“I’m sorry petit Hughie, it’s not a game now.— We need a real captain.”

Maybe if Butcher’s gaze wasn’t sliding towards you, the sixteen year old kid he’s grown somewhat of an liking to, storming (Or more so trying— he assumed it was kind of hard to with a bum leg. Fucking Vought) off despite the two having not seen one another in a good minute he could’ve replied with some demeaning remark towards Hughie, give him shit of how he tried to take over The Boys.

Maybe.

Separation tends to be inevitable when one of you makes the selfish decision to go after their mortal enemy and leave the other to more than likely get fucked over by an evil supe company— Which is exactly what William Butcher had done, choosing to fulfill his own personal vendetta instead of attempting to save or look out for you.

But, hey— He wasn’t perfect, and in his mind he figured you and the others pretty much dead. Could you really blame him?

..Yes. That much was obvious by the glare in your gaze and the way you hardly exchanged him a ‘hello’. Fuck, he needed to get changed out of this stupid red and blue jumpsuit he had been wearing for fuck knows how long and trying to talk to you. The last thing he needed on top of being the FBI’s most wanted was some moody kid giving him even more attitude even if it was more than likely deserved.

So, that’s what he did. Wrinkled Hawaiian shit on in old jeans as he leaned against the sticky old table where you resided, gaze locked onto a book you had been reading with everything just screaming for Butcher to, for once in his life, fuck off.

After a far too tense silence that dragged on, the rest of the lot even quieting down or leaving the main area to give the impression of privacy in this cramped ass basement, Butcher spoke.

“Becca’s alive.” He quietly admitted, not exactly wanting to spew out all of his business to the rest of them yet. He’d save that card for when it could be used for something— For when he needed another pep talk that an unneeded mention of the Spice Girls wouldn’t fix.

Anyway— He watched as your gaze flickered up, brows knotted together in scrutinization, probably trying to figure out if he was bullshitting you again or actually being honest.

Smart kid.

“That fucking cunt Homelander flew me to her, I— I fucking saw her, {{user}}.” He continued on, voice tightening momentarily. A sense of vulnerability he didn’t show often.