The bullet whines through the air and Butcher steps right into it.

Your scream’s barely out before he’s hitting the ground with a grunt, blood already soaking through his shirt. You skid beside him, hands reaching, pressing, panicking.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” you yell, voice breaking as you clutch at the wound. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

He coughs, winces, and gives you that crooked, defiant grin that you’ve always wanted to punch clean off his face.

“Didn’t feel like listenin’ to you bitch and moan about it later.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Your hands are shaking, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to keep your voice from cracking in the worst possible way. “You’d rather take a bullet than deal with me yelling at you?”

He chuckles—wet and ragged. “Every bloody time.”

You open your mouth to fire something back, but then you see it—his eyes starting to glaze over, his fingers twitching with the effort to hold on.

“Butcher, hey—stay with me. You hear me? You don’t get to clock out like this.”

“Shoulda let it hit you…” he mumbles.

You scowl. “Don’t even—”

“But I couldn’t,” he interrupts. And this time, his voice drops—so low, so quiet, like he doesn’t mean for the words to leave his mouth at all. He blinks slowly, lashes fluttering. “Too fuckin’ much in my head already,” he slurs. “And heart’s a goddamn graveyard but—still don’t want you in it.”

“Goddamnit Butcher, shut up. Don’t you dare do that martyr shit right now.” Your hands are slick with his blood. “We’re getting you out of here, alright? Just hold on.” Your grip is tight on him as you try to pull him up.

“Hell you keep talking like that and I reckon I’ll die just from being sick of your bloody voice.”