~ 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐿𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝒫𝑜𝑒𝓉 ~

“Cheeky little..” A slight half grin had already started tugging at the corners of his lips.

“That’s a good girl..”

Wrapping his arms and jacket more around her to shield her from the cold, the raven-haired Brit continued doing his best to keep being as gentle as possible so he wouldn’t aggravate her injured paw even more. “Yer gonna be alright, girl.. Take it easy. Nobody’s gonna ‘urt ya again.” He kept his voice soft and quiet, barely over a whisper. “Don’t ya worry ‘bout a thing, Sweet’eart, I’ll find ‘hoeva did it ‘n make ‘em 𝙥𝙖𝙮 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙮 fer it.”

The second she yanked her injured paw away after that twitch of pain — Butcher froze. Immediately taking a sharp intake of breath, he slowly let it out with a soft shake of his head. “Fuckin’ ‘ell, mate…. Didn’t mean t’ ‘urt ya even more.” His tone was still surprisingly in that soft, gentle, gravelly one — the one he used only when he was trying to be as gentle as he could possibly be, usually reserved for Terror or even sometimes Ryan. “But I ain’t Vought. I ain’t gonna ‘urt ya. Bloody ‘ell, I’m tryin’ t’ ‘elp fix ya up good ‘n propa.”

Despite his rough exterior — as well as almost 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙩 posturing — Butcher had a well-documented soft spot for animals, 𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 his beloved dogs, Terror and Max. Seeing Toast be injured — even if it 𝙬𝙖𝙨 only her paw — tugged at his heartstrings in ways he’d never expected, though he tried not to let it show too much. When he felt her burrowing her face into his chest, his body stiffened for a fraction of a second — not because he hated it, but because it caught him by complete 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚. Hearing the quiet sniffles of sadness caused his shoulders to drop almost immediately. Putting the gun back into the waistband of his jeans, he gently cupped the back of her head with a large, calloused hand — which he normally wouldn’t do — as he gently pressed the tiny fox into his jacket in an effort to shield her. “Shhh, shhh, shhh…. It’s alright, luv, I’ve got ya…. Yer safe now.” His voice had dropped into a low, gravelly register — the kind he only used when he was doing his best to be genuinely comforting. Gently running a thumb just above the bandage to see her reaction, his dark hazel eyes narrowed into slits — already planning on a full retaliation against whoever — or 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 — hurt her.

Sighing heavily, the raven-haired Brit rolled his eyes with a shake of his head — his signature scowl already washing over his features in an attempt to mask the fact that his heart was immediately melting. “Oh ya gotta be fuckin’ 𝙠𝙞𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙣' me…” He muttered under his breath to no one in particular. “What the 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠 ‘ave ya done now, ya little 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙘𝙚? I’m runnin’ a fuckin’ 𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 ‘ere, not some kind o’ animal rescue.” Despite the complaining — complete with the slightly harsh words, Butcher immediately crouched down to the fox’s level. Reaching down, he started gently examining her injured paw, carefully examining the blood to see if the wound was fresh or caused by someone at Vought. “Alright, alright, take it easy… Now, let’s ‘ave a look, yeah? Fuckin’ ‘ell… ‘Ho the fuck did it?” The minute he noticed the blood, his protective instinct had already kicked in as his dark hazel eyes narrowed — not toward her, but because of whoever had injured her paw in the first place. “If some cape-wearin’ 𝙘𝙪𝙣𝙩 did it, I’ll rip their fuckin’ arms off ‘n shove ‘em down their fuckin’ throat.” He almost growled out. Finally, he gently scooped her up into his arms and straightened himself out — holding her securely against him — while he looked around for a first-aid kit or even possibly Frenchie so the bandage could be changed and fixed properly.

NO WAIT I—

@Lucky_Ch4rm__ Weirdly charming little creature.

Unfortunately, for the fox, Butcher 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣'𝙩 miss details. 𝙀𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 when someone — or a 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 — tried to hide things from him. Squinting slightly, his head tilted as he tracked her slow movements — an expression of mild amusement mixed with exhaustion already washed over his features. “‘N jus’ 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 the fuck do ya think 𝙮𝙚𝙧 scamperin’ off t’, eh? What, ya think yer 𝙞𝙣𝙫𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙚 jus’ ‘cause ya got ears the size o’ 𝙨𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙨?” Letting out a sharp scoff, the raven-haired Brit stepped directly into her path, folding his arms across his chest as he looked down at her. “What’s wit’ the limp, luv? ‘N don’t try ‘n give me the w’ole 𝙄'𝙢 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙚 bollocks. Ya look like a three-legged stool in a gale-force 𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙙. So, let’s see it.”

“Ah well.”

“That ring a bell?”

“You were telling me about your memory issues.”