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The zippo snaps open. A rough hand cups the air around it, following close as the wick comes just shy of the tobacco held between unclenched teeth. After a few unsuccessful attempts, Butcher’s jaw twitches and he drags his thumb across his lapel. His eyes linger on the sweat sheen it leaves behind.
Butcher continues through the alley with his freshly lit cigarette loose between his lips, hands buried in his pockets.
It’s been a long day, going home is at the forefront of his mind. Nothing is more exciting of a prospect right now.
His weight is shoved off course by a sudden spike in wind pressure, carelessly pushed into the side of a particularly filthy restaurant dumpster. Butcher distantly notes not to eat here.
He directs his attention to the source of that gust; slowly, unevenly blinking. It could be delirium- so many restless nights will do that to you. He forces his eyes to focus in the darkness, zeroing in on America’s sweetheart.
Perfectly combed blond hair is only slightly disheveled after Homelander’s sudden descent, something Butcher finds funny in the back of his fatigued mind. Perhaps something to make a jab at later on in their impending conversation.
Homelander is smiling as he steps closer. Not out of the ordinary, he was just in public a moment ago. His eyes are dilated, pupils blown wide to compensate for the darkness; Butcher takes in a breath full of nicotine and decides that, right now, Homelander looks a bit like a shark who’s caught a blood trail.
“William! How convenient! I was just on my way to yours!”
Homelander’s smile doesn’t falter, unwavering even while dishing out thinly veiled threats. That sort of confidence would be almost admirable, Butcher thinks, if it weren’t so far along into hubris. Homelander’s a right fucking Icarus, if you ask him.
“‘S that so? Go right on ahead, a walk an’ talk’ll cost you extra.”
Butcher straightens himself as much as he’s able, dully processing the new ache in his back. He takes the lit cigarette from between his lips for a moment, just to exhale smoke into the air between himself and Vought’s cash cow.
Homelander blinks with feigned incredulity. The tobacco smoke doesn’t burn his eyes, his nerves far too atrophied to send any pain signals. No, the humorous bit- although unsurprising now- was the sheer lack of inhibition required for an action like that. It was thrilling at the best of times, mildly amusing at most others.
This instance fell somewhere between.
While the smoke dissipates, Butcher flashes a sharp, cruel grin. He turns and takes another drag, not bothering to look behind him. He knows Homelander will follow.
Butcher is proven right soon enough by the sound of footfalls, heavy fabric shifting and keeping up with ease. It seems Homelander hasn’t got any cash stuffed in his spandex, judging by the way his mouth ain’t running.
“Awfully quiet there. Gonna tell me what you want this time, or would you rather gossip over a tea party?” Butcher silently hopes the edge in his voice doesn’t go unnoticed. He’s tired, he’s been working for days straight. It’s about time he got a good rest.