barely-plotted plot for @citizenstarlight
Butcher sat in his chair at the office, his hands cradling his head as a variety of bottles of liquor decorated the floor beneath him. The room was absolutely spinning, he could barely even see straight. D E A T H was coming. Although he always knew he would die much younger than most, Butcher wished he didn't know it was within a few months. What's the use of staying sober? Drinking a few bottles of whatever his liver could tolerate, smoking as much as his lungs could tolerate -- he was gonna die anyways. He could at least live and enjoy his vices while he could.
But.. he had made a promise to Becca. A low groan rumbled deep within his chest as slowly he shifted his position to lean back in his chair, the wood creaking in protest against the change in weight. Glossy eyes stared up at the ceiling, debating if he should finish off the bottle of bourbon remaining at his desk or try to stomach some sort of water or Gatorade to numb the guaranteed hangover come morning.
With the sound of the door opening, Butcher is quick to wave off a dismissive hand. Having assumed it was Hughie doing his nightly check-in on the man he quickly reacts with a slurred, "I'm fine Hughie.. Jus' takin' some good ol medicine. Bes' medicine I gots. I don' need no babysi--" Hiccup. "babysitter."