And here we go! It's like I'm oozing Butler/Minerva fanfiction. Actually, that's kind of a gross simile. Oh well. And, in case you were all wondering, my contract ends this Sunday! I will have a life again! Seriously, never work in the events circuit, guys. Just say no! Being an adrenalin junkie is like a heart attak for your social life.

Anyway. Ilex-ferox is a fabulous beta. Also, this is the second to last chapter! Wahoo! And I have to admit, I'm really, really fond of Minerva in this chapter.

The Third Year

"Since when do you smoke? I thought you hated cigarettes."

"Since my mother left us. And all covert smokers want people to think they hate cigarettes."

"Those things kill you."

"So does being alive." It amazed him that she could say things like that without a trace of melodrama, as though she were simply stating a fact. It was probably because she was French. Or maybe because she was fifteen. You could get away with a lot at fifteen.

"I thought you were smarter than that."

Laughing, she tapped ash onto the concrete. "I am. I'm so much smarter than that that I've come full circle. Besides," she gave a Gallic shrug, "I'm French. It's our national pastime."

"You never struck me as one to play to stereotypes."

Blowing out smoke in a thin stream, she smiled. "We all have our little foibles, Butler."

"Does your father know?"

"What do you think?" She shot him a look over the glowing tip of her cigarette.

"Too scared to tell him?"

"I'm not scared of anything, least of all my father." Minerva sat up straight, raising her chin. Her head tilted back, as though weighed down by the mass of her hair.

Butler snorted, suddenly fed up with her. With her arrogance, with her play-acting, as though she didn't care what anyone thought of her. In that respect, she was just like Artemis. And he was fed up with Artemis as well, still, after all these years. "Why show me, then? You wouldn't have done it if you didn't want me to know. Do you think it impresses me? Think it makes you look like an adult? Yes, you're all grown up now, Minerva. You've gone and become even prettier and even cleverer and now you smoke to boot. What'll it be next? Hangovers? Thuggish boyfriends? You think you're so suave and mature. For heaven's sake, I saw your hands shake when you lit up. It's a farce, Minerva, you're not an adult, you barely got to be a child. And trust me, there's more to being grown-up than a big vocabulary and a smoker's cough."

He expected her to get angry. He wouldn't have blamed her. He was being a jackass. But, for some reason, the idea of her lungs filling up with tar, and her white teeth decaying, and her dying of lung cancer in some dingy hospital room, sent him over the edge.

"You think I'm pretty, Butler?" she asked instead, and her blue eyes pinned him down. They weren't the blue he combed the streets for, but somehow they were just as powerful.

"I – what?" he said, frowning.

"You said I'd become even prettier. Did you mean that? Do you think I'm pretty?" There was something in her voice that made him pause. And besides, what did you say to that? A lie would have been insulting, but the truth – well, what was wrong with the truth anyway? It was the truth.

"Of course I do, Minerva, you're beautiful," he told her.

She beamed at him, her blue eyes turning soft and light. And, as quickly as it had come, his frustration melted away. Reaching over, he took her free hand, by way of apology. Her fingers disappeared in his, but she somehow managed to squeeze them, to let him know she understood.

They sat that way until the sun was fully set and the outside air grew chilly. Dropping her cigarette to the pavement, she ground it out with the toe of her patent-leather boot. "My hands shook because I was afraid, afraid that you'd be angry," she said. "But it's part of who I am and, stupid or not, I don't want to hide anything anymore. Not from you."

She didn't say anything when he opened the door, just threw herself into his arms, already crying.

"Jesus – what the – Minerva! What's the matter?" He was itching to check for broken bones, but he got the feeling the hurt lay elsewhere. Gently, he shoved the door shut with his foot to keep out the winter rain. "What's wrong? Dis-moi."

Sometimes, they spoke in French when she came to visit, and sometimes they spoke in English. He was fluent, though his accent was of a decidedly different class. He thought French would be more comforting.

"No, no, no. In English, it's easier for me in English. I don't want – not in my mother tongue." She raised her face from his crumpled shirt front and there was a bruise under her left eye. "English makes it farther away from me. As though it happened to someone else."

If he'd been anxious before, Butler was now definitely worried. "As though what happened? And what happened to your face? And how did you get here? I wasn't expecting you until next month. You're not being chased are you?" Instinctively, his hand edged towards his gun.

"No." She managed a watery laugh, "I'm not being chased, Butler. I flew here and rented a car in Dublin."

"They let you rent a car? You don't look a day over fifteen."

"I do have fake ID, Butler."

"Yes, but still! And in this weather!" Right on cue, thunder rumbled in the distance.

"Butler–" But, looking up at his indignant expression she gave up and just laughed. It was a pathetic sort of laugh, however, and didn't make either of them feel any better.

Pushing her wet hair off her face, careful of her bruise, he tried a smile. "Tea?" he offered.

"Please."

He let her compose herself on the couch while he fiddled with the electric kettle and the teabags.

"I was in London with a friend," she said, while he was pouring the water. "A – a male ... friend."

He got out the mugs in silence, but his reflection in the rainy window pane was murderous.

"He's in one of my university courses, so he's a bit older. We get – we got - along very well. He's very smart."

"Aren't they all," muttered Butler under his breath.

"He invited me to go to London with him for the weekend." Minerva looked up at him as he set the tray down on the low table. Their eyes met and Butler wanted to kill something.

"What happened?"

"We went to London." She tried to laugh again, but it didn't come out quite as she'd hoped. "We went to London and ... and ... Today was fine. It was lovely, really it was." She licked her lips, "It's just, afterwards, after we'd had dinner and we went back to the hotel and I thought we were really just going to have coffee – we had separate rooms, after all – and coffee, Butler! God, I must be the stupidest girl that's ever lived. I fell for the putain coffee line."

"He didn't want to have coffee," Butler said.

"He didn't want to have coffee," Minerva agreed. She put her hands to her mouth.

"Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head, "Only a little, grabbed me, that's all. Nothing – nothing bad." She covered the bruise on her cheek with a hand. "And I – I got away before anything happened. I did like you taught me. I think I nearly popped out one of his ... his ... his eyeballs." Her lips trembled uncontrollably. "I was so scared, Butler."

"Minerva – oh Jesus – Minerva, don't worry, it's alright now, you're safe." He came over to the couch, lowering himself onto it gently so as not to frighten her. With one arm, he tucked her to his side, the other coming up to stroke her hair. His voice was soft and low. "It's alright, you're safe here, Minerva."

She curled into him, crying again. He kept talking in that low, gentle voice, though what he said or for how long they stayed like that, he had no idea. He was too busy thinking about the slowest ways he knew to dismember someone.

"Butler," she said eventually, her voice cracking a little, "I want to hurt him. I know that's probably wrong, but I don't care. I want him to be a-afraid like I was."

For a moment Butler didn't say anything. He knew, as the adult, as a man who had spent his whole life learning control, that he should talk her out of this. But he was also a man who had spent his whole life learning to protect; learning to kill in order to do so. He was a weapon, and what was the point of learning something if not to use it? She was under his protection, after all, and there were people who needed to be made aware of that.

"How long will he be in London?" he asked.

Minerva sat up, staring at him. "Butler ... you would do that? For me?"

"I was told to look after you, remember?"

"Don't you think," voice neutral, she chose her words slowly, "that this may be a bit above and beyond what Artemis meant?"

"Probably," agreed Butler. "But I'm not too worried about that at the moment, to tell you the truth."

"Oh," she said in a very small voice. Then, stronger, "To London, then?"

"To London. But I'm driving."

She laughed, but the hand she laid in his still shook.

In a crisp suit and tie, Butler felt almost like his old self as they strode across the hotel lobby. Still too hairy, but there you were.

The boy was sleeping when they entered his bedroom. Sprawled out on top of his sheets, long legs lolling in every direction. In the dim light of the streetlamps through the window, Butler could see that he was handsome. Tall, dark-haired, pale. He reminded Butler of someone. He glanced over at Minerva; her face was hard, her lips pressed so tightly together they were nearly invisible.

Butler slapped the boy awake.

"Putain de merde! Qu'est-ce qui s'passe? Qui es-tu? Minerva? Quoi?" He floundered in his sheets, looking from Minerva to Butler and back again, dark eyes wide, the left one swollen.

"Does he speak English?" Butler asked Minerva, as though asking about the weather. She nodded.

"Excellent." Butler took off his jacket, hung it neatly on a nearby chair and began to roll up his sleeves.

"Minerva–" The boy started. Butler slapped him again. Not hard. Not compared to what he could do.

"No," the bodyguard said mildly, "you will not speak to her."

"What – who are you?" The boy began to edge away from the towering man at his bedside. Butler plucked him out of the bed and set him on his feet.

"I'm a friend of Minerva," Butler said. "One you should have thought about before you assaulted her."

"Assault – assault – I didn't –she – is that what she told you? She – she came back to my room!"

"She's fifteen, you asshole," Butler slapped him again. "She didn't know any better."

"She wanted me," the boy staggered under Butler's hand, clutching his cheek.

"Oh yes? So much so that you needed to slap her around a bit before hand?" Another slap.

"No, I– please– please, I'll never touch her again– please–"

"You've certainly got that right, you'll sure as hell never touch her again. You so much as look at her, and I'll know about it." This slap sent the boy to the ground. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes, but–please– Minerva–" He turned, looking up at her, looking for forgiveness.

Half lit by the streetlights, half in shadow, Minerva watched him and said nothing.

"I thought I had made it clear," as though the boy were a fly, Butler sent him sprawling again, "that you don't get to speak to her."

"But–"

"Sh. Listen." Butler pulled the boy up by the collar, "Just think of it this way – what's his name, again?"

"Tomás," she said.

"Spanish, are you?" Butler asked the boy.

"My mother is. Galician."

"That's nice." He hit him again. "Well, Tomás, look at it this way: now you know that no means no, don't you? And isn't that a handy lesson to have learned?" Another slap and Tomás' nose was gushing blood down his front. "Because now that you've learnt your lesson, you won't go around assaulting," another slap, "young girls again, will you? And then," slap, "you won't have to worry about irate fathers," slap, "brothers," slap, "or various other larger and stronger friends and relatives coming to do this to you in the dead of night, will you?" He threw him against the wall. "Will you?"

"N-n-n-n-no," Tomás agreed. He shook his head and blood flew. Butler stepped back, out of the spray.

"Excellent," said Butler, "then let's get started, shall we?"

"Started?" Tomás squeaked at the same time Minerva said, "Stop."

Butler looked over at her, eyebrows raised. "Are you sure?"

"Y-yes." She nodded once. "I – this is enough."

"Alright," Butler said evenly. He cocked his head, looking at Tomás leaning against the wall, his long legs shaking and his face puffy and bloody. He knew he should feel pity, maybe self-disgust, but all he felt was contempt.

"If you tell anyone," Minerva came to stand next to Butler, "I won't say stop next time."

Tomás said nothing, but his body convulsed.

In silence, Butler gathered up his jacket and ushered Minerva out, a hand on her back, like a perfect gentleman.

On the plane, she put her hand in his. "Thank you," she said.

He looked over at her. "I don't want to do that again," he said. His conscience was beginning to catch up with him. Or maybe it was the boy's blue eyes.

"You won't. That was ... I ... thank you, Butler."

"You're welcome." He paused, looking out the window at the passing clouds. "I would though, if I needed to. Do it again."

"I know," she said. "I am a very lucky girl."

"That's one way of looking at it," Butler chuckled. "By the way, was it coincidence?"

"Was what coincidence?"

"His looks."

"Oh. You noticed."

"Yes, I noticed. I thought you said that infatuation was long gone."

"No, it wasn't a coincidence and yes, it is. I just wanted to see – I wanted to see what it would be like. Curiosity killed the cat, like you said."

"Tomás isn't Artemis."

"Obviously. Though, even then, I just don't think he's my 'type." Her smile was small and turned inward, as though she was sharing a secret with herself.

"No? And what is?" Butler asked, playing along.

"Oh, well, I think I'd prefer someone more lasting. Someone a little ... stronger. Less flashy, more useful."

"Artemis is very useful," Butler replied, vaguely indignant.

Minerva laughed, resting her head on his shoulder. "For certain things, he'd be the best, to be sure. For others," she yawned, "not so much."

"He is a terrible cook," Butler agreed, patting her hair absentmindedly. "And not so useful in a fight, but still I–" He looked down and saw that she was smiling in her sleep.

"I know you're trying to fit in with the villagers, Butler, but, please, have you looked in a mirror lately?" Sighed dramatically, Minerva tugged a hank of his hair forward into his line of sight with the air of an agrieved wife. "I mean, vraiement, do you see these split ends? They're breaking my heart!" she pouted.

"I didn't realise you were so invested in my hair."

"I'm invested in you. I don't like seeing you go to seed like this."

"I'm not going to seed! It's camouflage."

"Really."

Butler tilted his head so he could see her where she stood behind him, eyebrows raised expectantly. He rolled his eyes. "What do you want me to do about it, Minerva?" he asked, resigned.

"Let me cut it."

"Let – you cut hair?" he asked doubtfully.

"I will have, once I've cut yours." She smiled winningly.

"Ah."

"It would be ... educational," she coaxed.

"Educational is certainly one word for it, yes."

"Well, I certainly can't make it look worse than it already is," she pointed out.

"Ouch," he said.

"The truth hurts, Butler," she answered primly.

"If you're bored, there's always Chinese Checkers," he offered without much hope.

She pouted again.

"Oh, alright, alright. There are scissors in the drawer by the sink."

She clapped her hands once and hugged him from behind. "Thank you!" she said, kissing the crown of his head before running to get the scissors.

Butler sighed. But how does one say no to a girl like that?

The finished product wasn't, Butler had to admit, all that bad. Actually, it was quite impressive for a first attempt.

"Well done," he told her.

"Thank you," she said, as smug as ever. Then, tenderly, she reached forward, tucking a runaway strand behind his ear. After worrying her lip for a few seconds, she said, "I've been missing you lately, hidden away under all that hair."

Three months before her sixteenth birthday she showed up unexpectedly in the middle of the night.

"Minerva? Has something happened? Are you – you've been drinking." His concern turned to puzzlement, then suspicion. "You didn't drive here, did you?"

"Nope! Caught a taxi. But, yes," her voice turned solemn, "yes, I have been. Drinking, I mean. Liquid courage, Butler!" She stumbled on his doorstep.

Catching her arm, he guided her towards the closest chair and forced her to sit. "A taxi all the way from town? Jesus, Minerva. Just what are you needing to be brave for way out here?"

Head lolling, she giggled, the tail end of her laughter rising towards hysteria. "That's exactly the question, Butler. Exactly the question!

"Yes, that would be why I asked it," Butler agreed, making to let go of her arm.

"No!" she said, grabbing onto his wrist, her voice suddenly sharp. "I know you want to make me tea but just ... just wait a minute, Butler. I haven't answered your question."

Butler left his hand on her arm. "Well?"

She opened her mouth, paused as though struck by a sudden thought, then said, "No. Actually, go make that tea. Can I answer it tomorrow?"

"Minerva, what –"

"No, I promise, this will make sense tomorrow. It's just – I thought I wouldn't be able to do it, so I had something to drink. And then more somethings. But I don't want to be drunk when I say this. I want to be stone-cold sober. It's just ... I was – I am - so afraid you'll ... No. Tomorrow."

"Afraid I'll what?"

"Afraid you won't want me." She blinked, realising what she'd said, and her hands flew to her mouth.

"Minerva," Butler backed away in a hurry, "what are you talking about?"

"Oh God," she groaned. "This is really not how this was supposed to happen."

"How what was supposed to happen?"

"This! This whole thing. I was going to be much more sophisticated than this. Not that I thought you'd like that better, but it would make me feel more in control. Because if you don't want me then – then – God, I think it would actually break my heart. Literally, I mean. Into very small pieces. I know that's a physical impossibility without an implement of some sort, and probably an awful lot of hacking, not to mention blood, but I really believe-"

"Minerva–" Butler interrupted her rambling, having backed himself up as far he could go. She focused on him abruptly, liquid eyes dark in the dim lights. Her eyes met his and she smiled, but it was sad. He couldn't bring himself to look away.

One hand on the table to steady herself, she rose shakily from her seat and crossed the floor towards him.

"Just let me do this one thing," she whispered, her voice very calm, like a lion tamer who has lost his whip. "Just this, and then you can say what you like, alright?"

"Minerva–" he began again, but then she kissed him, and whatever would have followed was lost.

She expected him to push her away. She expected him to be disgusted. He was such a revoltingly good person she couldn't see how she'd ever convince him. Instead, his hands came up to cradle her face and, even if he didn't press the matter, he certainly didn't throw her off him.

"Your beard tickles," she said when she pulled away.

"Do you know how many laws I just broke and that's all you have to say?"

"I've never known you to take issue with breaking laws before. Besides, I'm legal in France."

"This is a bit different, Minerva. And we're not in France."

"I love you," she said, baldly. She was tired of beating around the bush, and it wasn't as if she had anything left to lose.

"Minerva," he tried to collect himself, "Minerva, you're a child, you-"

"Don't, Butler. You could have pushed me away. And don't say you did it to spare my feelings, that's just insulting."

He looked at her, her face still in his hands. "I hadn't intended to."

"Good." She swallowed, tilting her head up defiantly, always defiantly. Watching, he couldn't help but smile.

"We can't do this," he said. His voice was gentle.

"Do you love me?" And hers was hard.

"That's not the issue here."

"That's exactly the issue here."

"Minerva, you're still drunk."

"No, I am not. Besides, I told you I didn't want to do this now, that I wanted to wait until morning. I'll kiss you again tomorrow, if that will make you believe me. Trust me, I don't mind doing it again."

He chuckled, pushing her hair off her face.

"Look," she placed both hands on his chest for emphasis, "I've thought this all out–"

"Of course you have."

"Don't be sarcastic, I'm being serious."

"Minerva, you're not even sixteen yet. This is a crush. You don't want me. I'm three times your age and tied to someone else. I am old and broken. You need someone young and whole."

"No," she said, "I need someone who will love me like I deserve to be loved."

"Artemis–"

"You don't need to be next to me to be with me, Butler. And I know this seems like some silly infatuation, but do you remember that time that I said I'd found someone better than Artemis and you laughed at me for being so serious?"

Butler paused, not seeing the connection. "Yes."

"I was talking about you."

He blinked. "But that was months – years - ago."

"Exactly."

"Minerva, we can't do this." His words were clear, but his voice wasn't certain.

"I'm not asking if we can, I'm asking if you want to. I'm asking if you want me. I'm asking if you love me. Because I've made a concerted effort to see if I want anyone else and I really don't. I want you. And that's it. That's all. Don't make me kidnap you."

He laughed, as she had wanted him to, before growing serious once more. "One misadventure in London is hardly a concerted effort to–"

"Do you seriously think that's the only person I've had come after me in the past three years? I'm not so ugly as that. None of them ... measured up." Her lips twitched.

"You went to London with Tomás. You must have at least been interested."

"I was, a little. He reminded me of Artemis, who reminds me of you. And stop trying to sidetrack me. Do you love me or not?" She put up such a brave front, if you knew her well enough to recognise it. Butler smiled as he watched her jut out her chin to try to hide the way her lower lip trembled. He ran his thumbs under her eyes.

"Of course I do. You know I do."

She made a very small sound in the back of her throat. "Thank you," she said weakly, swallowing hard. And, in an instant, her courage dissolved and she threw her arms around his neck, her body shaking. "Mon Dieu, I was so s-scared you'd say no because you'd think it was wrong or you wouldn't want me and you'd send me away and what would I have done w-without you and I really don't care if you love Artemis more than me but I just– I–" For the first time in her life she ran out of things to say and so she just kissed him. He laughed under her lips.

"Don't laugh at me, I was very worried," she frowned at him when she pulled away.

"So I noticed," he smiled. He kissed her forehead gently. "Don't be, I'd never send you away."

"Thank you, Butler."

"You keep saying that."

"It bears repeating."

She tilted her face up for another kiss and, smiling, he obliged.