And So It Goes

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7: Best Laid Threats: Part II

M.M. and Hughie stood stiffly in the entryway of her apartment. The latter of the two offered a short wave. "Uh…hi there."

"Hey, Hughie," said Helena. She was damn tired, and now she knew this fucking day was never going to end. He offered an awkward smile, while M.M. had already noticed her "guest" standing behind her.

"Sorry to barge in like this," M.M. apologized, and she believed him. They weren't here for her; the way M.M. kept his gaze firmly over her head told her they were here trying to find Butcher.

She welcomed them in and noted how Butcher had retreated further into her apartment, but there was only so far he could go. Beyond her kitchen and the living room, there was just her bedroom down the hall to the right, and a guest bathroom on the left. Unless he wanted to jump out the window. It was the only one in her living room, centered in the far wall to the right where the side of her apartment building faced the sun. And more apartment buildings.

Helena settled them all on the couch while she rang up for Chinese, but she discreetly watched them from the kitchen.

"Thought you were retiring," Hughie said to Butcher. "Argentina, right?"

"I am," Butcher said, but his tone was sharp. "What're you doin' here?"

Helena held in a sigh. He hadn't told them about Becca. Even when she finished ordering food over the phone, she busied herself with dishes while the three men talked. After those couple of Facetime calls she had with Hughie and Frenchie, she was interested to know how their dynamic actually played out. M.M. was the only one she hadn't "met" (well, besides Kimiko), and this was the first time she was meeting any of the others in person.

From their conversation, she gleaned a few things: M.M. could see through Butcher's bullshit, that much was certain. Even Hughie had come to know Butcher, well enough for the older man to snap at him.

"Look, fun as it is playing twenty questions, I don't have time for this little fuckin' inquisition," he groused. She heard the jangling of the keys in his pocket and frowned.

"Where are you going?" she asked, stopping him at the door. With the headspace he was in, she doubted it was anywhere good. He just frowned at her, his usual gruffness masking any emotion she'd previously been able to see in him.

He couldn't, or wouldn't answer her, and the door trembled when he shut it. Sighing, she turned back to Hughie and M.M.

"You guys like crab Rangoon?" she said wryly.

"Why'd he come here?" said M.M.

"To tell me about Becca," she replied. There was no sense in lying to them, she thought, even if she knew Butcher would rather protect himself behind that nearly impenetrable façade of arrogant stoicism, swearing, and a crass, bordering on sick sense of humor. She still didn't completely understand how he could be that honest with her about Becca—about what he was really going through—if he clearly wasn't with his team.

Maybe…maybe it was because she too had been fighting for Becca to come home.

Because that plan turned out so well, Helena thought. Now fucking what?

"What happened exactly?" M.M. asked. "He's cagey as fuck, and she's obviously not here."

Before Helena could answer, Butcher came storming back into the apartment.

"What—" she started, but he cut her off.

"Close the curtains," he barked.

"They are closed," she said. Following him around the room was making her dizzy again. "What the hell's got your ass on fire?"

Butcher finally looked back at her after carefully shutting the curtains over the only large window in her place. "Black Noir is here, casing your building outside."

She blanched. "Holy shit."

"Fuck," M.M. muttered and leapt to his feet, while Hughie just ran a nervous hand through his hair as he looked between M.M. and Butcher, and finally on her.

She was fucking freaking out. She turned to Butcher with wide eyes. "He couldn't see through the curtain, could he?"

"He's biding his time, waiting for me to come out," he said. "Must've tracked me from Becca's place."

"I have an idea," M.M. said. "Helena, do you have any nails, electrical wiring, pressurized aerosol products?"

"If I have any of that, it'll be in my supply closet. Next to my bedroom," she replied shakily. He nodded at her and disappeared into the hall. She looked up at Butcher.

"But what does Noir think you're doing here with me?" Helena asked, more than a little panicked. "Do you think he's found me out?"

He laid his hands on her shoulders, and he probably could feel her trembling.

"Maybe, but then why didn't he just break in and pick us off?" he reasoned. "Don't lose your head yet, love. We can still play this off for you, at least."

"What the hell do you mean, for me, at least? What about you?" she asked. His grin was a little lackluster. His hands fell away from her.

"Becca's not with me," he said, more for the guys' benefit than for hers. The more relaxed set of his shoulders, compared to how tightly wound he was just a few minutes ago, was suspicious. That, and the way he was talking now made faint alarm bells go off in her head.

Butcher went and dragged over a chair from the dining table to the middle of the living room. She watched him in confusion.

"You…couldn't get her out?" Hughie asked. Butcher searched all the drawers in the place, she didn't know what for. Apparently, he struck gold with a bit of duct tape.

"She didn't want out," Butcher said. He then turned to Helena, stretching out a bit of the tape. She raised a brow at him.

"Unless you're patching up the leaky sink, you'd better put away that fucking tape," she said. She was in no mood for games.

"Here's what we do," Butcher said, smirking a little. "I tie ya up, make it look like we were here for information on Vought. Didn't get what we wanted, and left you here trussed up so you wouldn't have time to call the cops on us. I'll go through the front, you two—out the back."

Helena frowned. "What, so Black Noir can put a bullet in your head before you take one step off the curb?"

"Yeah, you go out there by yourself, you're dead," Hughie said incredulously. Helena just watched Butcher, trying to work out what his angle was.

"So…So that's it?" Hughie said.

Helena turned her wide-eyed gaze onto Hughie. Had he figured it out before her? What the hell is going on?

"Expecting a happy ending, were we?" Butcher replied. The light had gone from his eyes, or rather, his fight had gone.

Helena was more than willing to pick up the slack, as an irrational anger suddenly lit her blood.

She glared at him. "Just what the fuck are you trying to do?!"

She hadn't meant to yell. But once she heard the way her voice bounced off the walls, to no avail when Butcher just stared back at her with that tired face of his, she walked away.

Helena went into her bedroom and hid, like a child, fiercely wiping away hot and frustrated tears from her face.

Not her proudest moment.

She could still hear some of his and Hughie's conversation, though she tried to drown it out with the sounds of whatever M.M. was concocting in the guest bathroom.

I'm knackered, she heard Butcher say. I could use a little lie-down.

She had no right to ask him to live, but she still agreed with Hughie. It was stupid to try and blow himself up at Stillwell's house, and it was stupid to give up here, just because Becca chose to protect her son. She's done that from the beginning of all this, hasn't she?

She didn't go to Billy, or even to Helena when she discovered she was pregnant. She went to Vought. To Stillwell and Vogelbaum.

God, Becks, what the fuck are you thinking? Helena wanted to pull her hair out at the roots. Even if she survived this, she didn't think she could pull off getting a message to Becca. And even then, if her husband couldn't convince her to leave the ranch, then Helena certainly couldn't.

She loves her son, Helena had to reason. For eight fucking years, all she'd probably had was that boy. Yet it was painfully hard to remember that fact when Helena considered what people like her, Billy Butcher, and the rest of Becca's family had gone through since then. What he especially had become.

Still, Helena felt incredible guilt just thinking things like that.

As she stared hard at the floor, she finally focused on what was actually happening, here and now in her apartment. She heard Hughie and Butcher's argument getting more tense.

"I don't need your help." Butcher's voice was low and full of grit. "Jesus, you're fuckin' pathetic. You're so scared of being alone, Hughie. First you latch onto Robin, then Starlight, and now me."

Helena approached her bedroom door that was already cracked open.

"Well you know what, son? I ain't interested," Butcher said. He was being more than his asshole-ish self. This was cruel, and spiteful…

Helena knew he was more than this.

"Look," Butcher said, "just get out of the fuckin' way."

When Helena came back into the living room, she saw that Hughie stood between Butcher and the front door, shaking his head obstinately. It was brave. It was also stupid. Butcher could snap his wiry frame like a pretzel stick.

But would he?

Helena shared a glance with M.M. in the hall, before she continued towards Butcher's back.

"Don't make me move ya," Butcher said, both rueful and a very real threat.

"You can move him," M.M. said. Somehow his voice still startled Helena slightly as he came up behind her. He crossed his arms at Butcher in challenge. "But good luck with me."

Helena looked from M.M. to Butcher, and soon enough his irritated gaze met hers. She wanted to understand him, but she was too fucking angry. He didn't seem to give a shit that any of them cared about him. That she cared.

Helena shook her head at him, blinking against the tears in her eyes. But this time, she just couldn't stop them from coming down. Her lower lip trembled as she tried in vain to keep herself in check.

"I'm not agreeing to this plan of yours unless you promise me one thing," she said. He said nothing, but he hadn't looked away from her yet. "If you want to give up—on Becca, on your friends, and on me, don't you dare do it here."

Butcher shifted on his feet, jaw tensing like he was getting ready to argue. Or just snap at her to mind her fucking business.

She no longer had the patience for any of it.

"I mean it, Billy," she warned. "After everything I've done for you, if you dare die in front of me, I'll fucking kill you."

Well...suffice to say that made a lot more sense in her head.

Much of the bravado she wished she had was sapped away by how shaky her voice was, and the tears slipping down her cheeks. She tried brushing them away. Butcher still didn't answer, but she could see he understood when the firm lines of his face slowly softened, just a bit.

"Now that we got that outta the way, where the hell is this motherfucker?" M.M. wondered aloud. He went to the front door and checked the peephole. Butcher warned Hughie to stay away from the window; meanwhile, he sat her down on the chair and got to work on taping up Helena's wrists together.

"Not so tight," she hissed. It was nearly cutting off her circulation.

"Gotta make it look real," he said. He didn't look happy about it either, and for once didn't tease or give her a cheeky grin. Maybe what she'd said managed to get through to him.

Actually, it was weighing heavily on his mind. She couldn't know it, but Butcher was finding it difficult to get past how goddamn guilty her ultimatum made him feel—like he was missing something. Was it for Becca's sake that she bartered for his life, or did a girl like Helena Flores really give that much of a shit about what happened to a man like him?

"Do you trust me?" He didn't really know why he asked, but that was what came out of his mouth.

Helena's eyes met his. If he accomplished nothing else tonight, he knew he didn't want her to get killed because he made the stupid, rookie mistake of coming here straight from that house.

"I shouldn't, but I do," Helena answered. He kept his expression neutral, even though part of him maybe wanted to smile.

Then, the sound of shattering glass reached them just before the projectile did, starling them both as it rolled across the floor.

"Incoming!" Butcher shouted to Hughie and M.M. He hefted Helena out of the chair and away from the far window and the smoke bomb already burning her eyes. She gasped when he turned her roughly in his arms, her back flush to his chest as Black Noir slipped into her apartment. In order to pull off the rouse, he would have to use her as a hostage.

Black Noir's movements were almost too quick for her to see as Butcher dragged her across the room, but her living room wasn't that big. M.M.'s homemade bombs and Hughie's gun were useless against Noir's armor, and it didn't take long before Butcher played up his part of the act, just before Noir tried to bash Hughie's head in.

"Oi, cunt," he called out at the supe. The other man's head silently turned towards them, and Butcher's arm slid across Helena's chest to pull her in tight. His gun cocked right by her head, and in that moment, her panic was absolutely real. Instinctively she grappled with Butcher's strong arm and struggled, feeling the phantom of Homelander's grip. She gasped, the air suddenly tight in her lungs.

Her heart thudded wildly, but she forced herself to calm down, even if she didn't have to look calm. He's doing this for you. So you don't really get fucking killed.

Helena focused on the actual feeling of Billy Butcher. He wasn't impossibly iron solid like Homelander. Butcher's hold was strong, but not painful. Never had been painful. Never was painful with him.

She breathed deeply, in and out through her nose. Her fingers curled around his forearm.

"How's about we settle this like gentlemen," Butcher continued. Out of the corner of her eye, Helena could see him wave his gun in a cavalier sort of way. "I'm sure Vought doesn't wanna look for a new stooge to play hide the bishop with your investors, so let's all calm down a tick. I'd rather not have to split her skull on a brand new fuckin' shirt."

Helena shuddered, though she was tempted to kick her heel back in a sensitive place of his for that "hide the bishop" remark. She settled for glowering at him, like the mere sight of him disgusted her. In some ways, it wasn't all that much of a stretch.

She cast what she hoped was a desperate look at Black Noir. "I didn't tell them anything," she pleaded. Butcher pressed the gun to her head, and she shut her eyes at the shock of cold metal. She trembled. But he'd asked her to trust him, and she did. Unfortunately.

"You kill him, and you can kiss your fucking career goodbye," Butcher threatened. Black Noir seemed to contemplate listening to Butcher, or continuing with the long knife in his hand, hovering a mere foot over Hughie's chest.

"I got photos of Vought's dirty little secret," said Butcher, "my wife's son. Homelander's son. Now you lay one fucking finger on any of us, and those photos go out of the cloud and into Ronan Farrow's inbox. Then the whole world will know that Homelander is nothing but a filthy fucking rapist, and Vought has been hiding his little laser-eyed bastard."

Black Noir straightened, sheathing his knife. He approached Butcher and Helena, and she could feel the wall of muscles pressed against her body tense up. The gun moved from her head, to her immediate relief, and pointed straight at Noir.

"Now," Butcher said. "You cunts went through a lot of trouble to keep that a secret. I reckon you might wanna keep it that way."

Faster than Helena could even comprehend, Noir's hand shot out and knocked the gun from Butcher's hand. It went off, and Helena screamed as she was shoved away and to the floor, since her bound hands couldn't adequately support her. By the time she looked up, Black Noir had Butcher by the throat and was carving a dent into her wall.

Hearing him choking, she scrambled to her knees and tried to stand, but a sharp glance from M.M. stopped her from where he kneeled on the floor beside Hughie.

Then, Black Noir's phone rang. "Hallelujah" from Handel's Messiah cut through the near silence, and he brought the phone to his ear. The receiver was loud enough for Helena to hear the familiar voice of her boss. Noir pressed a button on the phone before Mr. Stan Edgar could be heard on speaker.

"Helena, are you unhurt?" he asked. She blinked in surprise, but she answered as steadily as she could.

"Yes, sir. I'm…" She swallowed. "I'm fine."

"Good," said Stan. "Mr. Butcher."

"Oh. Hello, cunt," Butcher gritted out.

"How can I be sure you actually have the proof of which you speak?"

"You can't." Butcher smirked. "Roll the dice. I'd reckon he'd be more popular than Meghan and Harry's little sprog."

"Here's my first and final offer," Stan replied. "That information never sees the light of day, and I'll call off Black Noir."

"All right," Butcher agreed. "You got yourself a deal. Want to shake on it?"

"I suggest you get moving. Noir will remain until you have vacated Miss Flores's apartment."

Once Noir let go of Butcher, allowing him to fall gracelessly onto the ground and gasping for breath, Noir took the phone off speaker and, after swiftly cutting her binds, handed the phone to Helena. With a shaking hand, she pressed it to her ear while M.M. helped Hughie, and then Butcher off the floor.

"Yes?" She took Noir's offered hand and slowly got back onto her feet. Her gaze followed the guys until only Butcher was left in her doorway, chancing a glance at her over his shoulder. Then the door was shut firmly behind them.

"What information were they after?" Stan asked. Helena sat heavily on her couch, taking in the sheer destruction that had ravaged her home.

"What did they want, Helena?"

The demanding tone startled her, and not just out of her thoughts. Her hands were shaking now from her nerves, or more likely from shock.

"Th-They…just wanted to know more about Compound V," she lied. "Anything the media might've left out. And if we were secretly behind the supe terrorists."

"What exactly did you tell them?"

With only some minor fumbling he could excuse from the stress she'd endured, Helena went into a convoluted account of how she'd tried to misdirect them with false information, and how Black Noir intervened before they could start trying to force the truth out of her. She believed Stan Edgar bought her story, mostly. At least, he didn't order Black Noir to off her right then and there.

When she was finally alone, she contemplated the near-bruising ache across her chest; the strength in Butcher's grip when he'd held her. While she knew it had been an act, she hated the small part of her that had been afraid of him. She understood then what he'd been capable of when he first knocked on her door all those months ago.

Even so, his actions had protected her. She was alive, and so was he.

For now, that was enough for her.

An abrupt knock at the door made her jump badly. She blinked, confusion and apprehension warring inside her.

Another knock, more insistent, made her get off the couch. She picked carefully between the broken glass and other debris until she could open the front door. There stood a familiar deliveryman from Garden China Bistro, and two large plastic bags full of takeout cartons.

"Three shrimp lo mein, house fried rice and crab rangoon?" he asked, smiling cheerfully.

Helena took the bags numbly and found the cash tip she'd left out, undisturbed on the kitchen counter.

If nothing else, she had rangoon.

(And enough lo mein to last her the whole rest of the week.)