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billy

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It's almost Christmas and Maeve, for the first time in her life around a holiday, has a boyfriend. Well, not a boyfriend, because she and Steve haven't exactly used those words or even talked about what they're doing and she still occasionally thinks about how much she'd like to shag Rowan, but really, for all intents and purposes, she's got a boyfriend.

That in itself is hard enough to deal with, but now she's realized she'd got to get him a gift or look like a complete asshole. Money isn't a problem, she's still getting her handouts from the city itself, plus she's got her side hustle up and running again, and that is what she's doing right now. Making extra cash to buy Steve a Christmas gift.

Wearing a pair of tight black jeans, her heavy combat boots, and the biggest black cargo jacket she could find, Maeve is leaning against the outside of an Ahab's Coffee, a warm drink in one hand, a stack of papers in the other. She's met three college students so far and they've exchanged essays for cash, and she has two more she's waiting on.

So of course those pricks from the high school wander by. She can't even remember their names now, she'd barely gone to any classes before fucking off and getting her GED instead. Ethan she remembers, because of something Rowan said about his brother dealing drugs. The other two are Ethan's cronies, idiots with close cropped hair and broad chests and she knows exactly the sort of guys they are before they even speak to her.

"Hey, I remember you," Ethan says. "You're that one with the book. Part of the whole sex cult, right?"

"Yeah, you got me," Maeve answers in a bored voice. "You're super hilarious, now move along."

One of the others, the bigger of the two, steps closer to Maeve. He's trying to be intimidating and she doesn't love his proximity, but she only tips her coffee cup back and takes a sip, her eyes on him the whole time. He's not close enough yet, but he will be.

"Sex cult?" he asks and Maeve smiles sarcastically.

"Yeah," Ethan says. "She's a real slut. I bet she'd even fuck you."

"Would you?" the guy asks and Maeve waits. He steps closer. Then closer. He's trying to get a look at her tits, which would be hilarious given her enormous jacket if he wasn't such a complete creep. One more step brings him in range and Maeve lifts her knee as hard as she can, jamming it swiftly into the soft and delicate and stupidly vulnerable balls between his legs.

The idiot drops and Maeve steps over him, moves over slightly, then resumes leaning against the wall and waiting for her clients.

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"Diobolical," Butcher appraises, happy to take the bat back. If he were to dig deeper, he would easily find that this fight doesn't feel wholly satisfying. These kids didn't do anything; at least, nothing like what Butcher used to go after. Lighting up an out-of-control Supe for hurting innocents is the sort of thing that he can contort to feel good. Even without the bat he's a Howitzer and they're a couple of milk cartons. This is the first thought of many that will lead him to the idea that something needs to change. Not now, though.

"Lesson one," Butcher begins. Now, he jabs the tip of the bat into Shut Up Slut's Adams apple. He makes a terrible choking sound. "If someone's flappin' the old windbag, shut them up." That one stumbles back, so Butcher just knocks him over with a crack of the bat to the ribs. It will be a bitch to recover from, but he'll he down for good and that's the goal.

Cunt # 3 rushes him and gets a damn good punch in, square on Butcher's mouth. Billy seems right pleased. He bars the lad across the throat with the bat and holds him there. Blood gathers in his mouth and he spits it out away from all of the masses.

"Any questions so far?"

"Throat, ribs, balls," Maeve recites, even though he hadn't quite summed it up like that. It's close enough and it's the sort of thing Maeve's always kind of carried in the back of her mind.

Moordale wasn't dangerous, not really. It's a small town with a lot of entitled assholes, but Maeve had never felt truly threatened there. But she remembers what happened to Aimee, the literal wanker on the bus, and she's not going to let anyone get away with anything like that with her.

"Pretty straightforward," she says cheerfully. "You alright? You're bleeding a bit."

"Fine, thanks." Billy points at Maeve approvingly with the tip of the bat. "You're the kid in the class that takes good notes. Bet everyone cheats off you. And you turned it into a lucrative business." He smiles a bit, just on one side. "You might just be the first half-decent kid I ever met."

Before he can spend too long there, he traps the young lad in an easy headlock and says, cheery enough, "what say I knock this cunt out and we find a taco truck or the like?" Sure it was his lesson to begin with, but this is like punching toilet paper and there is no satisfaction in that.

"And here I thought once I hit eighteen, went to college, and lived on my own, I'd stop being called a kid," she answers with a put upon sigh, even though it doesn't bother her much at all. Maeve hasn't been a kid for a very long time. She's been on her own since she was fourteen, no parents looking out for her, no guardian, just her alone in the caravan.

It's not so bad, after all that, having someone think of her as a kid.

"Yeah, alright," she agrees. "I'm never going to say no to tacos."

The cleanest way to do this would just be to snap his neck. It's a little bitch of a neck and it wouldn't take much. It's also not worth the trouble in a lot of ways. Instead, he grabs the bloke's head in his hands and slams the lad's face into his knee. He crumbles.

"Right, then!" He straightens, adjusting his shirt and the collar of his coat. "I'm starving." A booted foot steps over one felled cunt, then the other. He flips Ethan's one good eye off. With a swing, Butcher tosses the bat into a nearby dumpster. They are forgotten as soon as he sets his pace for the truck that's usually around here, somewhere.

"One sec," Maeve answers, seeing her last appointment heading in their direction. She looks warily at the guys on the ground, but Maeve ignores it all, as if none of is even real, and she hands the young woman the folder with her paper in it.

"Here," Maeve says.

"Thanks," the girl answers, handing over the money, then glancing at Billy before she scurries off down the street.

"Right," she says, looking to Billy again. "Done for the day, let's go."

Sometimes it hurts him deep down when innocent people look at him the way that young bird just did. Standing over three bloodied, semi-conscious children and bleeding out his own mouth though, he gets it.

"Good hustle," Butcher appraises. From him, this is a lot of praise that he wouldn't usually dole out so easily. Seeing this odd kid stand out unashamed and unafraid takes him somewhere he doesn't understand. There's a dull ache that has nothing to do with her, but it makes him feel... something. Alive, maybe. Like there's a version of his past where things went differently. Not for him - but for the first person to ever matter to him. The one he lost first.

"Tacos are on you, then," Butcher says gruffly but not unkind. He's just seen her make money twice. Of course he's not going to try and force a uni girl to pay his way, but he can give her some shite about it.

They're walking now. The streets are empty for some reason, so they walk in the middle of the road. Butcher likes the feeling of taking up space that isn't meant for him.

"Fuck you, that's my rent," Maeve answers with a snort. She'll pay for herself, but she's not about to buy food for some guy she just met, even if she does think he's kind of cool in a fucked up way.

She's used to barely making any money, barely being able to buy food besides some shitty tea bags and cup noodles. Tacos are kind of a luxury, one she wouldn't have gotten for herself much back home and not only because Moordale wasn't exactly the height of cultured cuisine.

"So what's your deal, then?" she asks as they walk. "You just go around making friends with all the nicest people in Darrow or what?"

There are few things that make Butcher feel warmer and fuzzier than when someone tells him to fuck himself. For some, it's a certain kind of affection and maybe the only kind he can handle. His smirk is a shadow of a quiet grin. The afternoon had been full of violence and decent company. For a kid, Maeve is al-fucking-right.

"Aye - and you're the nicest of all," Butcher shoots back, that little smirk deepening. Once that is done, he decides to actually answer the question.

"I ain't been here long. I came from New York..." Hmm. Nope. "Weren't much there for me anymore." Clearly Maeve isn't going to think he got to Darrow by choice and that's not really what he means. It's the ambiguous language of a liar, a manipulator - a man that does what he has to as a means to an end that will never come. These habits are difficult to break, even for a person trying harder than Billy is.

"'M bored as hell here. The fuck do you do to pass the time? When you ain't getting plagiarizer for money or kneeing cunts in the bollocks?" There's not a great chance a school-aged girl is going to mention something that appeals to Butcher, but who knows.

She's eighteen years old and she's pretty sure whatever she does isn't going to be all that interesting to this guy, at least in terms of finding himself new hobbies. For that reason alone, the fact that he's asking as if he might take her up on her suggestions, means she has to give him shit for it.

"Well, there's the brothel," she says, pretending to consider. "Work there two or three nights a week, but don't worry. No shagging. They just pay me to hit people with this really big paddle. All studded on one side, you know? Outside of that, I deal a lot of drugs. Like, a lot of drugs. All the hard stuff, especially, that's where I'm the best of the best."

If there's one thing Maeve will never do, it's that. But he doesn't know that about her.

Butcher's not down on things that are none of his business - like sex work - but she is clearly giving him shit. He rolls his eyes.

"Alright, alright, leave it out," Butcher says, smirking. "You ain't dealin' drugs and writing grade-A papers." One of his favorite people in the world (fuck you, he'd never say it) can do a whole lot of drugs and can still create the most brilliant weapons, drugs and solutions. It's not that the things are impossible to cross, it's just that he is certain this girl does not do drugs. Her skin, for one, is pretty immaculate.

If she dealt them, those cunts bleeding in the alley would have a different tune about her. There's nothing a young rich kid loves more than hard drugs.

"I buy the bit with the paddle, though." He carefully bumps her with his arm because no, he doesn't.

"Lad I know said he's got family came here, too. You know anyone like that?"

"Uh-uh," she answers, shaking her head. "I mean, I've got no family here."

She doesn't have much of a family at all, really, but she doesn't need to say that to some guy she's only just met. So far she's enjoying the conversation and she doesn't get the sense he's some sort of pervert who's going to use any of this against her, but she's used to keeping her personal details personal.

"The guy I'm seeing, he's got someone from home, though," she says. "Not family, just like... the town sheriff or something like that. I guess they're sort of friends."

Butcher pulls a face. "Thought young people don't take too kindly to cops anymore," he grumbles, because he hates law enforcement a great deal, himself. What kind of hick-ass town is this lad coming from that a town sheriff would pass for family mention and why the fuck was some sheriff here? It's time for him to stop thinking of this place as some sort of magic business complex where people set up shop like it's a choice. Everyone got here the same magical way Butcher did. There's an us-versus-them mentality that is going to take a lot longer to shed than a couple of months and maybe then he'll stop seeing the place as a million native cunts and a handful of poor sods like himself. The ratio of outsiders seems pretty large, and when he's got nothing else to do, he wants to know what that means.

The taco truck Butcher sees around sometimes is, in fact, at the corner when they get there. Thank fuck, because he'd taken an educated guess that this was the corner he's seen it on. It's usually out later when the bars are the only thing open.

There's no line, either, so Butcher gestures for her to go first.

Maeve shrugs. She doesn't love coppers because they're generally pretty shit, Billy is right about that, but she thinks things are maybe a bit different where and when Steve is from.

"He's from the eighties," she says. "Maybe things were different then? And they're from a small town. I don't think cops are out there busting the heads of black people in small town eighties America as much as they are now. Kinda hard to get away with it when there's only three cops on the force."

She places her order, then steps aside for Billy to do the same, chewing on her lower lip as she waits.

"All due respect love, they absolutely fuckin' ain't different," Butcher says, face rotten with disgust. "Loads easier to commit a crime when ain't but 2 other cunts to keep quiet. Law enforcement is power. Ain't nothin' people get drunk on quicker."

She goes to order and Butcher thinks, great, they're talking about police brutality and corruption of power on a brisk Wednesday morning after a light assault and battery. This place is so fucking weird, but what choice does he have but to work with what he's been given?

Billy orders two or three whatever-the-fucks and meets her with two cans of whatever was caffeinated. He hands one to her without a word about it.

"Call me crazy, but I get the impression," Butcher begins, cracking his soda open, "that you like it here."

"Thanks," she says when he hands her the drink, then shrugs at his comment. He's not wrong and she doesn't see any reason to pretend he might be. Maybe they're still kind of strangers, but he hasn't looked at her tits and he hasn't asked to fuck her or called her a slut. Maybe Maeve's standards are pretty low if that's all he has to do in order to not be a complete shit, but they are what they are.

"Yeah, I do," she answers. "The place I come from wasn't exactly bustling with opportunity. People there have been calling me a slag and an orphan and a chav since I was fourteen years old. My parents fucked off, my mum's an addict, I live alone in a caravan trying to pay rent by selling essays while getting through school at the same time. There's not much there for me to miss."

Butcher nods appraisingly, swiping at his beard after taking a drink from his truly garbage beverage. It tastes like anything else that's cheap and will keep you awake, which is to say Butcher's used to it.

"Quite a life," Butcher remarks, though it's clear he's not too interested in passing judgement on it. If anything, he seems more relaxed by it. That sounds about fucking normal for what Butcher'd seen growing up, except the part where she worked to pay her rent. That's right out of the abusive parent handbook, isn't it? Well I pay your rent so as long you live under my roof...

She comes off damaged as she is, but she takes care of herself. That's something Billy doesn't do. The three people left in his world that cared about him have all but begged him to do the same. Fuck them.

And here?" Butcher asks of her current situation.

Maeve only shrugs and says, "It's life. Plenty of people worse off than that."

Her parents had never hit her, after all. No grown up relatives tries to cop a feel when she was just a kid. No boys have drugged her at a party and raped her. It might not be the best way to grow up, but it could have been loads worse and she's well aware of that. She could be just like her brother, who will probably eventually die at some party, overdosing on his own product.

"Here is better," she says. "This place gives me money and I know it's the monetary equivalent of food stamps, but fuck, it's more money than I've ever had before. I can pay rent without having to live on tea and cup noodles. I've eaten more fresh fruit in the past week than I had for the past four years before this place. I've got a great roommate and a... whatever, a guy. The college gave me a scholarship based on an essay I wrote, the bank gave me a loan for the rest of my tuition."

She shrugs again. "Doesn't that all sound better?"

"Fuck is wrong with food stamps?" Butcher asks, disgusted by the thought of people who would be disgusted by such things. If it weren't for government assistance, Butcher wouldn't have had much of a life at all. That doesn't mean he likes it or that is the reason he went into the service. There are people that deserve help and they should be able to fucking get it, but as long as there are billionaires, that will never happen.

Now he feels a little warm and cozy thinking about killing billionaires again.

"Aye, a right side," Butcher agrees, saying nothing of the rest of it. A brief ache smashes him in the ribs when he wonders if this would have been the kind of girl Lenny might have gone for. She's sharp and honest. Maybe she'd have been strong enough to protect him.

Fuck. He drains the last of his drink and wishes it was something stronger.

"Ain't hear no teenage girl get all excited 'bout a bank loan before," he jokes, glancing over sidelong with a friendly smirk.

"Nothing," she answers. "How the fuck do you think I ate most of the time back home?"

It had been her only option a lot of the time and she'd only had a problem relying on the food vouchers whenever the twats at school found out about it and gave her shit. But that was just one more thing she'd had to harden herself against and she'd done just fine there.

Her shoulders rise and fall in a shrug and she grins back at Billy, her lower lip pulled slightly between her teeth. "Way I figure, I haven't mentally been a teenage girl for a long time now. Started paying my own rent when I was fourteen, I'm not exactly worrying about going out and partying."

Yeah, Butcher, too. Things weren't top-tier at the Butcher residence, but at least they ate.

Their food is ready at the same time, so Butcher grabs them both in one hand and sort of tosses Maeve's plate at her. This is how Billy stays comfortable: hot and cold. Since this girl is entirely innocent in the way of grander sins - like levelling buildings and shrugging off civilian casualties - his gruffness is edgeless. It's odd, but he thinks he feels... normal. Not a lot of laypeople are so cavalier about casual violence. She never seemed afraid. It's going to be tough to forget that when this conversation is over.

"You ain't missed much," Butcher assures her, though he doesn't suppose he got to be much of a teen, either. Some are violent. Most aren't that way because they have to be. "Party's only good if you can't remember it, anyway."

Maeve snorts and gives Billy a look far older than her years as she unwraps her tacos.

"Not if you're a teenage girl," she quips lightly, as if it doesn't mean anything much. But even though Moordale wasn't a big city and even though there wasn't a lot of the worst kind of shit in the world that happened there, she still knows there's not a single girl or woman who lived there who wasn't aware something like that was always a threat.

It's still a threat. Maeve doesn't accept drinks she hasn't poured herself or watched a bartender pour. If she doesn't remember a party, she knows it's because something awful happened to her. That's how it is for most girls. Not for guys, of course.

"Or a woman at all, really," she adds thoughtfully as she takes a big bite of her taco.

Fuck, he almost winces a little. By the time the feeling makes it to the surface, it's expressed in little more than a twitch of lips against their typical direction. Funny how distance - an unknowable amount of distance - and unfamiliarity can make a person forget things.

"'S fair," Butcher says, sparing a glance down to consider her. Poor girl. Some people deserve the life they have, but it doesn't seem too much like this one does. The worst thing she's probably guilty of is a broken heart, and it seems like there's a lot that's happened to crack through. In some ways, he knows the feeling. That's what he's really doing: reading her face and seeing the bits he recognizes.

That's dropped in favor of eating his food, as well. There's really nothing he can say about what's been said, so he doesn't.

That he doesn't protest, doesn't do any of that not all men bullshit, or start spouting statistics at her meant to prove her wrong does a lot toward endearing him to her further and Maeve grins as she finds a bench and hops up to sit on the back of it, her boots on the seat.

"And that," she tells him through another mouthful of taco, "is why half the male population of Darrow High hates me. I don't even go there and I've already made enemies of them all."

She says this in a voice that suggests she doesn't care and for the most part she doesn't. Maeve has made friends here, people more like her than any of her friends had been back home. She misses Aimee's cheerful optimism and the way her light could bright just about any day, but she feels most like herself, most comfortable with Rue and Robin and Rosie.

"What is?" Butcher asks with a mouthful of food. "Bit of a buzzkill but you ain't kneed no one in the bollocks in an hour." He shrugs as if to say who knows.

There's something else there, though and Billy feels like he knows her a little bit now.

After swiping at his beard, he asks neutrally, "why do you care, then? Don't say you don't." He's pointing at her with his free hand, but it's no interrogation.

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