Chapter Text
When Butcher inhales, the harsh taste of smoke in the back of his throat takes him back to that final night with Becca, when they'd curled up together like matching puzzle pieces in the boot of the car and shared a cigarette beneath a vast star-scattered sky. If he concentrates, he can lose himself in the comforting memory of her body against his, the smell of her hair, the feeling of being warm and sleepy after the specific type of intense, emotional sex that can only occur between two people who have just reunited after eight years of one of them thinking the other was dead. Becca's hand was trembling slightly when she held the cigarette up to his lips so he could take a drag, steadying when his fingers wrapped gently around her wrist.
It will always be the best cigarette he's ever had.
That was longer than twelve months ago, now. Sometimes it feels like it was just last week. He can't help but wonder if the time between now and the end of his life will go by at such a painfully fast speed.
He's not upset about dying, not really. Nor is he scared, or angry, or in denial. On some level, he's always known that he would end up in an early grave somehow – a particularly violent lash of his father's belt during an alcohol-fuelled rage that went too far, perhaps, or a grenade that got tossed into his tent while he was deployed with the special forces, or a red laser beam shot from the eyes of America's favourite piece of shit superhero. He has no retirement plan, no pension fund squirrelled away in a savings account, no desire to look in the mirror and see a wrinkled old grey-haired man staring back. He's surprised he made it to 20, let alone 30 or 40.
He's not surprised that he won't see 50.
A significant proportion of Butcher's life has been spent looking forward to death, even hoping for it, desperate to finally have the chance to rest. He doesn't believe in an afterlife. He's always thought that we return to the same state of vast blank non-existence that we were in before we were born. During the first couple of years following Becca's disappearance, there were several occasions where he would indulge himself with the idea that she'd find him after he died, conveniently ignoring the fact that they'd end up in completely separate places if heaven and hell turned out to be real. But that was just a fantasy. It was never anything more than a brief game to comfort himself, a way to pretend that he'd see her again, an imaginary situation that sadly, despite everything, still seemed more plausible than finding her alive.
No, it's not the dying part that bothers him. It's the knowledge that he only has a year at most, and the fact that what that really means is that he'll become too frail and weak to do anything useful at an as yet unknown point between now and then. It's the rancid pity in the doctor's voice and the half-hearted way he chastises him for smoking when they both know it won't make a blind bit of difference. It's the uncertain timeline, the anticipation, the clock ticking down at an unshakeably steady pace while there's still so much left to do. It's the possibility that he'll die while Homelander is still alive and every ordeal he's dragged himself and The Boys through will have been for nothing.
It's the images that flash through his head every time he closes his eyes. Hughie's face crumpling, his voice gradually getting louder and faster as he insists that there must be a cure, must be something they can try, must be something the doctors haven't thought of. Hughie staring into space for hours on end, the skin under his eyes a blotchy purple-grey from crying and lack of sleep. Hughie's body, stiff and unmoving after he's taken an overdose or jumped off a building or picked a fight with a supe or done any one of the dozens of other self-destructive things that Butcher is afraid he'll do when he goes.
It's the shame he feels for being vain enough to worry about that at all, for having the audacity to think that Hughie will mourn him for longer than a couple of days before he moves on and forgets about him. It's the uncomfortable truth that Hughie is going to realise that he's far better off without Butcher in his life. It's the grief of what might have been if Butcher wasn't dying (and if Hughie had ever brought it up, because God knows Butcher wouldn't. And if he was a better person and Hughie was a worse one. And if Starlight didn't exist, and if his heart didn't still ache for Becca, and if they weren't in the middle of a war that currently seems more unwinnable than ever.) It's the childishness of feeling grief for something that's attached to too many what-ifs to ever be more than a ridiculous notion in the back of Butcher's mind, one that rears its ugly head whenever Hughie grins at him or laughs at his jokes or ends up gravitating towards him when they're sitting together.
It's not the dying that bothers him. It's the everything else.
———
He discharges himself from the hospital a couple of hours after the doctor finishes his little monologue about Butcher's grim prognosis. They want to keep him in for another few nights, run a whole battery of tests on him, make him spend even more of his now very precious time being prodded and poked and hooked up to machines. Butcher politely tells the doctor where he can shove his tests. He's no Mystic Meg, but based on the way that his brain has been leaking out of his ears at an alarming rate, he knows that the results would be unsurprising at best and devastating at worst.
It's customary, when one finds out that they have a terminal illness, to produce a bucket list. Butcher's is very short: kill Homelander and save Ryan. The others aren't going to like it, but the hard work needs to start now. Everything he does for the foreseeable future needs to be geared towards one or both of those objectives. And that means no more sitting around feeling sorry for himself and overthinking things.
If he can stick around long enough to see Homelander dead and keep his promise to Becca, he can die a happy man, or at least a satisfied one. He can fulfil the primal need for vengeance that's been growing inside him like a tumour for almost a decade, and as a bonus, he'll be leaving the world in a better state than it was in when he found it. He's practically a regular Good Samaritan.
He doesn't even need to wait for the disease to finish him off unless he particularly wants to. And why would he? It's a simple concept: work, then play. Finish the job, then have one last night of sex and drugs and rock and roll, then bow out in whatever way he chooses. It'll just look like he had too much of a good time at the victory party. Classic Butcher, never knowing when to stop, always taking things too far. As far as everyone else is aware, he will have died just as he lived.
No loose ends. No broken promises. No pity from The Boys. They can have a laugh together about how he went out in a blaze of glory. Or they can disband and go their separate ways and never think about him again. It won't matter to Butcher. He won't exist anymore.
Being sick isn't going to stop him getting everything squared away. It's just going to put a time limit on it. Maybe this was the kick up the arse he needed. Butcher's days may be numbered, but so are Homelander's.
He loves it when a plan comes together.
What about Hughie, whispers the voice in the back of his mind.
Me kicking the bucket is going to be the best thing that ever happened to him, Butcher thinks in reply.
He shakes his head in a way that is probably inadvisable considering how recently he underwent the procedure to drain the fluid that had accumulated around his brain. It's not exactly comfortable, but it makes the voice fall silent, and that's what matters right now.
Twelve months. Clock's ticking. Let the race begin.
———
Two months, one week, and five days.
It's only been two fucking months, one fucking week, and five fucking days, but Butcher is on the home stretch now. He can't go much further, not like this, not when he's so fatigued, so slow, so broken.
He didn't think anything of the symptoms at first, assuming they were a normal part of the recovery process for the procedure he'd had done, or one of the many possible side effects of the drugs he'd been put on to prevent seizures. When the doctor warned him that he would gradually feel more and more sick as time went by, he hadn't expected that to start immediately. When they said he had twelve months left to live, he'd expected to spend at least six of them in good health, maybe eight if he was lucky.
Two months. One week. Five days.
He'd naively let himself believe that there could be a simple explanation. Maybe the label on his meds had been misprinted and he was accidentally overdosing on anticonvulsants every day, or maybe he was allergic to them, or maybe there was something wrong with that particular batch. Maybe the doctors missed something because Butcher hadn't let them run those extra tests, and there's a drug he should be on for a problem he didn't give them the opportunity to find.
He dragged himself back to the hospital, gritted his teeth through the barrage of investigations that the doctor put him through, lost his temper when the results didn't provide a palatable answer. He sought a second opinion, and a third, and a fourth, driving for miles to different clinics, deliberately seeking out doctors with a reputation for being willing to try experimental treatments. He spent a massive amount of effort pulling strings to secure a meeting with a professor on the other side of the country who used to work for Vought and is one of the only Compound V experts in the entire world who's willing to violate the terms their non-disclosure agreement.
It was all a complete waste of time and energy.
Every single one of their responses was the same. Hell, every single one of them was the same, wearing the same pitying expression and using the same hushed tones when they each shook their heads and said 'I'm sorry, Mr Butcher. I think it's time to get your affairs in order.'
There was indeed a simple explanation, one that was obvious even before the tests and the scans and the appointments. It's just not the simple explanation that he'd foolishly allowed himself to hope for.
One way or another, he isn't going to live out the remainder of the twelve months he was told he would have.
He's been doing his best to hide it from the rest of the group, keeping his coat on to hide the weight loss, putting the breathlessness down to decades of smoking finally catching up with him, passing off the tremors as a telltale sign that he's foregone his morning coffee. It's worked well enough so far, but he can't keep it up for much longer. Lying comes naturally to him, but that doesn't mean it's not painful. He responds to the others' well-intended words of concern with jokes, excuses, the occasional angry retort. The words taste like ashes in his mouth, and he can tell by their expressions that they don't believe him. Butcher has a silver tongue, but he's no miracle worker. He can't convince The Boys to ignore the evidence that's right in front of their eyes.
He stopped being able to convince himself long ago. The body that he walks around in no longer feels like his own. His 'old body', the body he used to live in, was finely tuned, responsive to the commands he gave it, fit for purpose. His 'new body' is nothing more than a cumbersome, uncoordinated mess of wasting muscle and aching bone. When he stares at the unrecognisable figure in the bathroom mirror after a shower, there's nowhere to hide from his new body's prominent collarbones and thinning facial hair and mottled, easily-bruised skin.
If he only had to look out for himself, Butcher would carry on, redouble his efforts, stick to the original plan of working flat out until Homelander's body is cold and Ryan is safely back in Mallory's care and Singer and Neuman's campaign is dead in the water. But it's not just him – and as much as it pains him to admit it, that's a good thing, because if the others hadn't been around to save his arse several times in the past few weeks, he'd be dead by now. He's part of a team, and unfortunately, his role within it is now that of 'token hindrance'. The shaking in his hands and the grey spots in his peripheral vision have robbed him of his ability to shoot straight. He can barely walk up a flight of stairs without needing a rest to catch his breath, let alone fight hand-to-hand with a supe. If he stays, he's going to get somebody killed, and it isn't going to be Homelander.
He gave it his best shot, every day, for two months and one week and five days. But it's time to bow out now.
A couple of weeks ago, somewhere between the second opinion and the third opinion, Butcher begrudgingly started to act on the doctors' advice about getting his affairs in order. It turns out that preparing to die involves an inordinate amount of paperwork, most of which is written entirely in indecipherable legalese. In Butcher's opinion, it's just adding insult to injury. Are you dying? Are you painfully aware of how little time is left before you shuffle prematurely off this mortal coil? Do you wish that there was a quick and easy way to sort out all your admin before you pass on? Well tough shit, there isn't! Have fun spending what could be your last moments signing on the dotted line, you piece of shit!
An inconspicuous manila folder is locked away in the top drawer of his desk in the Flatiron Building, hidden under a carefully arranged array of empty cigarette boxes and chewing gum wrappers in an attempt to deter any potential snoopers who manage to bypass the lock. The slim stack of papers inside is all he has to show for the hours of headache-inducing admin he's had to do. A will, short and sweet to reflect that he has barely anything to leave behind, splitting his money between Hughie, M.M., and Mallory with the caveat that it is only to be spent on continuing their work or investing in Ryan's future. The lease for their Flatiron office, amended to be in M.M.'s name. A handwritten letter in smudged black ink that is simply addressed to 'The Boys' and provides an unemotional explanation of what he's done and why he's done it, along with a short paragraph at the end that conveys Butcher's thanks for all of their work over the years with a sincerity that he could never hope to achieve in a face to face conversation. A second letter, unfinished, that consists of 'Dear Hughie' followed by half a page of crossed-out sentences that he started but didn't know how to finish. An empty envelope, stamped and addressed to the office, so he can post the documents back to New York when the time is right. It's important that they don't arrive until after he's gone. The last thing he needs is someone tracking him down and playing the hero when he's trying to die in peace. It would defeat the entire point of going away on his own in the first place.
When Butcher made the decision to leave, his immediate first thought was that he should go back to Cape Cod, where he and Becca spent their honeymoon. It shouldn't be such a fond memory – it rained almost the entire time, the fire alarm in their hotel went off in the middle of the night on three separate occasions, and Butcher had to spend an entire afternoon in the emergency department after a spider bite made his leg swell up – but when he thinks back on the trip, all he can see is Becca beaming with joy, the light of the setting sun glinting off the diamond in her engagement ring, a line of paired footprints trailing behind them along the beach.
It was wonderful. It couldn't have been anything less than wonderful, because Becca was there with him.
His second thought was that he should never go back to Cape Cod.
He never went again after the honeymoon. It's still a pure place, one that only ever knew Butcher and Becca as a pair of happy newlyweds, one that's blissfully ignorant of all the trauma that the world inflicted on them shortly afterwards. There's something comforting about knowing that soon, they'll both be dead, but Cape Cod will be none the wiser. The ghosts of their former selves will forever walk along the edge of the water, hand in hand, laughing at one of their now-forgotten inside jokes as the waves lap at their incorporeal feet.
He'd rather go literally anywhere else.
And so, two months and one week and five days after his diagnosis, the fuel tank of Butcher's car is full. There's a black duffel bag in the backseat containing the basic essentials: clothes, a month's supply of medication, and enough heroin to kill an elephant. The GPS is set up to navigate the six hour journey to the cabin he's booked in Bumfuck Nowhere, Pennsylvania. It's a carefully chosen location, nestled in the woods about thirty miles out of Erie, a perfect balance between being off the beaten track and staying close enough to civilisation that he can post his letters and pick up any extra supplies he might need. And perhaps most importantly of all, he's never been there with Becca. As far as he's aware, she died without ever having set foot in Pennsylvania.
It's approaching 10pm. His eyesight isn't really good enough to drive in the dark now – and his neurological symptoms probably mean he shouldn't be driving at all – but he's always preferred travelling at night, and he's not about to ruin his final trip. The traffic is lighter and the stars look pretty and there's an unspoken camaraderie between everybody the road as they all journey through the night for some reason or another.
All that's left to do is swing by the Flatiron, grab the folder from his desk, and maybe take one last look at the New York skyline if he's feeling particularly sentimental.
He turns the keys in the ignition and drives away from his apartment for the final time.
———
Butcher knows that something's wrong as soon as he reaches the front door of the office and light is shining through the frosted glass window, casting a pale eerie glow across the stairwell. There are two possible explanations: either someone is in the office, or the last person to leave ignored the passive aggressive 'please turn off the motherfucking lights' note that M.M. stuck on the back of the door several weeks ago. Butcher knows which one is more likely. The note has proven surprisingly effective.
Still, in his head, the worst that could happen is that he has to make some awkward small talk. It'll twist the knife that lodged itself in his stomach when he decided to take off without so much as an explanation or even a goodbye, but then it'll be over, and he can be on his merry way.
The reality is much, much worse. The sight that greets him when he opens the door makes his blood run cold.
The scene could be an oil painting. Most of the room is in darkness, its corners and edges bathed in a monotone array of grey and black shadows cast by the moonlight and the pale beams emanating from the street lamps outside. The office is still, frozen in time, its various desks adorned with half-finished cups of coffee and laptops with their lids open, as if it's holding its breath while it waits for its occupants to return in the morning.
And in the centre of it all is a shaking Hughie, his tear-streaked face illuminated by the harsh white light of Butcher's flickering desk lamp. A brown manila folder is crumpling slightly in his clenched fist.
An ache takes hold of Butcher's chest, wrapping around him so tightly that he can barely breathe.
Fuck. He was so careful. So much planning, so much secrecy, so many lies. He desperately did not want this to happen, especially not now, not when he was so close he could almost taste it.
His stomach twists when Hughie's eyes meet his. Hughie's expression is one of raw, visceral pain. His jaw is clenched, nostrils flaring, eyes wide with horror and wet with tears. A pink flush is beginning to spread across his face, starting with his nose and the tips of his ears, like it always does when he's struggling to contain his anger. Butcher's uncomfortably aware of how easy it would be for him to throw the desk lamp across the room. His body tenses, bracing itself for impact.
'Hughie–'
'Don't.' Hughie shouts. 'Don't you dare. I don't want to hear a single fucking word unless it's an explanation for this.' He smacks the folder down onto the desk, sending the papers spilling. The copy of Butcher's will slides over the edge and flutters gently to the floor.
Butcher doesn't respond. He doesn't have the words, and even if he did, he wouldn't be able to say them. His throat is closed. His lungs are screaming for air.
'Is it true?' Hughie says. The handwritten letter from Butcher to The Boys is at the top of the pile of papers, mottled with fresh ink blots from where Hughie's tears have dripped onto the page.
Butcher nods, sinking his teeth into the inside of his cheek to suppress the sob that his body wants to let out.
Fresh tears spill down Hughie's cheeks, and he begins walking slowly towards where Butcher is standing by the door. His hands are still clenched into fists. Butcher closes his eyes and waits for the blow to hit. He's not going to try and stop him. Fuck, he hopes the lad gets a good few whacks in. God knows he deserves it.
The punches never come. Instead, Hughie's arms snake around Butcher's waist, underneath his coat, and Butcher finds himself ensconced in Hughie's embrace. He hugs Hughie in return, clinging to him too tightly, unable to relax the tension in his arms.
Butcher hasn't been held since that night with Becca in the boot of the car. He hasn't even dared to hug Hughie for fear of rejection, and his one night stand with Maeve revealed that she's not a cuddler. The weight of Hughie's body against his is comfortable, grounding. When Hughie buries his face in Butcher's neck, he can feel the warm wetness of tears against his skin, can smell his strawberry shampoo, can hear Hughie's breath shuddering as it gradually slows. The rush of emotion is overwhelming – he knew that Hughie cared about him, he knew that people would be sad when he died, he knew that The Boys would feel betrayed, but none of it was real until just now, when Hughie wrapped his arms around him.
He wants to stay like this forever. He wants a bubble to form around them so they can live in their own tiny world where there are no brain lesions and no written wills and no escape plans, just Butcher and Hughie and Hughie and Butcher, and they could hold each other for eternity and Butcher would never have to feel alone again.
Suddenly, for the very first time, he feels utterly terrified of dying.