Get Some Part One
This was not the first time Frenchie had dealt in the exploded remains of a body, nor would it be the last. However, it had been many many years since he had felt so uncomfortable while dealing with a person’s remains.
To be fair, Frenchie thought, as he ran his shovel across the floor to find invisible body parts, it had nothing to do with the carrion and more to do with the people around him.
“Look, we can’t exactly leave this place standing.” Monsieur Charcutier was trying to explain why it was useless to worry about the blood splatter to one of his soulmates, while she washed his other soulmate’s hair (C’est ridicule). Her long fingers running through petite Hughie’s hair ever so gently. Frenchie was unsure if Hughie and Sam were soulmates, but Sam seemed to regard him with some sort of fondness
Frenchie was interested in this situation. It had all the markings of a disaster in the making. He, Jay, and Cherie had been tightly knit, but free to move about as they will, knowing Frenchie would get them out of trouble. Butcher, M.M., and himself had been driven. Each of them looking out for each other, yes, but all of them were pushing eachother as well. M.M., Frenchie could admit in the privacy of his own head, probably took on more responsibility than he should have.
These three, however, Frenchie did not know how their dynamic would work out. Monsieur Charcutier and petite Hughie were like magnets, drawn to each other by some force. It was beautiful. Frenchie did not know if he had ever thought Butcher’s eyes could be so soft, his hands so gentle. Frenchie wanted so much to have someone draw them, to keep the beauty of the moment when Butcher saw Hughie covered in blood. They had been lost in their own little world, hands frantically checking each other for injury. Butcher’s arms went around Hughie, pressing him against Butcher’s chest as Hughie murmured something Frenchie could not hear.
Sam, though, Sam was making the entire room unbearable. It was not because she was unpleasant, quite the opposite. She had removed the top two layers of her clothes, blood had soaked through the fabric. She stood in tight jeans and a loose undershirt, soaked with water as she washed Hughie’s hair. She was magnificent, lines of muscle and a soft layer of fat on top of it. She had lost some of her nervous edge and her shoulders were relaxed. The curve of her made smooth lines, like a waterfall. Frenchie would have hived her off to a private corner by now, acquainted himself with her, like he and Cherie had done all those years ago. And, if she needed comfort, Frenchie would have held her, assured her that she was alive and well, as was he. He would have run his fingers over her face, traced the cheekbones and eyebrows until Sam lost all sense of tension. He was more than a little tempted to do it anyway.
But she would not let Butcher touch her and that gave Frenchie pause. A thick, invisible wall stood between them, and Butcher dared not breach it. Frenchie inwardly felt oddly vindictive about that, remembering how little sympathy Butcher had when he had first met MM. The wound was no longer as raw as it used to be, but the bruise still ached when he pressed on it. Frenchie was of course going to interfere. Sam seemed to be intelligent, they had a few excellent discussions on magnetic forces and electrical circuits. Moreover, Frenchie thought, Sam was not cruel. Even M.M. when he rejected Frenchie, made sure to put a hand on his shoulder, to hug him, and on one memorable occasion, press his forehead against Frenchie’s own. Frenchie resolved to speak to her, when he could get her alone.
Sam looked away as Hughie got changed into cleaner clothes, but did not draw attention to it. Perhaps, Frenchie thought, she is unused to men? It would explain a great many things if that were the case. Frenchie, as was his habit, started rubbing the back of his neck as he thought. M.M. was an organized thinker, and rubbing at the tattoo made it easier to think in an organized manner.
Or create an imaginary argument. Frenchie internally snorted. He almost jumped when he saw Hughie standing about holding his clothes. He smiled and took the bloody rags from him, smiling, but the boy did not respond.
Poor boy. Frenchie had not been much better after his first murder. At least Hughie had Butcher. They were never going to get the room cleaned up if Butcher kept putting down his shovel to hold Hughie. He glanced over at Sam, who looked dead inside. The woman did not have many facial expressions. She was not even an ice queen, because then she would at least look indifferent. She did, however, move to pick up the shovel and start helping gather the remains of Translucent while Butcher tried to coax some feeling into Hughie. Butcher ran his hands up and down Hughie’s arms, the white coat bunching under his touch. Hughie did not really respond. He just looked like he was going more and more into shock.
Frenchie would have blinked and missed it, but a shudder ran through Hughie’s body and he jerked himself away. Frenchie, after years of experience, could read Butcher’s face. Butcher was wounded to the core, but trying to not take it personally.
“I need to go get some clothes.” Hughie said, stuttering. He started walking towards the door, but Butcher grabbed his arms and turned him about. Butcher let go almost immediately after Hughie turned.
“We will get you some clothes.” Butcher said, voice level and reasonable.
Hughie looked about the room for a second, chest stuttering. “I’m sorry about the-“
“Now, Now,” Butcher said, rolling with the unexpected subject change. “You’ve done us a favor. All you need to do is sit down and relax for a bit, eh?”
Butcher reached up a hand to cup Hughie’s cheek, but Hughie flinched away.
“I still want to go get clothes.” Hughie said.
“I’ll go right now and get you some.” Butcher said, only to have Hughie shake his head.
“I want my clothes.” Hughie said. “I’ll be right back.”
Frenchie was interested in how this would play out. Butcher was, at heart, a provider. If there was a need to be had, Butcher would provide. Most would think Butcher was a protector, but no, he was a provider.
Frenchie knew this because Butcher had smuggled him drugs while he was under government supervision. Butcher gave a smile and said he needed Frenchie at his best, but Frenchie was honest enough to know being clean would have been better protection for him and the crew than getting high. Frenchie knew this because Butcher allowed MM to take dangerous assignments and fly by the seat of his pants so MM could get back to Monique. Frenchie knew this because of a thousand different moments over time. He knew this because the one time he had met Butcher’s sister-in-law, and he watched as Butcher gave her the unedited, dirty truth about what happened to Becca. Frenchie knew this by the way Butcher would lie, the way he would give a person what they wanted to hear. The way Butcher moved through the CIA, wining and dining and fucking Raynor. The way Butcher would not protect himself from the scoffing or the slander, but rather use it to his advantage.
Enabler was the word Mallory had used, but Frenchie always found that a bit unkind and unfair, because Butcher would make you take what you needed. Once you were committed to a goal, Butcher made sure you stayed committed. Protecting Hughie meant denying Hughie and Butcher could not do that. Butcher looked over Hughie’s shoulder to look at Frenchie.
Ah, oui. Frenchie thought, before speaking outloud- “You are, perhaps in a state of shock, mon ami.”
“Hughie, you just arse-bombed America’s sweetheart. You can’t just piss off.” Butcher was trying to be kind about it, but looking in Hughie’s face, Frenchie doubted it registered.
“I need to go home.” Hughie said.
And there is the special word. Frenchie thought amused. Frenchie watched as Butcher looked slightly unsure of himself, warring with himself to find a compromise. Then he looked away from Hughie and Frenchie knew Butcher was going to give in.
“Alright. Frenchie will go with you.” Butcher said.
“Wait, what? No.”
“Either he goes with you, or I break your legs.” Butcher said, and Frenchie was oddly surprised at how forceful Butcher was. Butcher would go very very far in his attempt to get you to do what he wanted, but he did not go to threats with people he liked. Frenchie did catch Sam freezing in the background though, the water making her shiver slightly. Her eyes were wide and glassy and Frenchie had a bad feeling Sam did not take that the way it was intended. There were too many things going on at once.
As Hughie made his way up the stairs, Frenchie had some technical questions for Butcher, also a warning.
Frenchie was not quite sure what Butcher’s plan was, but he was content (as content as one could be) with Butcher’s planning. Right before he left he tapped Butcher on the shoulder and nodded to Sam.
“You may have frightened her.” Frenchie whispered. “I would nip whatever thoughts are going on in her head quickly.”
Butcher gave a long sigh and nodded at Frenchie. Frenchie looked over Butcher’s shoulder to make sure Sam had heard, then he made his way up the stairs, his footsteps careful not to slip on the blood splatter.
When he got outside, he was not surprised to find Hughie staring uselessly at the trucks. Frenchie did not touch him, but herded him to the van. It was a long and quiet ride. Hughie did not fidget, and Frenchie was quite sure Hughie was a fidgeter.
He felt a lancing pain through his thigh and had to pull over at one point to call Cherie, but by the time he was able to, she had already gotten herself out of trouble. Hughie didn’t seem to notice the wild driving and loud honks, just stared out the window. Frenchie had to ask several times for an address, before Hughie gave it to him.
It was like watching a ticking bomb. You watch the numbers and they very evenly and slowly count down. Nothing changes, just a constant beep-beep or click-click.
Perfectly peaceful and calm until the bomb goes off. MM used to sit with Butcher and Frenchie when they got into that kind of state, a hand on the shoulder and a hug when the bomb finally went off. Frenchie never really knew what to make of it, being held by his soulmate without any reason than to be held. But he had enjoyed it and he had started initiating the hugs with MM. Even though it was platonic, Frenchie was surprised that MM never accused him of trying something on him. ( Though MM was quick to accuse Frenchie of trying something on everyone else. To be fair, however, he was right a good deal of the time.)
Frenchie followed Hughie into an apartment building and up his stairs, but let him enter the apartment alone. Hughie would be safe enough and perhaps home would be a release for him. Frenchie knew Jay went to see his parents regularly when he was alive.
Frenchie reached down and rubbed his calf. He was not fond of Jay’s parents. They had refused him access to the funeral. Frenchie had understood that. They had refused Cherie entrance as well. Frenchie had shouted at them and they had shouted at him, but he still held Cherie in his arms that night, rocking her until she stopped sobbing. It was the first time she let him touch her since that night. Still, Frenchie thought, he was not quite sure he had ever regained her trust. Her nails were sharper and her bites harder and she disappeared for weeks sometimes.
Sometimes, Frenchie thought, the universe was trying to give you a hint.
Frenchie was debating pulling out a blunt, but stopped when he heard a loud smash. He carefully eased open the door to look through the apartment. Things were being tossed about the room.
And the bomb detonates. Frenchie thought. He stood in the hallway until long after he heard gasping breaths and sobs, content to let Hughie collapse in private. Soulmates, Frenchie thought, did not allow for much grief. Hughie needed to be able to grieve.
When a small looking man came up the stairs and walked towards the apartment, Frenchie nodded. The man was older and quiet and wore a big sweater. The smile he gave Frenchie was awkward. If it was not a relative of Petite Hughie he would be surprised. The man pulled out a key, but looked surprised when the door just opened. He looked confused, but walked in.
Frenchie would have at least pulled out a weapon, but then again the man did not look armed.
Frenchie listened as shouting came from the apartment.
Parents could be difficult. When Hughie came out, steam coming out of his ears, Frenchie told him of his own father.
Common ground and all that.
---
Motherfucker. M.M. thought to himself, looking at his soulmate. Long back coat and Hawaiian shirt aside, M.M. thought Butcher looked good. At least his hair wasn’t slicked back and he looked like he had taken a shower recently. His hands were even scrubbed clean.
His hands were clean.
Fuck.
M.M. did his best not to notice the cuts and bruises on his face, but he was mentally reviewing the list of pain meds he had in his kit. While it was a surprise to see Butcher, it wasn’t a huge surprise to see he had snuck into his office in the two seconds he was out of it. M.M. would swear that Butcher made a point of trying to get M.M. jumpy. It used to be a funny game, now M.M. wondered why Butcher always seemed to want to catch people off guard.
Butcher did look well, though. It made M.M. feel a bit better about cutting ties. Butcher hadn’t dissolved into a mess of drunken, high, mishaps. M.M. had almost broken down when Cherie had told him Frenchie had been on a bender and wouldn’t wake up. He had resisted the urge to go to her, and instead calmed Cherie down and coached her through what to do. Even Monique, who after the eighth run in with Frenchie and Butcher was supportive of cutting ties, had looked at him a bit askance for that one. M.M. wasn’t quite sure what he had been thinking. He had spent the next four weeks trying to find a way to contact Cherie again to check up on Frenchie, only to slam down the phone before anything panned out.
“Aw, Hell, nah. What the fuck do you want?” M.M. asked, as if Butcher wasn’t a sign from the heavens that his day was going to get interesting. He was trying his best, but M.M. could admit to himself that the nine to five life wasn’t for him. He mentally berated himself. Butcher had just walked in the room and M.M. was thinking about caving. This did not bode well for his sanity or his marriage.
“What, I can’t visit me old mate?” Butcher asked, almost jovial. “Rekindle the unbreakable bonds of brothers-in-arms?”
M.M. didn’t smile. “Nope.”
“Come on, M.M.,” Butcher grinned and held open his arms. “Bring it in.”
M.M was vaguely aware that while Butcher was fond of many people, Butcher actively liked him. M.M. had absolutely no idea why. He did know that there was a slightly heartbroken look on Butcher’s face when he said-
“Look, if its all the same- lets just cut the small talk. All your going to do is lie and say how you’re doing fine and I am going to lie and pretend like I am happy to see you.” While Butcher did, generally, look better, M.M. was aware that Butcher was never truly “Fine.” M.M. was also self-aware enough to know he couldn’t give an inch or he would be chasing after Butcher into whatever chaos he had gotten himself into.
“Why are you here?” M.M. finished, being very careful to maintain eye contact even as Butcher’s eyes shifted away. M.M. watched the transformation of Butcher happy to see him to Butcher on business. M.M. would never say it, but he missed the straightforward Butcher-pn-business outlook on life.
“All right.” Butcher said. “How would you like to come back, have another go, hmm?”
M.M. felt his entire body spring to attention. Work. Good Work. Work that wouldn’t leave him bored. Work that meant he could do something besides organize the same office time after time.
“Mm-mm.” He said, eyes looking to the side, but realizing his mistake flashed his eyes up to Butcher. “No, sir. Keep it to yourself. I don’t want to know nothing about nothing.” He held his hands up, but he could already see the wheels in Butcher’s head turning.
Motherfucker.
“I am a happy man now.” M.M. looked down at the paper on his desk. “Life is good, Monique is back, we’re good-“
“Oh yeah, how is Monique?” Billy said, interested, like Monique hadn’t had him removed from his hospital room and blocked his calls.
“Spits on the ground every time your name comes up.” M.M. said. It wasn’t quite a lie, but it wasn’t quite the truth either. Frenchie got a stronger reaction than Butcher, but Monique wasn’t fond of Butcher either. Not after Butcher had dragged him out of her graduation party only for her to find him in the hospital. Butcher had to show the doctors his next-of-kin registration in order to let Monique into the room. Butcher had switched all the paperwork over while trying to convince Monique that M.M. wasn’t choosing him over her- which included showing Monique the ring. Monique had ended up throwing Butcher out after so many shouting matches in hospital corridors. Butcher had gone, but M.M. knew Monique resented the fact Butcher could have legally done the reverse.
“I can’t do that to her again, man. Not to mention, I’m actually making progress with these boys.” M.M. was able to keep eye contact, but damn it if that wasn’t difficult too. Over the years apart, M.M. was actually able to come to terms with the fact Butcher was his soulmate for a reason. Years apart had also taught him that soulmates could be lived without, but damn it if it wasn’t harder. M.M. missed Butcher. He missed the stupid accent and the convoluted plans and the fucking tea.
Cause, as much as he hated to admit it, Butcher knew him. They were both liars in their own way, but convincing Butcher always ended up with M.M. realizing some uncomfortable truths about himself.
Butcher raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, so I can see.”
M.M. sighed to himself as he hit the window, yelling at the boys.
“Well, this is God’s work. I can’t argue with that. But a man of your talents? Wasted here.”
M.M. was not going to let that slide. Did he like his job? Somewhat. Did he feel like he was wasting his medical skills, his language skills, and his combat skills? Yes. Was he going to let Butcher act like this work wasn’t fucking important enough for him? Hell, no.
“Look, Butcher, we were into some bad shit, man. Even before the Mallory stuff. And that, that was…” A disaster. M.M. could still feel the burns on his skin and the way those children screamed still haunted his nightmares. “If I am going to make a difference, I just feel more comfortable doing it on a smaller scale.” As opposed to trying and failing to kill supes. It would have been a difference if he had ever actually succeeded.
Butcher looked down, not meeting his eye. Shit.
“I am a motherfucker with a heart. Whereas you, your just a motherfucker.”
Butcher made that little sound then. That little sound that meant if M.M. listened to another word of Butcher’s pitch he was probably going to be paying for a divorce lawyer. M.M. took a deep breath.
“Funny you should mention making a difference.” Butcher got into his space a bit, leaning against the window. It was cozy, companionable.
M.M. didn’t trust it.
“’cause we just dusted a supe.” Butcher had a gleam in his eye and a tilt to his chin and M.M. started mentally dividing up his assets.
“Bullshit.”
“Translucent.” Butcher grinned at him, pleased with himself. M.M. felt a slight thrill himself. The man was nigh on indestructible and Butcher was standing there with only a few cuts and bruises. M.M.’s world turned on its axis and he was engaged.
And from the look in Billy’s eye, he knew he had him.
“Well, come on, you lime-sucking smart-ass. How the hell did you do it?” They were leaned against eachother companionably now, like M.M. used to lean against his war buddies.
And then Billy let him have it, the whole shebang. It didn’t take much for M.M. to agree.
Even if Billy was lying about Frenchie.
They were going to split up in the parking lot when Billy bent down to look in his passenger side window. M.M. knew there was something wrong in a second, leaving his own car to jog over to Butcher.
“Hey, Sparky, wake up.” Billy didn’t touch the woman in his passanger side seat, who looked like she had passed out. M.M. leaned around him and checked her pulse, which wasn’t quite right.
“This one of Frenchie’s drug friends?” M.M. said as he pulled open the door to the car, pushing Billy out of the way.
“No.” Billy shook his head. “This is my electrician.”
“The one from Queens?” M.M. asked as he checked her breathing.
“Don’t know where she is from now.” Billy said, still not touching her. M.M. found that odd. Billy wasn’t handsy, but he wasn’t hesitant either.
“Well, wherever it is, they don’t have water.” M.M. said. “She’s dehydrated, do you know the last time she ate?”
Billy shook his head. “No, had other things on my mind since she turned up.”
M.M. looked at him surprised. Billy had known his work schedule, his birthday, his mother’s maiden name and the last place he had gone to the doctor within minutes of meeting him, and he didn’t even have his mark.
“Look, there was a pretty pressing threat, alright?” Billy said, not defensive, but not guilt free either.
“We need to get her on an I.V. Can we take her to the hospital? M.M. asked, already knowing the answer.
Billy shook his head. “No, I don’t think she would like that.”
“Where are we setting up, then? I’ll pick up the supplies and meet you there.”
Billy gave him an address. M.M. ran back to his car and grabbed a bottle of water.
“Keep her cool. I’m going to pick up some stuff for an I.V. Wet a cloth and hold it to her mouth, see if she will take any of the water. You know the basics.”
Billy nodded.
It didn’t take long for M.M. to pick up the supplies and make his way to the moving truck.
Damn Butcher, you’re still a cheap son of a bitch.
Billy’s electrician was propped up in a chair, with Billy pouring a bit of water down her throat. No other part of him was touching her. M.M. immediately started setting up an I.V., attaching the bag to the side of the truck.
The girl was awake, moving only slightly. Her eyes followed M.M. but she didn’t seem to be bothered by him sticking a needle in her hand. He wasn’t known for his bedside manner.
“No drugs.” She said, quietly.
“Yeah, I got you.” M.M. said. “We’re just going to get some water in you, yeah? When was the last time you ate?” He watched as her eyes glazed slightly as she tried to think.
In the end she shrugged, shaking her head.
“Mm-hm.” M.M. nodded. “When was the last time you slept?”
“Its been over two days at least.” Butcher said, chiming in for the first time after minutes of silence.
“Right.” M.M. looked at his soulmate and Billy didn’t cringe, but he wasn’t looking particularly proud either. “Butcher, go get us some decent food, alright. There is a gas station up the road. Dried fruit, beef jerky, hell, get some chocolate.”
Billy got up and left quickly, but M.M. didn’t miss the way the electrician tensed as he left. Judging from the pause in his step, Billy hadn’t missed it either.
“I’ll be back in a mo’, M.M. will get you fixed up in a jiffy.” Billy gave her a long look until she unclenched her shoulders. Then he was gone.
M.M. was left alone with the woman and he started checking her vitals. She didn’t say anything, but she did wince a couple of times when he pressed on her ribs.
“Does it hurt to breathe?” He asked. She shook her head, then looked like she considered something, but shook her head again.
“You wanna try that again?” M.M. asked, pressing a hand down to the bottom of her rib.
“I have asthma.” She said. “Don’t currently have an inhaler. There is no pain from my ribs though, I’ve had broken ribs before.”
“Take a deep breath for me.” M.M. said, placing a hand to her chest. She did, holding it till he said she could breathe out.
“I need you to take off the coat.” M.M. said. She was wearing a woman’s coat, a nice one from the looks of it. It wasn’t Monique’s style, but his daughter would have loved it. She was reluctant to pull it off, and M.M. could see why she would want to keep it on. She was wearing a tank top, and her arms were covered in bruises and cuts. Around one of her wrists was the deep cuts that come from pulling against a handcuff.
“Have these been treated?” M.M. asked, lifting her arms and twisting them back and forth to check motion.
“Not really.” She said. M.M. noticed a long surgical scar up the back of her forearm. He noticed there was a smudge of makeup on her biceps and gave her a look.
“We need to get your arms clean. I won’t say a word about them and I’ll give you something to wrap them in, yeah?” M.M. said.
She nodded and M.M. handed her a box of moist towellets and a grocery bag.
“Then get to work.” M.M. said. She was mostly fine. She looked like a battered wife, but if she ran with Butcher there could be a thousand explanations for those cuts. She did need to eat and drink, maybe get a good night’s sleep. He occupied himself with setting up the laptop and the camera as she wiped herself down.
They worked mostly in silence, the only sounds were the sound of breathing.
“Why no drugs?” M.M. asked, tired of the silence after a few minutes.
“Hmm?” The woman looked up from her arms, already looking better as the I.V. took affect.
“You didn’t want drugs, that many cuts I would have been begging for something. Are you allergic, or?” M.M. let the question trail off.
The woman twisted her arm so he saw the scar on her forearm.
“Got hooked on opioids after I broke my arm. Been clean for about four years, but I don’t want to take chances, yeah?”
“You think I’m going to give you an opioid for some cuts and bruises?” M.M. looked at her like she was crazy.
She shrugged. “Didn’t know what you were putting in the I.V. bag. Last time I was hooked up to these I was post-op and delusional.”
“Opioid for cuts and bruises.” M.M. rolled his eyes. “You know, my other soulmate may have offered you some, but I am a professional. You should take some Ibuprofen, but that’s about it.”
“Ibuprofen doesn’t do a damn thing.” She said, rolling her eyes back at him.
“Yeah?” M.M. said. “I bet the last time you took it was right after getting clean, right? Nothing is going to work when you and you’re body is expecting morphine.”
“Dilaudid.”
“Shit.” M.M. looked at her with an eyebrow raised. “How the fuck do you get enough cash to become addicted to Dilaudid?”
She laughed. “You don’t. You just go into a lot of fucking debt.”
“True of most addicts. But most of them are smart enough to go for something with a bit less street value, like OxyContin.”
“I aimed high.”
“You mean you aimed to get high. Still, four years isn’t anything to laugh at. You avoided heart problems?
“As far as I know.” She said.
M.M. kept unboxing shit. “I’m not hugely tech savvy, but this stuff looks a bit out of date.” The woman leaned forward, adjusting the I.V. so she could avoid tugging on it.
“Eh.” She said. “It’ll work. It will probably offend Hughie, though.”
“Hughie?” M.M. raised an eyebrow. The woman tilted her head.
“Billy didn’t tell you?”
“Billy hasn’t even told me your name.” M.M. said.
She made a face. “I’m Sam. Hughie is one of Butcher’s other soulmates.”
“He’s just been collecting them left and right, huh?” M.M. looked her over. “Its about time he moved on from Becca. Still he didn’t tell me shit about it. You want to fill me in?”
“Not particularly.” Sam said. “I’ve been told to keep my mouth shut.”
M.M. set down the box, looking at her. “I can’t think of how Billy got a soulmate that listens to orders.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Oddly enough, I trust him.”
“Well, tell me how that works out for you.” M.M. said. Then it was silent again, until Butcher opened the door with a couple of bags of food.
M.M. grinned as Billy handed him a burger. “Only you could get a person to trust you after she looks like she’s been beaten within an inch of her life.”
“Didn’t give into your interrogation, then, eh?” Butcher handed over a Hershey’s bar and some fries. “Good Girl.”
“She did mention the fact you have another soulmate showing up.” Billy went to snatch the chocolate back, but Sam put a leg up between them and let out a playful hiss.
“Yeah,” Billy said. “Hughie, met him two days ago. You should probably check him over if you can. He’s been a bit weaselly and there was an explosion.”
“You must have had an exciting two days.” M.M. started booting up the laptop, eating his burger with one hand.
“I’ll tell you the story later.” Billy said as there was a heavy, rhythmic knock on the truck door.
“Bang on time.” Billy smiled at M.M. and he felt a cold, certain knowledge he wasn’t going to like this. He looked over to Sam, but she seemed pretty intent on inhaling that chocolate bar.
A tall, awkward kid came in and held his hand out.
“Hi. I’m Hughie.”
M.M. couldn’t believe it. Sam, Sam at least looked like she was in the realm of appropriate age for Butcher- if a few years younger. This boy looked like he had just passed twenty. The fuck, was Billy robbing cradles now? M.M. shook his head, but didn’t respond to the outstretched hand.
Then, M.M. looked past Hughie to give Butcher a piece of his mind, because that kid was wearing more than a few hickeys and was probably half Butcher’s age when the sunlight fell on a slight muscled figure.
M.M. had known Butcher had been lying about Frenchie, but he didn’t think he would have gone as far as to bring him in on the job.
“Smelly motherfucker.” M.M. said, as he jumped from his chair.