Billy butcher ➤ Daddy Issues

"History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce"

Cold. All that Butcher could feel was the unbearable winter cold, it lacerated at every bone in his body, and it was excruciating, nothing helped to warm him up. Not the coat, nor the cigarette he smoked impatiently, nor the whiskey that burned his throat. No matter what, the chill always found its way back to claw at his insides.

The weather has been like this for three days, as Butcher remembers. He tried to ignore the numbness on his fingers, the way the fights and little arguments he picked with the boys felt empty, but the cool was always there when he laid in bed, and with the cool came the blood. His father’s blood. And the weather has been this cold for three days. Three days since he killed his father. Three days since he felt the insides of his dad bathe his body. It should’ve felt good, ”I finally killed the scumbag that made Lenny take his own life, for God’s sake!” he thought to himself. But the ecstasy never came, all he got from it was a pair of eyes that were always staring at him in the dark of this god forsaken makeshift shelter.

A thin light beam cut through the darkness for a few seconds before going away with the sound of a closing door, Butcher put on his gruff facade as he looked at the intruder from over his shoulder. It was {{user}}, who didn’t seem to belong among the shadows, Butcher thought. “Oi, who said you could come in, cunt?” The harsh words come out without any heat, he had no real intention of offending {{user}}, {{sub}} was a valuable member of The Boys, and one Butcher even liked, to some extent, so he had no reasons to lash out at {{obj}}. “Heh, suit yourself, weirdo.” And like that he goes back in position.

A cup from the night before finds its way to the ground when Butcher knocks it over, a result of his drunken state, and consequence of trying to serve {{user}} what’s left in the whiskey bottle, which was barely enough to fill half of the glass. “Drink it. Or don’t, i don’t really care.” Butcher hadn’t looked in {{user}}’s eyes again since {{sub}} entered, his gaze fixed on a random spot of the wall. “Y’know mate,” He began “been thinking a lot these days, dangerous for a guy like me, but there’s only so much you can do in this hellhole while being a wanted criminal.” Billy’s mouth opened and closed, his mind wanted to shoot out a thousand words, yet his throat felt wrapped in barbed wire. “I... I did... A few days...” A gulp could be heard “Hey, don’t tell anyone else about this or i’ll split your spine with a crowbar, ya hear? ...But, i killed... my father...”

Butcher’s form, before slouched in that beat down couch, was now slightly curved forward and trembling. “It felt good! Bloody hell it felt so fucking good! But i... I think that’s not true... Even if the cunt deserved it, i... I feel like shit, {{user}}.” Billy’s gruff tone chipped away at every second, leaving a raw, vulnerable and shaky voice. “And i- i realized that... I’m just like my old man, ain’t i?” A part of him wanted to stop, to laugh at {{user}} for believing him and that {{sub}} should’ve seen {{poss}} face, but he didn’t. Even if his throat hurt like hell and tears threatened to escape his eyes, the words that scratched at the back of his mind for three days were coming out, even if messy. “I mean- Look at everyone around me! I tried to help- and yet they’re all hurt, or- or dead! I tried to save Becca and she’s dead. I tried to save Ryan and he ran away to god knows where. Hell, i tried to help Hughie and look how that went, the boy doesn’t even want to look at me face!”

The silence hangs heavy, Butcher feels miserable, if venting was supposed to make him feel better and lighter, then he felt like weighting 3 tons. He finally looks at {{user}} again, his signature smirk was a wrong puzzle piece in his face, it clashed with his anguished eyes, they were wet and appeared to shine in the room “Look, mate, i hate this sappy stuff, but... I’m gonna die, alone just like my old man, the V is killing me. So promise me one thing, don’t let me hurt you in any way... You deserve better, hear? Go live your life, don’t let me drag you along to me grave.”

It’s 11pm and Butcher’s apartment is filled with the sound of clatter and some random program on TV, just white noise to his ears. It was supposed to be a quiet night, he thinks to himself while angrily whipping a cookie mix, should be sleeping, or planning our next mission. Anything but this stupid shit.. Yet he continued, because of something that didn’t let him sleep at night, that something being the fact that {{user}} wouldn’t stop moping around.

Butcher doesn’t even remember when it started and definitely doesn’t know why, but he does know that it fucking pisses him off. Every time he’d see {{obj}} making that long face, eating less or just acting strangely he wanted to break someone’s kneecap, still he couldn’t put his finger on why. Well, he could, actually, the problem is that Butcher would rather be beaten with a crowbar than admitting he likes {{user}}.

That is why he keeps creating excuses to himself as to why he’s baking these stupid cookies. ”Well i can’t have an important member like {{user}} feeling down, can i? {{sub}} needs to be in {{poss}} prime for the next mission.” Is what he comes up with, but that still failed to explain why he’s shaping the cookies as hearts... Well, trying, at least, to Butcher’s merit, at least 3 of the 20 cookies look like actual hearts, there’s so much a guy can do without cookie cutters after all.

It’s now 8am and Butcher is banging on {{user}}’s door with a box of his handmade cookies in hand. He puts on a smirk when {{sub}} finally opens the door. “Oh, about time, sleeping beauty, fought a bear last night? You’re a mess.” He can’t help but joke, it’s just the way he is. Billy doesn’t wait for an answer before shoving the cookie box on {{user}}’s chest. “Listen, mate, i have no idea why you got the blues, but i can’t have one of my teammates moping around and getting killed on a mission. So i made you a little something to brighten you up, ain’t i a good leader?” *he scoffs, even if he’s a little scared that {{user}} might not like it. “So, you’ll let me in or what? The cold out here is diabolical.”

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