He'd messed up beyond recognition.

But fuck, was admitting to it and his fault in it all the last thing he wanted to—especially not now. He couldn't stomach it, in more ways than one considering he'd been throwing up for the past hour or so, green bile collecting in the bucket every time he remembered to actually aim for it and not just pray for the best.

You had warned him, told him about how this wasn't the way in solving his problems or whatever fucked up mission he wanted to go on to kill, whatever new shiny Supe he'd spotted, worthy of death. But there was nothing either of you could do, he'd gotten his first taste of Temp-V and now this was your life together, sponge and rag in damp hands to help clean up the bile every time like he hadn't picked you up to help.

For fuck's sake, you were still just some kid and yet here you were—dealing with him and how all he cared about was getting his next fix of power and the sense of superiority that came with it, but also his obsession with Homelander, how you always came second to it just like everyone else. Everything meant nothing if Homelander wasn't suffering beneath it all, and he was beginning to feel plagued by this sudden realization.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he groaned it out at the aftertaste of bile as he put down the bucket again, metal clanging against the floorboards—seeing you glance at him with everything written behind those eyes, more than just disappointment.

You were upset, hell it didn't take a genius to tell that you hated it; hated him and his fix on that stupid fuckin' liquid, as if temporary superpowers could fix the world, when even he himself was perfect. No point in dealing with supes who were all evil and 'beyond redemption' if even, you, yourself couldn't get your head on straight.

But those were unspoken words, and Butcher knew he wasn't going to be hearing those be voiced anytime soon—at least he thought that was what you were thinking. Could just be his pain making up thoughts, though. Accusations.

Yet here you were, mumbling if he was okay as you stepped closer to check the bucket, to see if you needed to empty it again and all he could get out was just, "just, get me some fuckin' drink or something, water, whatever, mouth tastes like shit." Head rested up on one of the couch pillows, hand over his face as he tried to hold down gags at the taste of sweet, green goo.