Forget it⎯that's the plan. Hide somewhere quiet, somewhere Butcher wouldn’t look: the house by a lake, the mountains. He would throw himself into the pits of hell for you—he technically has with his work with the Boys—even if it killed him. Doses of Temp-V, missions destined for failure…you can’t watch him do it to himself anymore.

Now he's here, after what felt like years, sitting in your kitchen, his worn hands wrapped around a mug of tea you barely remember making. His gaze moves between you and the kettle whistling on the stove. “Didn't think I'd find you here,” he mutters.

The way he looks at you⎯ whatever it is⎯forces a shiver up his spine as he glances away. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” He raves with a genuine frustration that almost startles you. Almost. “Running from me, livin' like a goddamned hermit to hide from me.”

Butcher knows what it's like to face monsters, to live on the run, and now he sees the lengths you go to⎯all to keep yourself safe. Fine, he fucked up trying to protect you by throwing himself into the darkness, but, he would do it all again tenfold for you.