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It’s definitely not the first time ever that Hughie has accepted the fact that he’s about to die. In fact, it’s not even the first time today. But it’s the first time where it’s felt right.
Everybody’s life comes to an end eventually, and his was always going to be over with sooner rather than later given the mess he’s found himself embroiled in. His entire body is exhausted and aching, his skin and clothes caked in blood and seawater and god knows what else. He’s truly broken. He’s ready for everything to stop.
At least Annie is the one who’s doing it. Annie is sweet and gentle and kind, and he can trust her to make sure he doesn’t suffer. It’ll be quick and clean and relatively painless. A single flash of light followed by an endless peaceful rest, no worse than going to sleep. It’s a much more pleasant way to go than being tortured to death by Homelander or smashed into mush for standing in the way of someone running faster than the speed of sound. It would even be easy to argue that it’s better than living to an old age but spending months withering away in the throes of an incurable illness.
He’s lucky, really. It’s an easy death, and that’s a privilege that many people don’t get.
He nods slightly at Annie, hoping it conveys his forgiveness and the sorrow he feels about how she’ll probably feel guilty about this for the rest of her life, and closes his eyes as her irises glow and the light from her palms illuminates the tunnel. His body doesn’t tense up – if anything, it relaxes, and for the first time in months there’s no knot in his stomach, no twinge behind his sternum. He inhales deeply, focusing on the feeling of his lungs expanding in his chest. It would be wrong not to savour the last breath he’ll ever take.
He hopes that if life after death exists, it’s easy and painless and pleasant. He hopes that the rest of The Boys make it out okay and that Butcher gets his happily ever after with his wife. He hopes that his dad will be okay on his own.
This is it. There’s no way out of this one, no Butcher or Annie or harmonica-playing Billy Joel to show up and save the day. There’s the slightest hint of a smile on his face as he breathes out and waits for the curtain to fall.
‘Oi, cunt.’
Hmm. He’d been hoping for a slightly more polite welcome to the afterlife, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Except when he opens his eyes, he’s still on the floor of the storm drain, and still very much alive. For a couple of seconds, he watches in a daze as Homelander and Butcher fire insults at each other. When Kimiko’s brother appears and the ominous rumble of cracking stone echoes around the tunnel, his instincts take over, and he curls into a ball with his hands over his head and his eyes squeezed shut.
Part of him resents Butcher for this. He didn’t have to be shaking in the corner and waiting for rubble to rain down on him. He could’ve been at peace.
It feels like he waits there for a lifetime, muscles tensed, braced for blows that never come. Then, he hears the familiar heavy sound of Butcher’s footsteps and opens his eyes to see unlaced boots and the tattered hem of a long black trenchcoat.
‘Come on, Hughie. Before that cunt gets out.’
Hughie’s ears are ringing. His limbs feel as if they’re made from lead.
‘Come on.’ Butcher repeats, holding out his hand. Hughie instinctively reaches up to grasp it and allows Butcher to pull him to his feet. His legs are shaking, restricting him to the inefficient, wobbly gait of a newborn deer, but Butcher seems content to walk slowly alongside him as he limps out of the drain.
—
The press conference is painful to watch. Kimiko’s grief is palpable, her body twitching as anger courses through her, and Hughie is once again tired of feeling so powerless.
He’s relieved when Butcher sinks onto the arm of the couch next to him and they share a meaningful glance. He can’t put into words the message that it conveys, but he knows that they’re on better terms than they were this morning. It’s the only thing about today that’s been even remotely good.
He’s the first to stand up when the press conference finishes, his stomach churning from the vapid disingenuity of the speeches. The fatigue is overwhelming and his body is running entirely on fumes, but he’s suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that he’s still caked in a thick layer of grime. He decides to head towards the shower before he becomes too tired to stand up.
The thin stream of water is on the colder side of lukewarm and leaves much to be desired, but it’s better than nothing. Hughie leans against the chipped tiles to steady himself and begins the long, arduous process of picking the dried clumps out of his hair. The strawberry shampoo he uses is technically for kids, but surely hair is hair no matter the age of the person whose head it’s on, and it’s cheap enough that he doesn’t feel like he’s breaking the bank when he gets through a bottle a week scrubbing away blood and various bits of viscera.
It’s the shampoo he used when he was little. The smell is comforting. It reminds him of being four years old and sitting in the bath while his mom washes his hair for him.
The lock to the tiny bathroom is temperamental and prone to jamming, but the shower is loud enough that the others know when not to come in even if the door is technically open. He’s startled when he hears the creak of the hinges, the shock waking him up slightly. Butcher has the good manners to avert his eyes and close the door behind him when he walks in, although in Hughie’s opinion, it would’ve been much politer of him to stay out of the bathroom in the first place.
‘I’m kind of in the shower.’ he says, as if that isn't blindingly obvious.
Butcher doesn’t respond. He kicks off his boots and socks and steps into the shower next to Hughie, still fully clothed, and pulls him into a hug.
It’s sort of weird, given the setting and the fact that Hughie is naked and the way in which they’re both still filthy. But he’d be lying if he said that it was the weirdest thing that had happened to him today – it’s probably not even in the top three – and it’s not exactly unpleasant. The sensation of Butcher’s arms sliding around his waist makes him realise that, unsurprisingly, he’s touch-starved and craving affection, and they’ve both had an objectively difficult day.
‘I thought she was gonna kill you in front of me.’ Butcher says.
Hughie’s heart quickens at the memory of the few moments he’d spent waiting for everything to come to an end.
‘Thought I was gonna lose you right there, Hughie. I’d never have forgiven myself.’
‘You saved me.’ Hughie says. His head is tilted down, so the words end up being murmured against Butcher’s shoulder. ‘And if you hadn’t, I was okay. I wasn’t scared. I– I felt ready.’
Butcher flinches and tightens his grip on Hughie, pressing himself against him as if being this close together is still not enough.
‘I know.’ Butcher’s voice is thin, as if he’s struggling to get the words out. ‘It was fucking terrifying, Hughie. I don’t wanna– I can’t lose you.’
Hughie can’t find the words to respond. Instead, he picks up the bottle of strawberry shampoo and squeezes it into his palm, then reaches up to methodically work it into Butcher’s hair.
‘Fucking hell. Gonna make me smell like a fucking milkshake.’
‘Better than dead whale.’
‘You got me there.’
Butcher reaches for the shampoo and mimics the action, weaving his fingers through Hughie’s hair, scrubbing at the skin on his neck and shoulders as well for good measure. They take turns, moving back and forth to share the water, working soap into each other’s skin until Butcher’s clothes are in a soggy pile on the floor and the shampoo bottle is noticeably lighter than it was to start with and the water running down the drain is finally clear instead of red.
Hughie isn’t sure who initiates the kiss. Maybe they go for it at the same time, when Hughie’s hands are on Butcher’s hips and Butcher’s hands are cradling Hughie’s face. It’s soft and desperate all at once, a kiss that’s been a long time coming, and it casts a warm glow across Hughie’s skin even though the water is almost uncomfortably cold now. When they break apart, Butcher pulls him close and holds him tightly again, tangling the fingers of one hand in Hughie’s hair.
‘I can’t lose you. You’re too fucking important to me.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Hughie means it. At this moment, he is further away from being ready to die than he has been all day.
‘Good. Wouldn’t let you, anyway.’
They stay like that for a moment, their bodies warm enough against each other that the coolness of the water doesn’t matter. They only move when they’re interrupted by a loud banging noise as M.M.’s fist hammers at the door.
‘As much as I’m overjoyed that you guys have made up, this is a shared living space, which means it’s generally considered rude to use up all the fucking hot water. Get out of the fucking shower and canoodle somewhere else.’
They exchange a glance and both fail to stifle their laughter, prompting a few more thumps against the door. Hughie reluctantly shuts off the shower and pulls a towel around his shoulders, shivering as droplets of cold water fall from his hair onto his back.
Butcher presses his lips against Hughie’s forehead, then squeezes his hand before he reaches for the door handle.