I do not own any of the PPG characters. Rated 'M' for violence, swearing, and hinted sexual situations.
It would have been calm morning.
The breeze would have kissed the pale marble of Buttercup's cheek as she shifted to peer at her male counterpart, her mint-tinted eyes calmly judging his movements as he lifted himself from the aging bed the two shared. She would have touched his arm, perhaps. Or, had the occasion shifted in the slightest, she could've struck it into a clotted fracture.
Butch wouldn't have minded either situation.
But that Buttercup - the aggravated yet stunning girl with the pale complexion, the erupting nature tinged with violence and hunger that made her who she was, was gone. In her place, a mere metre from Butch's standing point, stood an utter stranger. A slight smile tinged her well-sculpted face, void of emotion despite the slight upper curve of the full, crimson lips Butch recognized so well.
But they weren't hers, not anymore. The Buttercup he'd shared a bed, a passion with; the Buttercup that snarled with emotion-fuelled fury when she was pinned against a wall, the scent of dust and their blood mixing in the air as she declared with a glorious shriek that he should 'fucking die'. She had been replaced, and what the harpy, his harpy, had left behind was asimple, hollow shell – a curved body draped in the remains of week-old clothing, a tattered emerald and onyx symbol of what had been. And that smile still stood, not a trace of it apparent in the eyes that traced him in a near-comatose state, following even the slightest twitch of his fingers. On her wrist, a slight glint appeared as the clouds reflected off of the small ruby pendant that still dangled from Buttercup's arm, several gems missing and the silver it was fashioned from caked over in mud. It had been a gift, haphazardly thrown in Buttercup's direction in a fashion mostly used to inflict damage. They, Butch and Buttercup, had been arguing; he'd spent their rent money on booze and condoms, a monthly occurrence. The pendant was bought subsequently - it hadn't even been a gift, so to speak. He'd wanted to piss her off; kindly come up to her like those prissy movie scenes and say 'Sorry, hun' as he held the jewellery up to her face. To show her that she couldn't accept apologies, that she wasn't even a fucking woman. But it never happened, after a bitter brawl and the desperate sex afterwards, he was floored to have found it dumbly dangling from her wrist the next morning. It had never come off afterwards, and he never commented on it's original purpose.
Now, Butch smiled bitterly.
"So this is it, then?" He said, quietly. Buttercup did not respond – she couldn't, not anymore. Fourteen days ago, just fourteen days, she'd sat at the edge of their bed, her silken-black bra strap still hanging loosely from her shoulder from the previous night's activities. She had touched the still raw scratches Butch had inflicted during their sessions, muttering quietly in that lily-soft voice she had that she was beginning to doubt herself. The shadows, she'd said, wouldn't stop returning. She couldn't hold them back anymore; she didn't care about Townsville, or her sisters. She didn't care about Butch.
And he'd said, clear as fucking day, that he didn't give a shit. She'd been warning him of the blankness, the lack of emotion she'd been experiencing for the past month. He'd witnessed the lack of a spark in her eyes himself; he'd been bewildered when she didn't hit him back. His own pale jade eyes had watched as her inner darkness had devoured her. But he'd never cared, he'd never believed enough. It was Buttercup, and she was inertly good.
She was good.
Violent, strong, but good. And no matter how silent she grew, no matter how his hits were diminishing in returns, she would win over this challenge. That was just how it happened, in every fucking movie, in every fucking story ever recited to a growing child. Darkness, inner or outer, never got the best of a hero. Deep inside, it was all Butch could believe. Deep inside, he couldn't lose her.
Ah, how Butch just wished he would have believed. But there was no time for that, not anymore.
"I spend a long time waiting, ya know?" He muttered again, receiving the same flicker of Buttercup's irises in his direction. He might've seen her mouth twitch, just slightly. "An' I know this is all shit to you and everything since you're basically a fucking zombie, but hey, my last words, right?"
Buttercup shifted her weight onto her right leg. A light breeze shifted a lock of obsidian hair over the pale curve of her nose.
"Right, uh. Well just so ya know and everything, and this might be a bit of a shock, but I haven't gotten with another broad or anything. Surprise, my dick's branded as your dick! ...Just been looking for you, actually. From the fucking damage you've done to the city, it should've been a snap to find you. But you're quick for a walking vegetable, can't say I expect anything different though with those athlete's legs." Butch cast a faint grin. The Buttercup in front of him made no change of motion, but a small flicker passed in front of Butch's eyes, whispering like a distant memory. His Buttercup; she would've rolled her eyes, would've bitten or trashed him. And after the blood had settled, those rose-lips of hers would curve into that signature glorious smirk, and she'd lower her head to his ear, whispering a faint, "Fuck you.", before dragging his pained body to their abused flat and riding him with all the hidden power that her thin frame could muster. It would've been painful, it would've been utterly amazing, and it would've been the best night of his life all over again. He'd call her weak, a dyke, after she'd nestled against his side in the afterglow – he'd never admit that he would give anything for that body to never leave the contact of his. And then they would start again.
The breeze blew once more, and Butch noted the faint trace of an oncoming storm in the damp scent of the invisible line.
"I won't lie, Butts. I miss you, I fucking miss you. God, I miss you like hell, and I'll repeat it again. I'd give my balls to hear you call me a pussy again, shit, I'd give my balls for you to call me anything." Silence, the smallest step towards Butch's direction. "But I guess this is it. Ya know, I'd never tell you, but it's been a real time. Everyone I've known, you've known me the best. Fuck, you trump my brothers. Your trump every other broad. I guess that's why I'm here; once you've had the best, you can't handle the rest. ..I guess, ", he paused. "I guess I love yah."
Butch gave a faint grin, a first and true hint of saddness casted about his sacrcastic face. For the first time in his twenty-three years, no smirk played his lips. His arms, toned as they were, dangled limply at the sides of his loosened shirt.
Butch's jeans ruffled as his knees gave the slightest bend.
His eyes, a shimmering shade of the purest jade, fluttered closed.
Mouth opened ever so slightly, Butch tasted the subtle sweetness of a pre-storm's draft, dragging his tongue once over the cracked cascade of his lower lip.
And then, he charged.
A bellow ripped from his maw, echoing across the empty Townsville Boulevard; "You've kept me waiting, too fucking long. Take me one more time, you little bitch."
In one sudden burst of movement, Buttercup flew across the remaining distance that separated them. Butch smiled against the wind, he could see her, now – in the slightest movements of her wrists, the way her hips swerved as she readied for impact. In the twinkling of that pendant that dangled from her wrist pendant. In the instinct-driven casing that remained, the smallest traces of Buttercup began to make themselves known.
Butch raised his arm in the midst of his charge, mocking a hit that he was never going to make. All he was simply doing was provoking the creature he was pitted against, a fruitless bait for her to tear into the chemical-powdered workings that were his body.
This was his final performance, and he wouldn't even fight.
Buttercup streamed towards Butch, taking her prey in a soundless twist, the smile that he had found her with still sitting calmly on her empty features. Five slim fingers wrapped around his broad wrist, pulling hard. Buttercup could've been laughing, pulling him with characteristic roughness to a routine night out.
Her pendant gave a crystalline ring as the segments bumped together in her motion.
And the sound of grinding metal penetrated the air. Butch made no sound as his right arm rocketed to the side, giving a hollow thump and flecking crimson as it collided with a previously unstained brick wall. Almost like a child's ball rebounding after a missed shot at play; "Get it over with, you fucker."
As if in response, another arm departed from Butch's frame, followed by a meaty chunk from the leftmost portion of his body. The sound of tearing flesh was softer this time, more subtle. Like the muted pop of a can's metallic lid when they'd shared it under a blazing, evening sun.
His eyes were still fluttered shut.
In a muddled haze, Butch felt a pair of hands grasp the sides of his face, as gentle as the batted wings of two doves. The skin was smooth as a grecian urn, soft and warm against his cheeks. For a moment, it seemed like Buttercup was about to kiss him; he could sense her gaze, calm and unfocused. Her breath hit against his forehead, gentle and inviting.
There was no pain, not anymore.
The goodbye was short in his head, just the single word being echoed over and over. A smile caressed Butch's face – he was stroking Buttercup's cheek and her face had curled into the smallest of smiles; he was stretched out against an inviting pavement, lacerations from those hand beams of hers running the length of his body; he was there, with her. The real her.
For the first time in his life, an individual tear rolled down the side of Butch's face, humble and silent as it crashed into the red-stained pavement below.
His head gave a slight clunk as it rolled a small ways down the street, the tangled mess of black hair slowing its pace as it tangled with the nearby gravel.
A light rain was falling. Somewhere in the conscious world, a ruby-studded pendant bounced against the unconscious hip of an obsideon-haired girl.