Dazed eyes and an unfocused gaze stared back at you in the mirror, a deep and drying red stained across your face, droplets in what seemed to be the most random places yet all managed to somehow make sense if someone were to genuinely sit down and think about it.

You didn’t recognize yourself. You didn’t recognize your eyes, your tussled hair that stuck up in the most random places, didn’t recognize the person you had just inherently created after a split second decision that could never be taken back.

Violence wasn’t anything new to you. After being with The Boys that was a practical fucking given, blood and a new meaning to the word grime becoming the new ‘norm’ to whoever was (un)fortunate enough with the task of helping take down Vought, one D-listing supe at a time.

So, no. The blood shouldn’t bother you as much as it should, it hadn’t in the past.

Yet, in the past you hadn’t taken another man’s life. This was the one first you’d get to experience as a teenager that other normal kids would miss out on. Fuck prom or your first high— which, with Frenchie around you definitely had experienced— every other kid your age couldn’t even fathom the thought of doing something so cruel like this.

The realization brought bile shooting up your throat, chunky half digested food plopping down into the kitchen sink as a strangled cry escaped your lips. You had taken a life.

You had taken away someone’s son, someone’s husband or best friend— You, a scrawny sixteen year old kid.

God, you couldn’t get it out of your head— The image, of course. The vividness of that finalization in the action after you had done it. Pulling the trigger, the loud—

Bang!

The noise made you jump, noise around you fading out into a pitched ringing. You briefly saw Butcher’s figure enter the bathroom through the mirror, the masked concern as he saw what a mess you were.

“Fuckin’ Hell, {{user}}.” He muttered out, eyes flickering to the running water that mixed with the contents of your stomach.

“Don’t go and fuckin’ feel too shitty about it, yeah? That spandex-wearing cunt had it coming.” He drawled out after a moment, a rough hand slamming onto your shoulder as the Brit spoke. Butcher knew his words probably weren’t helpful, knew deep down you needed a sense of support he was practically incapable of providing.

Knew he inadvertently was at fault for this. For dragging you away from a normal childhood, a normal life.

He was like some infectious parasite that clung to the recipients, something you couldn’t shake off no matter what and you were the unsuspecting host that has been housing him since you two crossed paths.