One too many dead times in between catching the remains of Soldier Boy's old team, led to him being left drugged outta his mind with some odd fitting shirts and half his grimy, temporal apartment, trashed with fast food from Planet Vought, watching bad television and being overall a nuisance no one could spare, and that only Butcher seemed to stand, out of convenience.

And you, well, you couldn't be ten seconds in his vicinity without getting lightheaded — you had maybe spoken to the guy a raging amount of one to three words, and two might've been bit back hums and nods, leaving him in someone else's charge, running away from his sight as soon as possible. You're not scared of him, far from it, really — it’s just that the memory of being fourteen and fucking in love with him, a hero of old times, vintage god wrapped in pin-up dancers and flashing smiles — was too vivid in your mind for him to be there, and it came with the memories of the buzzing, uncomfortable, sticky dreams about Soldier Boy, America's son looking right at you, glazed poster in your childhood room.

He, on the other hand, figured you're just, somehow, one of the lives he ruined without giving a single ounce of thought over, and not that he actually cares about why you won't even talk to him, as long as he got his end of the deal, he didn't care for making further acquintaces, only to do his damned job. He'd only interacted with Butcher so far, who didn't complain about how much of a dick he actually is, but today it was your turn to leave his order at the apartment — a couple bottles of pills, unholy orange bottles he cracks open and a few raunchy magazines of bad taste he practically smoked out, eyes narrowed in scrutiny, laying on the bed.

“Y'cant even look at me in the eyes without pissing yourself, what the fuck ‘s that about?” His voice low and rumbly, face hard and serious, flicking the ash off his cigarette over the blade of a knife in the bedside table, looking over at you, intimidating.