When Butcher told you to keep a cold watch on a last-seen-in-society since the 1980's tortured-and-tampered supe who was straight out the soviet slammer, you're only half sure he did not mean this, and that he meant more to keep him calm and high to make him easier to handle.

But it was hard to do that when he kept pounding the table with the handle of a knife, crushing pills, making it all mush inside his fried brain with no longer existing whisky and cursing at every goddamned thing on the TV, his face in this constant state of disgust that no matter how much you explained or how tiredly you did so, there was no distracting him from it.

Somehow, it all ended up with his hands hard around your hips, bruising grip, him smoking a joint with a frown and a dark look in his eyes, albeit disheveled, he still exudes this certain authority as if he knew he was better.

"You ain't nothin’ like those fellas back in the day." Soldier Boy's voice was low and raspy, like he's sizing you up and not at all invading your space and body with his hands, not that he gives a shit if you care, in the end.

"They were scrawny, weak little shits," he muttered as he continued to take you in.