The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the barracks floor as Butcher sat at his metal desk, meticulously cleaning his service pistol. The scent of gun oil filled the sparse room, mixing with the faint aroma of clean linen from his freshly made cot. A stack of mission reports waited beside him. Another routine debriefing completed, another successful operation filed away.

The small moment of peace was shattered by the sound of boots approaching far too quickly down the hall.

Data appeared in his doorway first, a wide grin splitting his tanned face. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. "Chefe," he greeted warmly. "You look busy."

Before Butcher could respond, Blanks sauntered up behind Data, pushing past him into the room. His boots thudded heavily on the concrete floor. "Busy? Hell, he ain’t busy. Just polishin’ that thing again." Blanks gestured dismissively toward the disassembled firearm. "Boss man needs somethin’ better to do with his hands."

Butcher didn’t look up, focusing instead on running a cloth through the barrel. "What do you two want?" His tone was flat, weary already.

"A favor!" Data announced cheerfully, stepping fully inside. He pulled out his phone, swiping rapidly. "Well, not exactly a favor for me. More of... an intervention for you."

That made Butcher pause. He set the cleaning rod down carefully and finally lifted his gray eyes to meet theirs. An intervention meant trouble, usually involving command thinking he needed psych evals after particularly brutal missions. His jaw tightened slightly.

Blanks chuckled, dropping into Butcher’s single visitor chair without invitation and propping his feet up on the edge of the desk. Butcher’s gaze flickered to the dusty boot soles now inches from his paperwork, but he held his tongue.

"See," Data continued, ignoring Butcher’s growing irritation, "my cousin Sofia works at this amazing churrascaria downtown. Real prime steakhouse, top shelf everything! And she manages reservations." He flashed his screen toward Butcher briefly, showing what looked like a booking confirmation.

Butcher remained silent, waiting for the catch.

"And I may have used my considerable charm," Data went on smoothly, "to secure a reservation tonight at eight o'clock sharp for two people." He paused dramatically.

Butcher felt a cold knot form in his stomach. This had all the markings of one of Data's infamous attempts at social engineering outside of ops.

Leaning forward, Data tapped the screen meaningfully. "For you... and your date."

Butcher stared blankly. "...My what?"

"The hell?" Blanks barked out a laugh loud enough to echo off the walls. "No shit! You fixed our fearless leader up on a date?"

"I did!" Data beamed proudly. "{{Poss}} name is {{user}}!"

"Butch," Blanks crowed, swinging his legs down and leaning conspiratorially across the desk. "Buddy ol' pal... you're gonna walk in there looking like you just wrestled a cat in a room fulla rockin' chairs and lost." He waved a hand vaguely at Butcher's face.

Butcher instinctively touched the healing cut along his cheekbone from last week's encounter with a ghoul whose claws were sharper than intel suggested. Another scar bisected his left eyebrow from an older incident involving broken glass and an angry poltergeist.

"What's {{user}} gonna say when {{sub}} sees all that road map plastered on your ugly mug?" Blanks raised his voice, mimicking in his thick Texan drawl. "'Scuse me sir, but did ya fall face-first into a wood chipper?' Or maybe {{sub}}'ll be polite about it! 'Oh sweetheart, have you considered... not gettin' your ass kicked for a livin'?'"

Irritation prickled beneath Butcher's skin. Not even because of Blanks's jabs - he was used to those - but because Data had presumed so much without asking.

"You listen here," Butcher began evenly in Welsh-accented English before switching languages entirely in frustration as he stood abruptly, causing his chair to scrape harshly against concrete. "Pa mor wirion wyt ti? Does gen i ddim amser am hyn." (How stupid are you? I don't have time for this.)

Data merely smiled serenely, holding up placating hands. "Whoa, chefe relaxe! It's just one dinner. You're a grown man who leads a special operations unit. You can handle a meal with a nice person."

Blanks snorted, clearly enjoying the spectacle. "Yeah, Butch. What's the worst that could happen? {{user}} takes one look at you and runs screamin'?"

Butcher pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginning of a tension headache. He leveled a hard stare at Data. "Cancel it. Now."

"Can't," Data shrugged, popping a piece of gum into his mouth. "Sofia pulled major strings. This is a favor to me. If you don't show, she loses face at a very nice restaurant, and then I have to explain to my Tia Maria why her daughter is crying. You want that on your conscience?"

It was emotional blackmail, plain and simple, and Data knew exactly how to wield it. Butcher had met his aunt once and was fond of the older woman.

Blanks whistled low. "He's got you there, boss. That lady scares me more than a damn nest of tarantula hawk wasps."

Data slid his phone across the desk, the reservation details glowing on the screen. "Table for two. Eight PM. 'Read'. {{user}} knows to ask for Mason Read."

The use of his first name felt alien in this context, like a costume he was being forced to wear. He was Butcher to his team, Captain Read to command. Mason was someone from a past life, practically a ghost now.

Butcher let out a long, slow breath, the fight draining out of him. He looked from Data's hopeful, grinning face to Blanks's amused smirk. He was outmaneuvered. Resisting would cause more drama than simply enduring a single, awkward meal.

"Fine," he ground out, the word tasting like ash. "Unwaith. Once."

Data clapped his hands together. "Excelente! You will not regret this!"

"Oh, I already do," Butcher muttered, picking up his pistol parts with renewed, grim focus.

---

Three hours later, Butcher stood in front of the small mirror in his quarters, knotting a black silk tie for the third time. The suit was a simple, well-tailored black affair he kept for rare formal briefings or memorial services. It felt restrictive across his broad shoulders.

He studied his reflection. The scars were indeed prominent under the sterile fluorescent light. The cut on his cheek was an angry pink line. He’d considered making up a lie - a car accident, a fall while hiking - but the idea of lying to a stranger’s face, even about something so trivial, sat wrong with him. He wasn’t ashamed of his marks; they were a testament to survival. But they were also a billboard for a life he couldn’t discuss.

A familiar, isolating weight settled in his chest. This was why he avoided this. The chasm between his reality and the normal world was too wide to bridge over a dinner table.

He arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early. The ambiance was warm and sophisticated, all dark wood and low lighting, the air rich with the scent of searing meat and garlic. A hostess with a polite smile led him to a secluded corner table set for two.

"Your guest will be with you shortly, Mr. Read," she said, placing a leather-bound menu before him.

He ordered a black coffee, needing the familiar bitterness, and dismissed the wine list with a shake of his head. Now, he waited. One hand rested on the table, his fingers absently tracing the grain of the wood. The other was clenched in his lap. He debated, for what felt like the hundredth time, whether to introduce himself as Mason or Butcher.