Chapter Text
The terrible thing about having a crush on a neighbour, Hughie reflects, is the constant reminders of his presence, almost everywhere.
The dog looks up adoringly at Hughie and wags his tail when Hughie flops down onto the sofa next to him. He looks at Terror out of the corner of his eye, who is inching towards him with a doggy grin.
“We are not bonding,” says Hughie sternly.
Terror is snoring, dribbly on Hughie’s lap within minutes. Hughie scratches behind his ear with a kind of fond prejudice and slumps into the sofa, bone deep exhausted.
He wakes up with a start to hear thudding on his door, dull and heavy. He opens the door, to find Butcher standing outside. Hughie opens his mouth to say something, anything but Butcher walks underneath his outstretched arm and makes his way into Hughie’s flat, surveying it with a critical eye.
“Well, come in,” mutters Hughie under his breath at Butcher’s retreating back.
“How old are you, Hughie?”
Hughie looked at Butcher who was giving him a hard, appraising stare.
“22.”
“And why do you live in this flat?”
“Because I needed a cheap place to live and I didn’t want to live on campus because the frat boys always steal my shoes?”
Butcher did not reply and merely came closer to Hughie, so close that Hughie could see the glint in his eyes.
“Alright,” he says abruptly, turning on his heel to face outwards.
“Come on, Terror!”
The dog shoots him a baleful look and follows his owner out the door.
“What- Hey! A thank you would be nice!”
He goes out into the corridor to see Butcher close the door to his apartment. Never let it be said that Hughie Campbell was a quitter. He grabs a hairpin from the pile of hair crap Annie always leaves over here when they study, which is really just a euphemism for getting high and ordering shitty Chinese take out. And he marches to Butcher’s door and inserts the hairpin into the look. Lo and behold, nothing happens. After about two minutes of scrabbling around, the door opens and Hughie is looking up at a very angry Butcher who is wearing boxers and very little else. He pointedly avoids looking down to where Butcher’s hipbones are jutting out of his underwear. He is slightly frightened but mostly aroused.
“What the fuck are you doing,” Butcher begins.
Hughie scrabbles to get up and draw himself up to his full height.
“No, what the fuck are you doing?” Yells Hughie, accusatorily.
Butcher stood menacingly at the edge of the doorway, face unimpressed.
“Hughie, what do you want?”
“A thank you. For looking after your dog, who by the way, I’m pretty sure had sex with one of my old beanie babies!”
Butcher scratched his stomach unconcerned.
“He’ll do that.”
“And you haven’t even invited me in once and I think that is s-“
“Come in.”
The door swung open and Hughie stared at Butcher.
“What?”
“Come in.”
“Well, I kind of have to do some work-“
“Hughie, come in.”
The look on Butcher’s face makes Hughie swallow. He comes in. Butcher shuts the door behind him. There’s a heavy smell of smoke, papers and folders littered all over the floor and a machete stuck into his kitchen table. Butcher waits for approximately one second after the door closes and then shoves Hughie up against the wall.
“What do you want, Hughie?” says Butcher, his face dangerously close to Hughie’s. Hughie can smell gunpowder on him, thick and dangerous.
“I-“
“Because if you work for the feds, snitches get a lot worse then stitches,” he growls, his forearm pressed against the soft flesh of Hughie’s neck.
Hughie swallows. He’s never been so hard in his life. Butcher drops his arm and Hughie prays to all the gods, Jesus, Buddha, Shiva, he’s not feeling particularly picky, that Butcher doesn’t look down.
“Just a friendly reminder Hughie,” he says and pats him on the shoulder, just slightly too hard to be friendly, smiling a smile that is all teeth.
Hughie scrambles out the door, and Butcher watches him down the hallway, taking note of how Hughie’s hand are hiding his crotch.
“And then what?”
Annie sips the juice box, her eyes glazed over.
“He pushed me against the wall and said snitches get stitches or something like that.”
“That guy sounds like a psycho,” says Annie, grabbing a handful of Doritos, “What did you do?”
“Ran away. I didn’t want him to see my boner.”
Annie wrinkles her nose.
“Gross. On so many levels.”
Hughie reclines on the floor and holds his arm out for Annie to pass him the Doritos. She does.
“You wanna watch a m-“
There was a sharp rap on the door. Hughie looks at Annie, who groans.
“It’s your house,” she hisses.
“But I’m lying down,” moans Hughie.
“Fine,” says Annie, “But I get the next hit.”
Hughie made a thumbs up motion. Annie opens the door to see a giant of a man with designer sunglasses on and a vaguely menacing air around him.
“Butcher, y- Oh. I must have the wrong house,” says the dude.
“Butcher’s next door,” says Hughie, from the floor.
The guy cranes his neck to look over Annie at Hughie.
“You must be Hughie. I’m MM. Nice to meet you.”
Hughie preens a little and Annie rolls her eyes.
“Sorry about the mixup,” says the guy, sidestepping to the next door.
Annie closes the door with a wave of her hand.
Hughie thinks no more about it after Annie switches on the TV and starts watching something ridiculous.
Hughie trudges back at just after midnight, exhausted after a full day in the labs. He wants to sleep forever. He’s turning the key into his apartment door when the door to Butcher’s flat opens and Frenchie and MM come out.
“I have kids now,” says MM, “Can’t spend all night out.”
Frenchie cackles.
“Sure, the kids,” Frenchie responds, “Not your wife who grounds you if you don’t come home before two.”
Frenchie and Butcher laugh while MM scowls at them. Hughie doesn’t think they’ve seen him, he’s practically melting into the door. He considers just going inside but then Hughie spots Butcher, looking attractively rumpled.
He decides to subtly draw attention to himself by opening the door. The door opens, and Hughie slams it open with enough force to hear it reverberate through the building. He winces.
“Hello,” he says stupidly, at the three faces looking blankly at him.
MM is the first to recover and gamely holds his hand out for Hughie to shake.
“Hey, Hughie,” he says, “Nice to see you again.”
Hughie shakes it on autopilot.
“I feel like I’ve seen you before,” said Frenchie.
Then he snapped his fingers.
“ I know,” he says, staring at Hughie with huge pupils, “Were you dancing in a gogo bar in 2003?”
“No, I fixed your computer last week,” replies Hughie, who was used to people not remembering him, (last week his professor had called him Peeta).
Frenchie nodded as if he already knew this and stared at the lightbulb.
“Ignore Frenchie,” says MM, “I just watched him wash two E’s down with tequila.”
“Don’t be jealous because you cannot do these things anymore, old man,” croons Frenchie, pulling MM’s cheeks like he was a child.
“I will stab you in the junk, motherfucker,” says MM, words mashed through his lips which were now stuck into a pout because of Frenchie’s hands.
“Ah, mon ami,” croons Frenchie, “Your words bring me such joy.”
He plants a wet kiss on MM, who wriggles away from him.
“Alright, steady on there, Frenchie,” said Butcher, leaning on the doorway, “If MM gets home with hickies, we’ll have to mop up his remains.”
“Is MM’s wife like a strongman or something?” asked Hughie, wondering what woman could strike such fear into this goliath.
“No,” says MM, who was half cradling Frenchie, “Ex CIA. She quit when we had Janine.”
MM has a soft look on his face.
“I remember this time, she kicked this guy and he flew like five foot into a wall,” he sighs, wistful.
Butcher cleared his throat, in a way that made Hughie think that MM’s reminiscing was a regular event.
“You better be getting home, MM,” says Butcher, “Take Frenchie with you, and set Janine on him when he wakes up.”
“Nah, I’ll set Monique on him,” MM grins, “She still hates him, after he blew her last mission in Paris.”
“Yeah,” agrees Butcher, chuckling, “That Circe de Solei bloke’s arse never recovered.”
Hughie’s head swam with all the information that was being lobbed at him. MM waved a hand as he left, carrying Frenchie over his shoulder.
“Well, Hughie,” says Butcher, eyeing him like a piece of meat, “Looks like you’re the last man standing. Come and have a whisky, son.”
“But-“ says Hughie, who remembered the last time Butcher invited him in the same tone as a surrealistic horror movie.
Butcher steered Hughie in so fast, one moment he was standing in the hallway and another he was reclined comfortably, already tipsy from half a glass of whiskey, on Butcher’s sofa.
“And that is how a laser pumped with the energy of fission fragments works,” finishes Hughie, triumphantly.
He doesn’t even remember how they got onto this subject.
“You’re a smart lad, Hughie,” says Butcher, pouring more whiskey into his glass.
Hughie flushes. It’s worth mentioning that one of his ex girlfriends, who wielded a strap on like a sword, called him a good boy every time he came.
“Tell me what you’re studying,” says Butcher, “It sounds interesting.”
Hughie then talks about how fucked up quantum physics is and how string theorists are the worse kind of physicists. By the time he’s gotten onto the most technical parts, he’s slurring his words.
“And that’s all I gots to say on the matter,” says Hughie, flopping down into the sofa. Butcher responded by pouring him another whiskey.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” giggles Hughie, whose brain to mouth filter had dissolved three drinks back and is trying to remember where his legs are.
Butcher looks at him, cataloguing his reaction. Then, he grins, almost seductively.
“Not trying, Hughie,” he says, “Succeeding. Big difference.”
“You-“ manages Hughie, before Terror starts licking him with all the voracity of a dog who has seen and intends to exploit any orifice available for licking.
“Terror, off,” Butcher says sharply, and Terror immediately sits down on the floor.
“That was impressive,” comes from Hughie, muffled by his face in the sofa.
“Ah, not really,” Butcher dismisses, waving his hand, “You’d be surprised what you can get people to do with just a little bit of threatening.”
Hughie swallows, and Butcher smirks at him.
“Mind you,” Butcher continues, stroking his jaw, “S’nothing compared to what people will do for a little bit of praise.”
Hughie takes a swallow of air, almost chokes it on as Butcher moves his head closer.
“Are you like that, Hughie?”
The question is dropped, Butcher’s voice low and spreading through Hughie’s nerves like wildfire. He looks up through his eyelashes to see that Butcher is still staring at him, eyes smouldering.
“Do you like praise?”
Hughie’s about to start crying. Before Butcher can close the distance between them, his phone starts ringing, shrill and harsh, in the previously silent room.
“Fuck,” says Butcher, grabbing the phone, “I have to take this.”
Hughie sits there, for a moment. He can hear Butcher swearing in the other room. He takes a deep breath and lets himself out, into the hallway and into his own apartment. Then he flops onto his Ikea bed and curses his life.
There’s a sharp knock on his door a couple of days later. Hughie opens the door in sweatpants with fingers covered in cheeto dust and blanches. Butcher is there, holding a massive bag with Terror in tow.
“Couldn’t ask you for a favour, could I?” says Butcher, with a killer smile.
“I mean, it depends on the favour,” stammers Hughie, “If that bag is full of drugs and you want me to hide it..”
Hughie trails off but Butcher looks like a shark who’s caught the scent of blood in the water. Gleeful. Butcher steps closer.
“I’m disappointed to hear you wouldn’t hide drugs for me,” he rumbles, shoulders pressed against Hughie’s door frame, “Luckily, that’s not the favour I came to ask. I’m going out of town for a few days. Could you look after Terror for me?”
Hughie looks down at Terror who is drooling on Butcher’s shoe.
“Sure, but-“
“Thanks, I owe you one, mate,” says Butcher with a hearty backslap that makes Hughie wince.
Hughie watches as he disappears down the corridor. Then he looks down at Terror who is looking back at him balefully.
“Well, come in.”
Looking after Terror doesn’t actually change his life that much. Hughie will say though, that it is nice to have someone to come home to. Terror’s always happy to see him and even happier to go for a walk or put his head on Hughie’s lap as he types his thesis, over caffeinated and sleep deprived. He feeds Terror when he feeds himself and that kind of makes his sleep schedule regular. Well, more regular. Annie comes over and Terror, at first suspicious quickly turns adoring when he realises that Annie is more then happy to give him the bacon from her supposed vegetarian BLT. It’s been a fun couple of days.
Hughie’s in the shower when Butcher gets back. He almost slips in his hurry to get out, winding a towel tightly round his waist.
“Coming!” yells Hughie, “Down, Terror.”
Terror who had been barking and whining at the door, slinks away. Hughie opens the door and gasps. Butcher looks like he’s been chucked under a steamroller. Butcher staggers across the threshold.
“You don’t happen to have a first aid kit, do you?” he grunts out, his voice thick with pain.
Hughie almost sprints to the bathroom and grabs the green box. He chucks it on his kitchen countertop where Butcher opens it.
“Much obliged.”
Hughie looks as Butcher pours rubbing alcohol on a deep cut on his forearm, hissing softly.
“Do you need help?” asks Hughie, hesitantly.
“I’m good.”
Butcher wraps a bandage around it and takes a deep breath.
“I’ve got more stuff at mine. I just wanted to see Terror.”
“What are these,” says Hughie, gently touching the bandage, “from?”
Butcher looks at him piercingly. The effect is rather ruined by his black eye. Then he leans over and kisses Hughie, almost chastely on the mouth. Hughie takes a second to catch up. The kiss turns searing, scorching, burning through his whole nervous system.
“I’ve been thinking about this all week,” mutters Butcher into Hughie’s neck, “Thinking about spreading you out on that stupid counter and eating you out till you cry. Thinking about fucking you till you can’t walk straight.”
Hughie grabs Butcher’s pants and goes to pull them down but Butcher’s hand circles his wrist and pins it against the countertop.
“Oh no,” he growls, “Daddy’s driving now.”
Hughie stifles a laugh until Butcher’s mouth touches his neck. Butcher sucks a line down his neck and Hughie stifles a moan by turning his head into Butcher’s shoulder.
“Fuck me,” Hughie exclaims as Butcher’s teeth trace his collarbone, dull pressure.
“That’s the idea,” smirks Butcher and Hughie can feel him smile against his neck.
Butcher pulls something out of his pocket; it’s a knife. He cuts Hughie’s shirt in half with frightening efficiency.
“I know I should be mad,” mutters Hughie as Butcher’s knife makes quick work of his polyester blend Walmart cargo pants, “But that’s ridiculously hot.”
Butcher grabs his dick with surprising ease and Hughie aches. He aches all over like he’s suddenly hollow and his bones are burning but all that comes out of his mouth is a broken sounding moan. Butcher chuckles and then, with little warning, engulfs Hughie’s entire cock in his mouth. Hughie cries out, his head smacking against the plaster walls with a crunch.
Butcher makes a pleased sound around his dick and strokes a finger along his perineum while Hughie shudders, his hands looking for purchase against the wall. He thinks he knocks something off his shelves but his thoughts are stolen when he feels a slick finger against his hole.
Hughie hisses at the cold intrusion, (when did Butcher get lube), and Butcher pauses in his ministrations to lift Hughie, hands under his thighs onto the counter. He kisses Hughie, salty and unexpectedly filthy.
It’s not until Butcher’s three fingers in that Hughie starts feeling the sting. Its too much, and he’s clawing, gasping against Butcher’s chest.
“Fuck, fuck,” he babbles and his moan is crooked in his mouth.
His skin feels too small, buzzing and he’s twitching wildly at every crook of Butcher’s fingers inside him. It’s delicious torture, this slide, this friction of skin against skin and stretch of fingers inside him, touching him so perfectly. He moans again and it comes out cracked, broken, used.
Butcher presses a kiss against Hughie’s neck as he slides into him, the slow burning drag of flesh. The pain of it turn everything crystalline, his breath coming out in saccharine puffs.
“You’re gagging for it, aren’t you Hughie?” he asks.
Hughie nods, unable to speak. Butcher reaches a hand to fondle one of his nipples, palming it roughly.
“Fuck, fuck me, please,” begs Hughie brokenly.
Butcher grins, in a carnivorous way.
“If you insist,” he replies, pile driving his hips forward.
Hughie buries his face in Butcher’s shoulder. He can’t handle the sight of anything right now. Butcher keeps an unforgiving rhythm, his hips snapping forward in a one two punch that leaves Hughie breathless.
“I’m gonna-“
That’s as far as Hughie gets before Butcher pulls out and rearranges them so Hughie is facing towards the counter. He feels strangely vulnerable, split open as Butcher watches him as he pushes back in.
“I want you to come untouched,” pants Butcher, pressing Hughie against the counter, the cold plastic surface striking against his flushed skin, “Can you do that for me, Hughie?”
The words spark gold under his skin and his dick twitches.
“You look so good, spread out under me like this,” Butcher says, into the nape of his neck, “So fucking good for me.”
Butcher starts fucking him faster and Hughie feels that familiar tension, bright fireworks exploding behind his eyelids.
“Fuck,” he sobs out and comes.
He comes, cum splattering the counter and his forearms shaking with the effort it takes to support himself. Butcher’s still fucking him, though, nerve endings burning with pain.
“Good boy,” says Butcher hoarsely, and comes as well.
There’s a wet sensation and then Butcher’s pulling out, wiping his dick on Hughie’s ass cheeks. Butcher tucks himself back into his pants and that’s when Hughie realises that Butcher is fully clothed and only he is naked.
Butcher flops down onto the sofa.
“Don’t mind if I watch some television, do you?” asks Butcher, “Second best post coital thing after a smoke.”
Hughie grunts in the affirmative. There’s a disgusting leaking sensation and his back hurts from being bent against the counter for so long. He sits down on the sofa where Butcher is flicking through channels. He doesn’t feel used, exactly, just nonplussed at the amount of casualness Butcher is exhibiting.
“-lander has warned us against him. In other news, ex CIA operative William Butcher remains at large, despite authorities’ best attempt to locate him.”
The newswoman turned towards the camera, a trifle dramatically, her hair sprayed coiffure wobbling. On the screen was a picture of Butcher with a split lip and Frenchie and MM and an Asian woman Hughie had never seen before.
“If you see him or any of these people, call the police. They are dangerous fugitives and will not hesitate to hurt, maim or even kill you,” said the woman, narrowing her eyes as if she could see inside Hughie’s living room.
Then she swivelled around, and turned around to her co-worker.
“And now, Paul, let’s see what happened when a determined puppy tried to water ski. We go live to-“
“What the fuck.”