on the fritz.
Plumbers and safe houses don’t really mix, and it’s never run the two times that Hughie’s crashed there in the past and he’s sat there wondering about how he’s going to get clean much less his clothes and god he doesn’t want to have to wear the shitty old mildewed sweats that are stocked in the place.
Which really when it all boils down is of little consequence because again, Butcher, there, the not-quite soap, and a cup of water.
Butcher slides closer. Closer. As close as possible, trapping Hughie in the great yawning v of his legs, one thick thigh behind Hughie, in the tub, in the shower, before Butcher’s tipping Hughie back, forcing him to trust and dip and rest his weight both there and against the solid thickness of Butcher’s forearm.
The water’s hot, almost too hot, almost scalding, as Butcher pours it down over Hughie’s hair and wow this is not at all what Hughie had been expecting and how good had Butcher rinsed that mug out and oh shit that really burns.
There’s a pause, a moment where the pouring of the water on Hughie’s head like some kind of backwards kind of fucking baptism ceases and Butcher shifts just enough to balance the now empty mug on his leg. He shifts, shifts to be able to support Hughie better, to support him fully before he’s dragging his fingers through Hughie’s hair.
It’s not quite a caress and not quite like you’d pet a dog but it could be something in between. Hughie’s still lost on the fact that he is both wet and sticky and his clothes feel like they’re starting to fuse into him as they dry, meaning that Hughie’s brain can’t really process anything beyond the inordinate levels of discomfort that he is currently feeling. He doesn’t know and doesn’t understand and hasn’t really even acknowledged the fact that he is in Butcher’s arms or somewhere between an arm and a thigh and Butcher is currently in the process of petting him.
Kinda.
Kinda but not quite.
Kinda but not quite but close enough because this has never happened before and likely will never happen after.
Hughie gets there, eventually, to all those realizations, lashes fluttering too quickly as his stomach does close to the same. It isn’t a hallucination and Hughie’s only certain of that, certain that he didn’t imagine it, because it happens again, the drag of Butcher’s fingers going against the grain.
For a moment, a second, Hughie almost groans, almost lets out the littlest sounds of approval, but he doesn’t.
Doesn’t.
And christ he’s glad he skipped that part because it’s halfway through that second pass that Butcher plucks something out. Something. Something that isn’t Hughie’s and isn’t anybody’s anymore and Butcher isn’t even good enough to make some kind of noise or sound any kind of disgusted, and it isn’t even like this is new for Hughie.
But it’s different. Different because Hughie isn’t just gathering detritus in the drain as he rinses his hair like he’s done before. Different because it’s Butcher who’s doing whatever it is that he's doing and he’s doing it to Hughie.
As in an action. A verb. Unto another.
A doing which now includes the not-bar of soap, scrubbing it harshly against Hughie’s dripping hair, before dropping the offending piece of whatever (soap-like product, not previously a piece of a person product) into the tub, and working Hughie’s hair into a lather.
A lather. As in the fact that Butcher is lathering Hughie’s hair, as in he is washing Hughie’s hair, as in what the fuck is happening in Hughie’s life.
Fuck.
Fuck.
The soap bubbles and suds in a greasy-dirty kind of way and Hughie can only imagine the color of it before Butcher leans, leans away and kind of drags Hughie with him, pulling him the distance towards the sink again, flicking on the tap and filling the mug.
It takes one rinse, then two, and part of a third before Butcher is satisfied, looking down at Hughie’s hairline and thumbing it exploratorily. There’s no catch in Hughie’s throat this time, no stillness in his chest, he knows what Butcher's looking for.
What Butcher finds.
The tweezers strike again. Hughie can’t figure out how the shards had gotten in past his hair, what was hair good for anyways, but he just relaxes into it, well, almost, it still hurts like a bitch, each dig, each pluck, each pull.
Hughie’s mind wanders, roams, just like Butcher’s hands do, sensitive fingertips checking for more of that cruelly sharp stuff embedded in Hughie’s scalp. They should both be talking more, should be taking at all, half the fucking time Hughie can’t even get himself to shut up, but now, now there’s no words.
Just yawning silence.
Just exhaustion and adrenaline and it isn’t until Butcher looks down at him with a furrowed brow and a sad little smile that Hughie realizes he’s shaking.
Shell shock, right? That’s what they used to call it? Or maybe they still did, Hughie isn’t up on the day to day terminology of how these things go.
That furrow, the one right there, right there in the center of Butcher’s forehead, only manages to grow deeper.
For a moment, a second, as fleeting as it is, Butcher touches him. He’s been touching him, of course. Has been touching him this whole time, but this is different, it really is, this time Hughie is sure of it as Butcher cups his cheek.
Just lightly.
Just for a second.
Just as he shakes his head, heaving a great big sigh before he’s letting Hughie go.
Panic sets in, terror. Hughie hadn’t even been fucking afraid as much as he’d been startled when he’d been in that alley, when he’d fired the gun. But now, now the way he feels in that weird space he’s in, as he trembles there on the lip of the tub, the idea that this is over with and that Butcher is going to get up and going to leave, Hughie feels like he’s gonna break.
Except.
Except Butcher doesn’t.
He does search Hughie’s gaze for a minute, he does seem to be waiting and seems to be checking, seeing what kind of response he’s going to get, but he’s not still for long.
No, he just slowly, carefully, starts to peel Hughie out of his clothes. Peel in the most literal sense because they’d soaked, soaked and stuck to him, coagulating against Hughie’s skin.
The outershirt is an easy get. It got sprayed a little, there are droplets, and well, yeah, Hughie’s sure that there’s more of him, there, on the collar. But Butcher is able to remove it without much difficulty. One arm. The other. Then Butcher’s tossing it back in the end of the tub, somewhere over there, because well, Hughie doesn’t fucking know.
Do you try to clean clothes like that? Do you just burn them?
But he really likes this shirt.
That shirt.
The one that Butcher is seriously, for real, taking off Hughie’s skin bit by bit. There’s that tsk again, sounding sharply against the roof of Butcher’s mouth as the once sodden and now tacky shirt moves up, up, up and over Hughie’s head.
It isn’t like Butcher’s never seen him without a shirt on, or without clothes on, but when it happens like this, when they’re so close, when it’s Butcher fucking undressing him, Hughie thinks it should feel differently.
That it should feel like something.
All it does for Hughie is feel like a relief, like whatever burden he was carrying with him, whatever weight right there, along with all the adrenaline that wasn’t, the adrenaline that was making Hughie tired and strung out. The only thing that’s comforting is Butcher.
That shirt’s added to the pile, or what can now be called a pile since it’s two pieces of stained clothing versus just the one.
Butcher looks around, and again, again the fear is back, is back, is back, is back because Butcher is tilting back and tilting away and Hughie can feel the tightness in his throat and the panic in his veins and he doesn’t make a sound, he doesn’t, but if there’s a whisper of noise it’s just a coincidence.
But all Butcher does is lean towards the sink, again, all he does is flip open a cabinet (door hanging off, hinges that protest, paint that’s peeling) to find towels.
Again. Generous use of the English language there.
Hughie grimaces, looks fucking affronted, is aghast really, at the idea of those being anywhere near to him. It must be plain, written there on his face, neon on his features, because Butcher laughs. It’s a good sound, one that echoes through the cold despair of the bathroom, one that eases the curve of Hughie’s spine, one that brings light into that threat of enclosing darkness.
There’s a second where Hughie thinks he’ll laugh too, like somehow the sharp and deep sound from Butcher is enough to break loose everything, but as soon as Hughie so much as thinks about it, as soon as his lips begin to so much as turn upwards, as soon as that air moves to fill his lungs, Hughie knows he has to stop.
He can feel it, feel it when everything is set to shake apart. He can feel the moment where everything comes rushing in, but before he can shatter, before laughter can devolve into manic tears, Butcher’s there again.
One of the towels is too, soaked in that same kind of scalding hot. It would have been better if they weren’t once white, if Hughie couldn’t see just how dirty and dingy they’d become.
That’s not an option, though, so he just doesn’t look at them.
There’s better things to look at instead.
The concentration on Butcher’s face, the crease in his brow, the way his mouth pulls tight at the corner as he drags the wet (hot, scalding, mildewed) cloth over Hughie’s skin.
One pass, another, all that which is stained onto Hughie like spilled wine wiped away.
There’s no method, no order, Butcher starts in the middle of Hughie’s chest, moves down over his ribs, rinsing the towel out over and over again. The water he wrings out is stained, too, like Kool-Aid, Hughie’s mind foolishly supplies, before the rough pull of wet terry cloth is back.
Butcher takes the longest time on Hughie’s collarbone, on his neck. His movements are exacting, slow, soothing. Hughie feels himself come back together, piece by piece. Like that Japanese thing, where they mend broken things with lines of gold.
With Butcher, then, there, Hughie feels like that.
Treasured.
There’s a final couple of rinses, rinse, wring, rinse, wring, before Butcher comes closer again, before he tilts up Hughie’s jaw with the stubborn press of his thumb.
The towel scrapes against Hughie’s stubble, but it isn’t bad, it doesn’t hurt, it just feels. Feels in a discordant way each time Butcher moves across the grain, cleaning Hughie’s cheek, careful of each tender cut, mindful of every scratch.
It’s a strange thing, surreal and frankly as amazing as it is confusing.
It only gets weirder, worse, as Butcher finishes, as he tosses the towel in the sink and wipes his hands on his jeans before bending.
Hughie, honestly, doesn’t know what the fuck to expect, but it certainly isn’t what comes next.
It isn’t the way that Butcher fully slides to the floor, onto that dirty, cracked tile, somehow managing to fit the hulk of himself there between the tub and the toilet. It’s a squeeze, a tight one, but Butcher doesn’t even seem to notice beyond the groan of protest he makes as he kneels.
No, all he does is zero in on Hughie’s shoes, focus on all that soaked canvas, pulling one of Hughie’s shod feet onto his thigh.
The laces are shot, having gotten too wet and all kinds of goopy and that isn’t just fluid that’s gotten all over them. Untangling his Chucks is one of Hughie’s most hated pastimes. And he’s got slender fingers, he’s nimble and deft.
Butcher’s hands are huge. Massive. Not inordinately so, his fingers are still elegant in their strength. And yes, Hughie may have spent moments now and again watching the way that Butcher’s hands move, watching the way that he works.
Nothing like he’s watching now. Gaping there, down at Butcher on the floor, Butcher who makes quick work of those laces, who somehow just … unties them like there’s no difficulty, making another funny noise at the state of them as he works off first one shoe and then another.
They go in the tub, too.
Tossed in there without a glance, leaving Hughie there in his jeans (also soaked, also clinging to his skin) and socks (see above).
He should be worrying about what the fuck he was going to wear, later. He should be worrying about when the fuck they were going to leave and what morning was going to look like.
Instead, all Hughie can do is look down at Butcher, Butcher who is looking up at him, whose gaze is distressingly soft and open, vulnerable even, edged with something sharp.
It’s all glass one way or another. Glass in Hughie’s skin, in his hair. Glass in the window that had been broken. The thread between them glass, thin, fragile ready to break.
Nobody breathes.
Anyone else might not have noticed it or failed to care, but Hughie starts to thinking about the fact that he isn’t breathing and so he wonders if Butcher isn’t breathing and no, no there’s no rise and fall of that too-thick chest.
Just the pressure of Butcher’s palms (massive, warm, rough), against the fabric of Hughie’s jeans.
Just the weight of him, the weight as he starts to push down to stand up, the weight of his gaze and damn, damn, damn, Hughie is pretty sure that this is a bad idea, and it’s everything that he just went through but it’s too close and too easy and so Hughie is leaning down.
Down.
Leaning down to meet Butcher, to touch his face, to shake, and tremble, and fucking vibrate as he aims for Butcher’s mouth but gets a little off track.
He shouldn’t have closed his eyes.
But it was spontaneous and scary and having to look at Butcher while thinking these thoughts and making some stupid fucking action, well it was too damn much.
So Hughie misses.
It isn’t by much.
It isn’t far. But as Butcher comes up - is still coming up, doesn’t stop in his movements - as Hughie bends down, eyes squeezed shut, nerves overtaking him, Hughie gets jawline.
Panic is back as Hughie’s eyes snap open. Anxiety pumping into his veins at the notion he’d had one chance and one moment and now it was gone.
Butcher laughs. It’s a scoff, really, that textured sound made at the back of his throat before he’s smiling up at Hughie. It isn’t a broad thing, it isn’t expressive, just this tight, wry curving of one half his mouth. Just a slow blink as Butcher shakes his head, as he reaches up and grabs Hughie by the back of the neck and pulls. Yanks. Demands.
Butcher doesn’t miss.
He kneels there, right in the small, squeezed space, pressed up against Hughie’s uncomfortably paired legs which are turned in a way that’s almost unbearable. It hurts, like Hughie’s hips and his knees and his feet are cold and the bathroom is damp, and none of it matters.
Butcher’s kissing him.
Hughie laughs, the noise more broken than it isn’t as Butcher grunts and shifts upward and presses their lips together more.
It’s weird. Because it’s a guy and because it’s Butcher and his beard feels funny and his mouth is as big as his hands and it takes Hughie a second to figure out where everything is supposed to go. He tilts and turns and cranes a little and then yes, that, that is the way it’s supposed to be because Butcher groans and licks his way into Hughie’s mouth, nipping on Hughie’s lower lip, growling with each kiss, snarling sharp when Hughie is brave enough to put his hands in Butcher’s hair.
And oh god, ohgodohgodohgod, there’s that feeling again, the one where each thread in Hughie is being pulled out and he knows he’s about to come to pieces.
Hughie sobs.
Butcher stops.
This, of course, is the opposite of what Hughie wants to happen so he curls his fingers into Butcher’s hair, he curls them in and pulls, pulls Butcher back to him, trying too hard to kiss Butcher again, coming in too fast, ending them both in a crash of teeth and skin and from the taste of it, someone’s lip has split.
It’s Hughie’s.
It’s Hughie’s because he can feel the sting of it even as he sobs again, as a hiccough starts in his chest, as the tears start to come. He’s coming apart, coming undone, but all Butcher does is lick at that little wound, growling again, biting down on that sensitive skin before sucking it in between his teeth.
So Hughie moans. Loudly. It’s insane, he’s fucking sobbing, bawling his fucking eyes out while Butcher is sucking on his lip, and suddenly Hughie is harder than he’s ever been in his life. His pants are too fucking tight and Butcher is too fucking close and who the fuck cries through their first makeout session (even if it is in the most fucked up kind of way) with some gorgeous hulking brooding kind of guy.
Plus, the whole hard thing? The whole discomfort of his erection, which he hopes he can just fucking hide and maybe he won’t stand up again for a while and maybe they’ll make out a little and Butcher will get bored and leave except …
No.
No, because Butcher leans in, leans forward, sucks fucking hard enough on that busted lip to make Hughie’s groan reverberate throughout the small ass space.
In so doing, Butcher’s hands move. Up, up, up. Up Hughie’s thigh, until he comes to the unmistakable evidence.
The bulge.
Butcher stops.
Backs away.
Hughie’s sniffling now. He knows he looks puffy, red, wrecked and not in the sexual kind of way that can be hot. More he knows, knows because there is a fucking mirror right there, that he looks like some kid who got lost in the fucking mall.
Butcher looks at him, really looks at him, but all that gentleness is replaced with something like freshly forged steel and for a second, one that is pretty much the worst second ever, Hughie thinks Butcher’s mad.
Except, Butcher doesn’t leave.
He does move, does lean back a little, does do the same kind of hand magic with Hughie’s belt that he did with Hughie’s shoes, undoing it with ease and skill and quick movements before Hughie’s zipper is down and his cock is in full view.
It’s red, too. Just like Hughie’s face. It’s leaking. Just like Hughie’s face. But instead of horror or disgust or any of those things, there’s just that scoff of laughter again, just that rough sound as Butcher bends.
Right at the waist. Right down until his tongue is dragging over Hughie’s scalding flesh, right as Butcher’s lips part and take him in, test the width of him, play at sucking on him a little, cheeks caving in.
It’s the hottest thing that Hughie’s ever seen. It’s hot and it’s insane and Butcher scootches back a little to give himself more room, but he goes to fucking town, showing off, really, Hughie could never take a dick like that, had never taken a dick at all, but Butcher does things that Hughie’s only ever known were possible on porn…
As he takes Hughie all the way, as he drops deep and buries his face in Hughie’s crotch, as he swallows and sucks and makes this little hum, Hughie knows.
Knows. He’s going to come, he’s going to blow his load right down Butcher’s throat and that has him making these deep gasping sobs again, although this time there are no tears.
Butcher is relentless, and Hughie’s pretty sure Butcher knows, pretty sure as close as he is to the action that there could be no mistaking, but still Hughie lets out a sharp cry that echoes back to taunt him as he comes.
Nothing changes.
Butcher still sucks and hums and swallows and swallows and swallows, making these absurdly sultry little glances up at Hughie all the while. It’s too much for Hughie, too much really, and as his toes curl and his breath comes out in stutters, Hughie’s torn between the fact that Butcher hasto, hasto, hasto stop, but also not wanting him to.
It feels so much it’s bad but also it’s this insane kind of good.
Butcher does stop, though. He swallows Hughie down to the last drop, making contented little noises about it and that - that is a mind fuck royale because it’s Butcher and it’s Hughie’s dick and for Butcher to get any kind of satisfaction from any part of that seems unlikely.
So Hughie waits for regret. For dismissal. Butcher just sighs, sighs as he leans in to press a kiss against Hughie’s abdomen, there’s some kind of pleased grumble that sounds kinda like a purr but not nearly as rapid as Butcher moves to kiss higher, following the center line of Hughie’s torso, before nuzzling right at his sternum.
Hughie swallows hard, knowing that his heart's pounding, but not at all knowing what any of this means and feeling all kinds of confused and weightless and stuffed up.
He sniffles, leaning to wipe his nose on his shoulder, which just draws Butcher’s attention. And again, again, Hughie feels like that’s the worst idea because then Butcher isn’t focused on something simple like sex and touch and naked skin. Because surely when Butcher looks up and sees that snot-faced lost-mall kid, he’s going to rethink what he’s done.
And, damn.
It looks like Hughie’s right this time because after a moment, after a silent span of seconds where Butcher holds his gaze, where Butcher searches for something, he stands.
There’s those sounds. The grunts, the groans, the complete and utter displeasure as Butcher rises once more to his feet.
It’s okay. It’s alright. Hughie’s had a rough kind of night, and he’s broken down sobbing in front of Butcher which has never happened so far before and yeah, okay, maybe Butcher was sucking his dick at the moment, but that doesn’t make it any worse. Does it? Because it’s done and now Butcher is going to walk out and they’ll never talk about this again and it’ll be okay, it’ll be okay, it’ll be okay.
Fingers fall heavy onto Hughie’s hair. There’s an awkward kind of pat before Butcher opts to comb, to drag his fingers through hair that's damp but drying, gentle, careful, going for the side that hadn’t been so spattered in bits and glass.
He’s smiling too, this soft, lazy kind of smile as he looks down at Hughie and…
Oh.
Oh, of course.
Right. Right, right, right. Quid pro whatist. Hughie nods, and swallows and nods and swallows more and tries to set his shoulders straight because yes, no, he’s never given head before, and he’s certainly not capable of what just happened to him, and it isn’t like he hasn’t thought about it or that he doesn’t want to, so he can do this.
Butcher gave and now Butcher wants to get.
Makes sense.
Hughie takes in a breath. It’s deep. It’s shaken, and with hands that tremble still, though not so much as before, he reaches out to Butcher’s jeans.
And there’s that sharp sound again. There’s the roughness of Butcher’s tongue against the roof of his mouth as he tilts his hips away, as he shakes his head.
Smiling. He’s still smiling. Smiling as he takes both of the hands that were outstretched in his, smiling as he pulls Hughie up, up, as he holds steady to him as he waits for him to settle. That tremble, that shake, has moved all the way through all of what Hughie is, and he’s surprised at how difficult it is for him to stand.
Butcher doesn’t seem to mind, though. Doesn’t seem to mind the way that Hughie has to cling to him.
No, Butcher’s arm just winds around Hughie’s back and holds him close. Holds him there against the massive breadth of his chest.
Lips press against Hughie’s forehead before Butcher is taking in his own deep breath, before he’s running his nose in that damp-drying hair, before he’s sighing and pressing kisses there, too.
He gives Hughie a minute, a few moments like that, where they just stand in the bathroom before he’s leading him.
Guiding him.
Pulling him out into the dimly lit bedroom.
Pulling him towards the bed.
That gets Hughie a little anxious, a little nervous, because okay, Butcher didn’t want Hughie to blow him but maybe this was what he wanted instead. Hughie isn’t against the idea of them having sex, and like yeah, he thinks he could probably really be into that but …
Right then?
Those rough swallows are back and it feels like there’s something lodged in Hughie’s throat as he tries to figure out what the hell he’s going to say or what he’s going to do before Butcher is herding him backwards, back, back towards the bed.
Hughie stumbles, almost falls, right as the back of his thighs hit the mattress. Butcher catches him, though, catches him and starts to strip off Hughie’s jeans, pulling them down, down, one leg off and then another, the socks going too.
There’s a grimace written in Hughie’s face because is dick is soft, so soft, and it’s not even going to be able to stir anytime soon because he’s tired and empty and man that’s kind of an insult isn’t, it, not being able to get it up?
Even as Butcher strips, pulling his shirt over his head, stepping out of his own dark denim, leaving it and the boots all in a pile on the floor.
He cocks a brow at Hughie, looks confused as Hughie just stands there, stands and stares and shivers.
Butcher’s hard but Hughie isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do about that and he feels bad but also confused and then more confused as Butcher walks right around him before climbing into the bed.
Climbing into the bed and holding the covers up, patting the spot beside him and okay, okay alright, Hughie didn’t really think that Butcher was an under-the-covers sex kinda guy, but what do you know and do they have lube or condoms?
Does that matter?
Hughie is pretty sure that lube matters. Like he feels like he read that somewhere.
Butcher makes no moves, though, no moves like that at least, just pulls Hughie to him, pulls him down, grumbles and growls and grunts as Hughie settles.
It’s awkward. Strange. Hughie’s never lain in bed with a man before, not like this, not chest to chest and nose to nose and with their legs tangled up together.
Not, either, with the insistent press of the other guy’s erection against his thigh.
There’s a thrill to it, even as exhausted as Hughie is, even as unsure, nervous. But that Butcher is holding him, holding him, because those big arms are looped around Hughie’s back and Butcher’s chin is pressed into the top of his head and Hughie isn’t really sure how he’s supposed to breathe pressed up that close to Butcher’s neck but it’s nice.
Different.
Better.
Still.
Butcher’s thick and he’s hot and there’s a slickness of want that rubs against Hughie’s skin and Hughie knows that Butcher had previously declined but.
It’s only polite, right?
So it isn’t sex and it isn’t head, but Hughie knows that he knows how to do this, he’s done this enough of his own and scooching around a little, licking his palm, he grabs him.
There’s more surety to it than there was their first kiss, more confidence in the way that Hughie’s fingers wrap around Butcher’s length, but while Butcher hisses and his hips buck, sure enough one of those arms unwind and one of those hands come down to pull Hughie’s away.
But for Hughie, for Hughie it feels weird and it feels wrong and tilting his chin up, forcing Butcher’s head back, Hughie aims for Butcher’s mouth, stretches out further on his side in the bed so that he can press up into Butcher’s lips as he grabs hold again.
Butcher huffs, huffs into Hughie’s mouth but allows it, huffs and pants and his eyes are squeezed shut as each puff of air turns into a grunt. It’s crazy to hold someone else's dick, crazy to feel the solidness of it, crazy at the way Hughie fucking feels as he watches Butcher crack just a little.
He doesn’t come apart, he’s too in control for that, but Hughie can see the possibility, the promise.
The future.
Slow, testing kisses become frenzied and desperate as Hughie changes his grip, as he works his hand faster, as he bites down on Butcher’s lip.
Hot wetness explodes, searing across Hughie’s skin, spattering fingers and wrist. Butcher only makes these choked sobs, fingers digging into Hughie’s hair. Into his back.
Holding on, holding on like Hughie’s some kind of balance, some beacon.
Like Hughie’s important.
Hughie’s breathless, almost strung out and for a second while he knows that all of his skin is too hot and his features are at least half as wild as Butcher’s, mostly Hughie’s hand is just wet.
What … ah … what do you do with that? With his own, Hughie knows what he’d do, that he’d wipe it on something, that he’d rid himself of it but theres just mildewed sheets and the skin of each other and.
And Butcher’s looking at him again. Gaze that had been lost, unfocused, zeros in as a wicked grin cuts across Butcher’s face as he reaches down. As he guides Hughie’s hand up, up, right to Hughie’s mouth.
Hughie’s tried his own taste before, just a time or two, just because he’s been kinda curious what all the complaints are about, but never another guy's and never like this but Butcher looks fucking feral and a growl starts in that broad as fuck chest as Hughie licks a digit tenitively.
The taste is, honestly, pretty vile, with a weird and salty tang that seems to take over his existence, but Butcher looks so fucking pleased that Hughie can’t stop.
He licks himself clean, every drop, watching as Butcher watches. Watching as Butcher watches before Butcher is grabbing Hughie by the back of the neck and pulling him forward, flush, crushing their mouths together as if he’d die without sampling his own taste.
Hughie’s dick tries to get up a little at that, there’s a flutter but nothing more, a twinge before it’s too fucking exhausted just like Hughie is.
Just like they both are, because Butcher looks wiped, the bags beneath his eyes are dark, dark purple as he finally breaks away. Or tries to, seemingly constantly pulled back to kiss Hughie’s lips, his jaw, his hair.
One kiss.
Another.
More.
“Thanks Princess,” Butcher says, breath moving those almost dry strands. “Thanks for coming back,” he hums. “Don’t fucking do that to me again.”