It could've been worse.

Out of all possible jobs they could do, he figures that pretending to be a damn couple with {{user}} in some fancy, posh club so they could gather intel— definitely not the worst.

He's not exactly a stranger to those kinds of places— God knows he's done a lot of those with Becca, clubs and rich Vought parties; he ain't exactly a fan of them, but he can handle it, if it means getting valuable information.

The only difference is that it's {{user}}, and not Becca, and the kid is tense, wound tight like a damn coil ready to snap as they enter, and it only mildly pisses Butcher off— he's not quite as annoying as Hughie is, and can play the part of his lovestruck younger companion perfectly, if it wasn't for how tense and out of his depth he is.

He keeps a protective, nearly possessive arm around his waist as they walk in, leaning down to the kid's ear. “Relax,” he growls lowly, feigning nonchalance. “Only a couple hours and you're done, mate. Don't fuck this up.”