ᴠɪᴅɪᴀ'ꜱ ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

HOLY MOLY YES. a compilation of physical affection from butcher coming right up. domestic to hurt comfort pipeline uknow – sorry this took forever!!

The teaspoon clinks against the ceramic mug on the countertop, wayward drops of tea pooling around where metal meets granite as you put it down. Footsteps peel around the doorway and Butcher’s hand is pulled to one of two mugs as a moth to a flame.

Your own mug warms your chilled fingers, and you catch Butcher’s eye as he takes a sip from the unsweetened beverage, fingertips clamped around the rim. He winks, and with the knuckle of his index finger nudges underneath your chin. It’s quick, it slips past, but it says “thank you,” — or, more likely, “thanks, love.”

—

Your shoulders are hiked up to your ears, face inching closer to the screen of your laptop with every moment. You can’t make sense of the encrypted files sweeping across the screen and time is running out. Butcher is watching his own screen across the table, head resting on his hand, fingers splayed over his mouth.

You place a foot in between his, squeezing his leg in-between yours. He’s too far away to comfortably hold his hand, but he allows your legs to slot perfectly with each other; the comfort of his presence however, is not enough to keep at bay your panic.

His eyes flit to you when you exhale a bit too sharply. Chair legs screech across the ground and his hands warm your shoulders. Thumbs rub against your cool skin, pressing deeper as Butcher works towards the base of your neck. Bubbles of stress pop deep within your muscles, and whatever brief pain is evoked swiftly dissipates.

“You’ll get it. Don’t you worry,” he says quietly.

_

The office – or more accurately, the Boys’ hideout – is bustling. MM and Annie are leaning over his laptop, Hughie is peeling newspapers apart with a highlighter in hand, and Butcher is making coffees. You’re stood in front of the whiteboard, making a plan for your next Vought operation. You’re replaying every version of the plan you write, erasing and rewriting until the creases of your fingertips are filled with marker residue. You startle at fingers grazing your lower back. The corner of Butcher’s mouth lifts, and you watch him place a mug on your desk.

“Whiteboard eraser lives over there, y'know.” He gestures to the stand, where it does indeed rest next to the other pens. You roll your eyes playfully.
“I prefer it this way. Helps me think better,” You say. His hand returns to your lower back, fingertips slipping just under the hem of your shirt.
“If you say so.”

-

The surface of your skin glasses with ice as you begin to believe that heat is a myth. Your blood is speckled with shards of the stuff, and Butcher sits on the other side of the sofa. He doesn’t cuddle, you know that — he zips around who knows where all day and knows the sorts of sticky teasing that would seep into the minds of the Boys.

He uses the left armrest of the sofa to keep his head propped up, staring blankly at Vought News as they report another “incident” induced by one of their heroes.

A shiver runs up your spine, teeth knocking against each other as cold sets into your bones.
“What does warmth feel like?” You joke, curling into yourself.
“You’re cold?” His eyes scan your shivering body.
“Aren’t you?”

Butcher shrugs. You scoff in disbelief, a vapour of your breath floating through the air immediately in front of you.
“Unbelievable.”

You turn back to the TV, only for your peripherals to alert you to movement from Butcher; he’s lifted his arm up and opened his coat to you. Your jaw drops, “are you sure?”
“Well, ‘urry up, before I change my mind,” he doesn’t say it meanly. But you close the space between you in a blink and gently settle into his side. The excess of his coat wraps around you, and so does his body heat. His hand squeezes your shoulder and you feel a feather-light kiss to your head.