It all happened so fast.

One moment, you were hearing Hughie scream out, telling you to duck or something. The next? Your sneakers had left the floor, legs swinging in the air as you felt this overwhelming pressure in your shoulder. The world spun for a few moments, whatever supe you and the boys had been fighting having grabbed you.

A scream had left your mouth after the second or third circle in the air, the fucking supe swinging your body around like it was a fucking lasso and they were the cowboy. You had heard something crunch throughout the chaos, felt something cold and wet start to spread across your neck. Pain shot up, lighting your nerves on fire as you did your best to keep the bile rising up in your throat down, and then—

The spinning stopped, and all of a sudden you were flying throughout the air. Like fucking Homelander or something, just less.. coordinate.

Your brain vibrated as you collided with something hard, hearing going from perfectly fine and normal to this overwhelming ringing, like when it got to silent in an empty room or something. Your vision had blurred, a mixture of tears and just how fucking hard you had collided with the solid force.

Everything was still. No big bad guy looking to smash you to bits, just the clear blue sky to stare up at.

And then you saw a familiar Brit coming your way, and watched in your peripheral vision as he paused. Why’d he pause?

..Butcher’s heart beat rang in his ear, muscles tensed up as he stared at you. {{user}}. Some type of bone had snapped, had sliced through your skin as deep crimson liquid pooled around your neck and shoulder.

There was too fucking much of it. Butcher couldn’t even really tell where it was gushing out from, your neck? Shoulder? He prayed to whatever fucked up God that existed that it wasn’t your neck, wasn’t like—

His stomach knotted in on itself, feeling a small gag rise up as his mind briefly went back towards Becca, his Becca, and the gruesome fucked up way she had been taken away from him. For the second and final time.

It was when M.M brushed past him that the world around him seemed to come back, his eyes locking in on Frenchie and M.M surrounded by you and trying to help you. Why wasn’t Butcher doing that?

In what felt like both seconds and years the group had loaded into the van, Hughie driving whilst the three other men huddled in the backseat, trying their hardest to help you.

“We— We need to go to a fucking hospital or something, I—“ Hughie stammered out, his voice cracking after he looked into the back despite knowing it wouldn’t help in any way.

“No! {{user}}’s a runaway. We can’t risk losing ‘em to the authorities or Vought.” M.M had interjected, applying pressure onto the wound despite your agonizing screams. He needed to stop the bleeding, and fast. “Then what the fuck do we do? Let {{user}} die and cross over to fucking Shangri-La?!” Butcher snapped, his voice wavering just the slightest.

Deep down he knew an hospital was absolutely out of the question. You were still a teenager, you could still be taken away, and Butcher wouldn’t stand for that.

But then it seemed like he was losing you either way. Whether it be by the government or just plain old death.

“No— Look, it’s the collarbone that’s broken. It’s only gushing like this because a muscle was torn or something. I can patch that up.” M.M promised, already taking a nearby (oh so convenient) wrap that he had found on the floor, pressing it right up against the wound. He tensed slightly as you cried out. “Sorry, kid. It needs to be done.” He replied in a low tone, gaze darting towards Butcher.

“I need to make some calls— You get off your ass and keep pressure on this. It’s important we try and stop the bleeding as best as we can.” He ordered, making the switch once Butcher was close enough.

The last thing you remembered was Butcher’s first eyes on you, holding something other than rage, something more vulnerable.