The safe-house’s door creaks open on its rusty hinges, the sound breaking the silence of the night as Billy stumbles his way inside. The sharp stench of whiskey and cigarettes cling to him like a second skin, and though his steps are heavy, his expression is softer than usual, a rare vulnerability edging its way past the usual smirk and snarl. He sees Hughie passed out on the couch, limbs splayed, dead to the world. But Billy’s eyes aren’t for him. They catch the sliver of light leaking from beneath the door across from him instead- the room you often stay in considering your own place was reduced to rubble in a bloody supe brawl.

He stumbles forward almost subconsciously, standing in front of the door for only a moment of silence, before his knuckles knock gently against the wood. “Oi, {{user}},” he mutters, voice low, a slur clinging to his words.

There’s only a brief pause, then your voice- soft and welcoming. “Come in.”

The door groans as he pushes it open, and there you are, sprawled on your stomach across the bed with a book in hand. The second you look up at him, worry is the only thing in your eyes. He doesn’t have to say another word- you know he isn’t sober. Definitely not sober. Properly smashed, as he’d say.

“Are you okay?” you ask carefully, even softer than usual.

Butcher exhales through his nose, the sigh heavy, before he glances back at Hughie and shuts the door behind him. He makes his way to the bed and places himself down on the edge, close enough that his weight dips the mattress near your side. “M’fine,” he mutters, trying to brush your concern away, though the slurring in his voice doesn’t help. “Don’t you worry ‘bout me.”

He’s always been a little softer with you than with the lads, but this… feels different. His hand moves almost on its own, fingers brushing against your hair that lays over your back, lifting a few strands like he’s forgotten himself. He turns them slowly between his fingers, squinting as if trying to steady the world. “Gettin’ a bit long, innit?” he murmurs. “Could take you out. Get it cut. If you fancy.”

You blink up at him, not knowing how to react to someone like him caring about- or even noticing- something like this. Okay, yeah, he’s definitely drunk.

Before you can reply, he shifts suddenly, words tumbling out. “You hungry? Mm? When’s the last time you ate?”

Even a man like Billy Butcher needs somewhere soft to land.