13: Apples and Oranges

It was mid-morning when Helena woke to the feeling of careful, soothing fingers running through her hair. Cracking her eyes open, she found Butcher next to her in bed. He was awake, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. He looked lost in thought, until Helena reached out to rest a hand on his bare, fuzzy chest.

He looked down at her, his lips quirking at the sight of her soft smile. With a sleepy sigh, she raised herself up and moved to rest her head on his chest.

"Morning," she murmured. Butcher dropped a kiss onto her hair and hummed in response. He smelled minty fresh already, so she decided to follow suit.

She slowly got up and tried to take a throw blanket with her to the bathroom, but Butcher grabbed it from her. She gasped and shot him an annoyed look as she tried in vain to cover herself.

With a lazy grin of amusement, he watched her scurry away naked to the bathroom. The door shut firmly behind her.

Once she'd brushed her teeth and refreshed herself, Helena returned to the bed. She curled up to Butcher's side. His hand dipped down her back, tracing the tattoo he'd gotten to uncover last night. It was a lotus flower in the middle of her upper back.

"This's what you had hiding under all those fancy fuckin' blouses?" he remarked. His fingers trailed around the various petals and a dotted design halfway down her spine.

She shuddered and hid a smile in his shoulder. "That tickles."

"When did you get it?" he asked. His head dipped down and started another burning trail with his lips and tongue, moving down her neck and distracting her from answering.

"The year I moved out of my parents' house," she said. "So 18. Hence the perhaps cliché lotus. But besides purity, it's also a symbol of overcoming adversity."

"Impressive."

She laughed. "Hardly. I screamed like a bitch." Becca had to hold her hand for the first two hours.

Helena then felt the shape of Butcher's smile against her neck as his hand moved to squeeze her ass.

"Think I can make you scream a bit louder," he said. Her skin prickled at the flirtatious depths in his voice.

"Confident, are you?" she teased. Her hand snaked down between their bodies to caress his already hardening dick. He made a pleased sound at the contact—until she grabbed him more firmly, startling a grunt out of him. He grabbed her wrist.

"Oi, oi." He gave her a warning look. "You're a wily one."

She smirked. "I think you like that."

But she giggled and released him for now, and let her hand trail more lazily up his body, resting again on his chest. She needed a little more time to wake up before she started something she'd have to finish.

The problem was, that allowed her penchant for overthinking to set in. She considered what they were doing—what they had done. She couldn't help but think about Becca.

"Is this wrong?" she asked in a smaller voice.

"Does it feel wrong?" he countered, with a challenging cock of his brow.

She sighed. It doesn't. It really doesn't. But that was making her feel all-too guilty.

"Like taking a bite of an assorted chocolate and puttin' it back in the box-wrong?" he asks. "Or—"

She leaned up on her elbows and soothed the back of her hand along his bearded jaw. Her face was contemplative.

"What're you thinking?" he asked.

After a belated beat, Helena smiled. "Nothing, anymore. Just glad you're here."

She never thought this would happen. She had buried that hope so deep, she didn't recognize it the first time he kissed her.

Butcher's expression slid into something more serious. "I'm all kinds of fucked up, Helena."

She raised a brow. "And I'm not?"

"Apples and oranges," he said dryly.

"I don't think so," she argued. "I'm not exactly batting a thousand myself."

She dropped a kiss to his chest, but then she hesitated above him. "Look, if we're trying this, we're not doing it halfway. If you want out, say it now."

His only answer was to kiss her. She shifted, moving to straddle his waist as his hands found her hips. They fell into the familiar pull of one another. But instead of the frantic rush of hands and teeth and tongue, this time is was a slow heat, one that consumed them both.

His fingers sought her wet heat between her legs, and it didn't take much of his touch before she was moaning into his mouth. She impatiently took his length in her hand and slid him home inside of her—a relief to them both. And then she moved, setting a slow and steady rhythm that threatened to drive Butcher insane.

His grip on her hips soon became bruising, but he let her control the pace of their pleasure, and even helped her along the way with a persistent thumb circling her clit. She gasped and shuddered, and soon he felt her core clench around him impossibly tight. It triggered his own release, spilling into her hot and fast.

Thank fucking fuck for the pill, he thought.

With a groan, he sat up and held her to him, with his shaking arms around her like a steel band. Helena held onto the back of his head, her fingers threaded in his hair. She dropped a hand soothingly down his back and muttered grateful words in his ear.

Once she'd mostly recovered her breath, she grinned down at him.

"Eggs or pancakes?" she asked.

His eyes widened a fraction, and then his genuine laugh reverberated through her whole body. It made her feel a little smug, and very warm inside.

"Whatever you want, love."

They wasted the day with a lazy morning and afternoon, until Butcher made a quip that there was nothing to do in an upstate suburban town like this. He didn't know how Helena had been slowly shriveling up out of boredom on the days he hadn't come to see her.

But not willing to tell him that, she scoured her town's local newsletter and persuaded him to go with her to a street fair that was going on at a nearby state park. Butcher didn't look sold by the idea, but as there really wasn't anything else left to do, he begrudgingly agreed to go.

He proceeded to make fun of every piece of art they saw there, calling it "tables of dumpster-diving handmade shit."

"All art is handmade, genius," Helena retorted.

"Come on, now, Hel. That's a shambles." He had the graciousness to whisper to her as he pointed out some metal "postmodern" jewelry. "Shit's probably radioactive."

Helena shushed him and corralled him toward the food trucks. That at least should make him happy.

He stuffed a couple of beef kabobs down his gullet and washed it down with a fried ice cream, even though he remarked, "You Americans. Even your Ben & Jerry's needs to be fried."

Helena smirked and pointed to the Mexican food truck. "Fried ice cream is Mexican, you idiot."

She had already polished off her pistachio and mango parfait, but she was eyeing his honey and chocolate drizzled ice cream with envy.

"Can I try some?" she asked. Butcher eyed her in wary suspicion.

She smiled and tugged on his arm. "Come on, just a lil' tiny bite."

"Yeah, where've I heard that before?" he said. "Not satisfied with that science experiment you got there, now you're tryin' to pilfer mine. Buyer's remorse is a petty bitch, ain't she?"

Her hands snaked up his sides, prodding at areas he wouldn't admit were a bit sensitive. He choked on a mouthful of flaky pastry. "Oi!"

He tried to get away from her down the street, but she giggled and followed persistently, until the heel of her boot wobbled on the uneven curb. His free arm shot out quickly to snatch her back, pulling her flush against him.

"What a clever girl, you are," he mocked. She bit her lip to try not to laugh, but her eyes still went to his plate, then back up to his imploringly.

It brought a smirk to his face, which disguised the swell of affection making his insides warm up, despite the spring chill. He settled on lowering his plate between them without removing the hand splayed across her lower back. She brightened and took a bite of the ice cream and its flaky shell.

Her grin widened in pleasure. "That's hella good, actually."

"Yeah, I know."

She giggled, until her cell phone started ringing. Seeing who it was made her smile fall.

Helena extricated herself from Butcher's hold to answer the call.

"Hi, Dad," she said. Butcher's eyebrows rose a fraction. She gave him a resigned look as she listened.

"Wow, you actually answered," her father said. He sounded wry and genuine in his surprise.

"I know, I'm sorry," she replied. A familiar lance of guilt tightened her spine. But if there was anyone who could spark the wellspring of her guilt, it was Joe Flores.

"How are you? How's Mom?" she asked.

"Fine. Your mom misses you," he said.

"I've just been…busy. I moved out of the city," she said. Butcher raised a brow at her, but she did her best to ignore him. She knew she hadn't been that busy. "I've been working on looking for a new job."

"What?" came her father's shocked reply, this time in Spanish. "Vought fired you?"

"No, I quit," she said, also replying in her native language.

She hadn't, and wouldn't, tell her parents the details surrounding what she'd done at Vought, nor the circumstances around her leaving the company. It wasn't safe for them to know.

"How could you not tell us? And you moved out of the city! Where the hell are you?"

Helena explained that she now lived in upstate New York, that she had moved eight months ago, and she had no intention of going back to the city. Or of moving back home to Miami. Her father was beside himself.

But after a long stretch of uncomfortable silence, Joe finally said, "Can you spare us a visit?"

Helena released an unsteady sigh. It had been a couple of years since she'd seen her parents.

"Your mother…well, she'd like to see you for Christmas, at least."

Emotion rose in her throat, but she attempted to clear it.

"I'll let you know when I can visit. Hopefully soon," she said. And she later hung up with her father feeling spent.

Butcher's hand came to the small of her back. He looked down at her expectantly.

"My parents want to see me," she confessed. He waited for her to continue, sensing that there was a reason she hadn't gone to see them.

"I'm not the same person I was when I left," she said. She'd become a harder person. A weaker person, able to turn a blind eye and work with people who'd committed atrocities in the name of keeping her job. And yes, later her life…but mostly her job.

"Well," Butcher drawled, "I'm not one to judge on that. But I happen to think you came out just fine, considering."

Tears burned in Helena's eyes, but she still leaned up to press a thankful kiss to his cheek. He held her to him. Inside, he wasn't sure how to comfort her, but he supposed he'd said the right thing.

"I want to see my parents," she admitted.

Butcher also wasn't sure what to say to that, so he remained quiet…until a thought occurred to him, curving his lips. He gestured to the rest of the park behind them. The street was still busy with the fair, but there was a public restroom nearby and a children's park—complete with swings and slides.

"Up for a quickie?" he posed. "We could find a nice little spot back there."

Helena's mouth fell open. She was both aghast and amused.

"Are you crazy? There could be kids!" she whisper-shouted.

He raised a brow. "At 8 o'clock at night?"

She shot him a look of exasperation. "I'm not fucking in a dirty public restroom."

Butcher hummed. It wouldn't be the first time he'd fucked in a dirty public restroom.

But he'd successfully distracted her, enough to tease a smile onto her face on the way back to the car. On the drive home, Helena realized something after thinking about her disjointed family.

She knew nothing about Billy Butcher's family. His parents, possible siblings, nothing…

Though actually, she thought she remembered Becca telling her something about a brother.

"Billy," she said. "Where do your parents live? Here, or in England?"

Butcher's shoulders tightened, though she wouldn't have noticed it if she didn't know him so well.

"Back home in jolly old," he said.

"What are they like?" she asked. "I just realized I don't know much about your family. I think Becca told me that you have a brother."

She knew it was a touchy subject by the way Butcher hesitated, and he kept his eyes on the road.

"I'm sorry. If it's—"

"I had a brother," he said. Had, she noted. Helena nodded slowly, but he didn't elaborate.

"I'm sorry," she said. And she meant it. "And your parents?"

Butcher expelled a sigh through his nose. "Mum's all right. Married to a cancer-ridden cunt."

Helena didn't expect the sharpness with which he referenced his father, but she took it in with another nod.

"I see. I'm sorry for that too then."

The car ride became quiet, even uncomfortable as Helena processed his words.

Butcher didn't want her looking at him like that. Like she knew what the fuck was wrong with him now.

"I don't need that," he said.

Her brows furrowed. "What?"

"Whatever you're thinkin' about me. 'How fuckin' pitiful his life must've been.'"

"That's not—"

"Bet you regret asking."

She just looked at him. Really looked at him. "No, I don't."

Butcher met her stare for moment…but he eventually looked away.

It was a sour note to what would've been a rare, brilliant day.

That night, Butcher had too much time in Helena's quiet house to think. Things he'd long ago shoved down now flared to the forefront of his mind.

But he and Helena went through their nightly routines in silence. Both refused to restart their conversation from the car, or in fact, apologize. So they slept in the same bed, still in that no man's land of unresolved tension.

Butcher could deal with that. What he couldn't was the unpleasant nature of his dreams that night.

Really, they were nightmares. Warped memories, and a general feeling of dread.

He woke with a start, sweat broken out across his bare skin. Helena felt his sharp jolt and blinked at him with bleary, concerned eyes.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothin', go back to sleep," he said. When she didn't look convinced, he added, "If it happens again, just wake me up. I'll go back to the guest room."

She frowned, but Butcher turned away from her and tried to relax on his side of the bed. He felt her stare behind him. He just closed his eyes and somehow drifted off again into an unsteady sleep.

When he next woke, he felt his heart racing again. He was in that in-between state of wakefulness and sleep—the reality of a dark and peaceful bedroom, versus the darkness of his dreams.

He then felt gentle hands on his body, warm on his chest and arms. Not heavy ones, bruising his skin, breaking his bones, or forcing a glass of sloshing liquor into his hand. He eventually calmed.

He next woke to sunlight hitting him directly in the fucking eyes. His head rested in Helena's lap with his arm curled around her thigh. His hand moved on reflex to splay across her hip.

She was sat up against the headboard, wearing just one of his less glaring shirts over her underwear. She was also still half-asleep while running her fingers through his hair, and across his back.

"Tell me you didn't fucking sleep like that," he croaked.

Helena didn't open her eyes, but she did smile a little.

"Not all night," she admitted. "But you were having a nightmare."

"Get down here," Butcher said. She slipped down and settled into his waiting arms. "Next time, just kick me outta the fuckin' bed."

Her grin widened. "I do what I damn well please."

He snorted at her cheek. "Fuckin' early to be such a smartass. Go to sleep."

"Make me," she said petulantly. But she inhaled deeply and relaxed against him. Soon enough, she was out like a light.

Butcher waited until then to press a lingering kiss to her forehead. He settled in with her for a while.

She's a mouthy one, all right.

But she was also more than he deserved.

He knew he wasn't a good man. He would probably end up fucking this up, just like he had with Becca. Just by being who and what he was.

But he ignored that persistent reminder. Instead, he carefully left Helena in bed and started getting dressed.

After he'd freshened up, he went downstairs and tried his hand at making breakfast. Helena was typically the cook in the house (only because his attempts were shit and she actually knew what she was doing in the kitchen), but he decided to make an effort.

By the time Helena came downstairs though, she was plugging her nose and looking for a fire.

"What happened?" she said, looking over his shoulder. His failed attempt at eggs were blackened and stuck to the pan. Butcher gave her a wry, self-deprecating look.

"Was hopin' this would be done by the time you came down," he said. A smile twitched at her lips, but she didn't make fun of him, or berate him for probably ruining one of her pans. Actually, she was touched by his attempt to make her breakfast.

"It's okay," she said, rubbing his back. "Your heart was in the right place."

After a moment, Butcher let out a deep breath. He set the pan aside and tucked a hand beneath her chin, stroking with his thumb. She looked damn-near edible, still wearing a rare black shirt of his. He preferred her in red, but black was almost as good.

"You asked me something last night," he said, "about my brother."

She nodded and took his hand in hers. Butcher led her to sit at the breakfast nook, where he told her, with difficulty and sparing detail, about his brother Lenny. He told her why and how he died, with a gun he shouldn't have had and a shitty older brother who should've looked out for him.

It was a story he hadn't spoken aloud since Becca, about a decade ago. And predictably, Helena cried for him. He could tell she was trying to hold back an attempt to comfort him, but she correctly sensed that he was explaining this for her. So she knew. But he didn't need or want anything else about it.

When he was done, she wiped her tears away and squeezed his hand.

"Thank you for telling me."

Even that much made Butcher uncomfortable, but he still nodded. He only didn't quite know where to go from here.

With a suspect sniff, Helena got up and grabbed a new pan from a kitchen cabinet, and the bowl he'd used to crack the eggs. She also got four more eggs, bacon, and a few other ingredients out of the fridge.

"Come 'ere," she beckoned him over. "I'm gunna teach you how to actually scramble an egg."

Butcher smirked, but he still obliged her. "What're you, Gordon fuckin' Ramsay?"

She gave a mocking guffaw. "Excuse me, bitch, I've seen every episode of Hell's Kitchen and Kitchen Nightmares."

"Why don't that surprise me?"

Later, while Butcher was distracted feeding her cat, Helena went upstairs to make a call. The longer it rang, the more nervous she became. She toyed with the hem of her nightgown.

But then, a warm and familiar voice greeted her on the line.

"Helena? Is that you, mi vida?"

Helena smiled. "Yeah, Mom. It's me…how are you?"

"Better, now that I'm hearing your voice."

"Oh, wait a minute!" She turned on the FaceTime setting on her phone. Once Celia Flores answered, it was the first time mother and daughter had seen one another face-to-face in two years.

Tears burned in Helena's eyes once she saw her mom's smile.

"Ah," said Celia. "Much better. How are you, my love?"

"I'm good," Helena said with a little laugh. "I've got a lot to tell you about."