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I. EGG, BACON, AND CRAM
Rosie usually woke up before the alarm on her Pip-Boy had the chance to start beeping, always one to rely on her internal clock to know when it was time to get up. But that morning, she was awoken—rather rudely—by the clanging sounds of pots and pans echoing from the downstairs kitchen. She groaned into her pillow—Butch—when did he turn into an early riser? Dogmeat jumped down from the bed with an excited sniff at the air, panting as he galloped out of her room and down the stairs.
“Hey—” Butch’s wail carried up to the second floor. “No stealin’—I haven’t started cookin’ yet!”
She wasn’t sure what was more amusing—that he was talking to the dog, or that he was cooking breakfast. Butch had only been staying with her in Megaton for a few days since making the trip from Rivet City, but she hardly believed he had any skill in preparing meals. He certainly was talented in being disruptive, however, as another bang rang out through the house, Dogmeat’s bark shortly following. Rosie pushed herself out of bed with a sigh, resigned to get ready for the day. She had plans to visit Craterside Supply and continue work on the Wasteland Survival Guide, if the research wasn’t too…deadly.
With a stack of books in hand, Rosie dashed down the stairs, not even pausing to give her goodbyes to Wadsworth as he whizzed around to watch her go. In the living room, Dogmeat was happily chewing on a scrap of meat.
Just as she was about to make her way out the front door, Butch leaned out from the tiny kitchen nook, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Where ya’ goin’ in such a rush?”
Rosie decided scurrying away would be too rude, and turned to face him, leaning against the wall with her books tucked against her chest. “To Moira’s.”
“Without breakfast?” he asked, looking away from her to focus back on what he was doing in the kitchen. “I made enough for ya’. It’s the most important meal of the day—well, that’s what my ma used to say.”
He was right—and she had to admit whatever he was cooking smelt delightful, luring her slowly towards the small table set on the opposite side of the room. There, she watched Butch in the kitchen—cutting potatoes and onions for a hash before returning to the stove to flip the frying cram.
“I usually…” Rosie trailed. “Will eat some Sugar Bombs with Moira.”
Butch glanced at her over his shoulder with an exaggerated grimace. “For a doc, you sure don’t eat healthy.”
Before she could protest, he gestured for her to sit where one of two plates had been set up. Had he planned on this? Rosie nervously took a seat, placing her books to the side. Silently, she continued to observe him until he was walking over with a sizzling skillet, scooping a hefty portion of steaming food onto her plate before doing the same for himself.
Rosie waited until he was sitting next to her before she dared to pick up her fork, but even then she was hesitant to poke at the offering, silently wondering about the chances of it being poisoned. Meanwhile, Butch had already taken a large mouthful, practically inhaling the forkful.
“Whaaff—?”
She blinked. “How do you know how to cook?”
Butch gulped down his large bite and shrugged, scooting at a chopped potato. “From my ma. Mostly self-taught though. Had to take care of her.”
“Oh,” she replied, suddenly feeling shameful. Her dad was always around to prepare her meals and keep her well-fed. Butch…wasn’t as fortunate. Rosie quickly took a bite and despite burning the roof of her mouth ever so slightly, she was surprised at how good it tasted. And here she thought cram tasted like despair.
“So?” Butch asked, expectantly. “Whadd’ya think?”
Rosie smiled, around her fork, and felt a rare moment of cheekiness come over her. “Who knew you’d be so useful around the house?”
“Hey!” he whined, before really realizing what she’d said, lips quirking up in a smirk. “Told ya’ you’d like havin’ me around, Stitches.”
“Just keep cooking breakfast, and we’ll see about that,” she replied, taking another bite.
Butch laughed through his own mouthful. “Deal.”
II. FOUR EYES
Rosie had no intention to fall asleep on the couch when she came downstairs to read that afternoon—she’d only wanted a change of scenery after being cooped up in her room all day during a Rad-storm. Moira would’ve loved for her to dance around in the rain for scientific purposes, but not even she was that brave. Butch—who was so transfixed by the green flashes of lightning that he hadn’t moved from the window in the living room since the thunder began—maybe he’d be foolhardy enough to go outside.
Maybe it was the steady rhythm of the rain, drumming away on the metal rooftop of her Megaton home that lulled her to sleep. Or maybe it was the uninteresting characters in the sci-fi novel she’d borrowed from Gob—she wouldn’t have the heart to tell him what her actual reading preferences were. Either way, a few hours later and she had dozed off, waking up when an abrupt crackle of thunder shook the foundation beneath her feet.
The book in Rosie’s lap fell to the floor as she sat up, wincing at the crick in her neck from the sudden movement and awkward sleeping angle. It was only when she was rubbing the slumber from her eyes that she realized her glasses were missing. She blindly patted the cushions around her, and leaned towards the ground, looking for a fuzzy blob of black—but saw nothing.
“Oh good,” Butch’s voice echoed from the other side of the room. “You’re awake.”
As soon as Rosie heard him, she was immediately suspicious, squinting over to his blob-like form, perched at the kitchen table. She might’ve agreed to start fresh, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t still skeptical of his actions. Considering she’d spent the majority of her youth being terrorized by his pranks, teasing and downright cruelty, it was a difficult switch for her mind to make to trusting him.
“Did—did you steal my glasses?” she asked, aware of how accusatory she sounded. Rosie was never one to jump to conclusions, but this was Butch she was thinking about. How could she not?
He scoffed, obviously offended. “Steal? Now why ya’ gotta say that?”
“Butch—” she frowned at the sinking feeling that crawled at her gut, too reminiscent of her time in the vault.
She heard the chair he was sitting in screech against the steel flooring, and she watched as he approached, plopping down on the coffee table in front of her. Still, his expression was hard to read, even with the close proximity. Then, he was handing something to her—more like pushed a blurry object towards her face.
“Here,” he said. Upon closer inspection, she realized he was holding her glasses—just as she suspected. But he didn’t allow her to say anything derogatory, urging her to take them. “I fixed ‘em for ya’.”
Rosie was confused. “What?”
“Just put ‘em on,” Butch replied, with an impatient sigh.
She complied, sliding her glasses back into place. Something was different though—usually, she had to slide them up the bridge of her nose, but now they fit perfectly on her face. Even the lenses had been cleaned, a minuscule scratch that had distracted her for months repaired. She glanced up to look at him, feeling nervous under his expectant expression.
“They always looked like they’re about to fall off,” he explained. “Don’t want ya’ to lose them fighting muties, right?”
At first, Rosie felt guilty for doubting Butch. He’d done something nice, and she’d assumed the worst of him. Then, a strange warmth tickled her cheeks. Butch had done something nice—an altruistic act so unexpected of him she was more speechless than usual.
She smiled, in her small little way. “Thank you, Butch.”
He flashed her a wider, self-satisfied grin. “Anytime, Stitches.”
III. NEW PAGE
As soon as Butch found the blank, preserved journals while scavenging in Arlington Library, he started devising a plan. A giddy sense of excitement washed over him as he hid them away in his pack, pretending like he hadn’t noticed anything valuable in the run-down section of the building. Sure, it would’ve been easy to hand the goods over to Rosie when he met up with her in the lobby, but where was the fun in that? Better to surprise her later on, raise his chances of earning a genuine reaction—maybe even a smile.
He never used to care so much—never cared at all, really. Butch wasn’t sure when he’d started putting in such an effort, but now that they were friends, a large part of him liked when he made Rosie happy. She deserved it after all the grief he’d put her through growing up in the vault, and through the constant bad hands the Wasteland dealt her. It was the least he could do, to find the little things to brighten her day.
Once they were back at the Citadel and she broke away towards the laboratory, Butch went about resourcing the rest of the needed materials to make the presentation of his find just right. He visited the quartermaster for some parchment and string, sliding over a few extra caps for some tape and a pen as an afterthought. When the Knight Captain looked at him suspiciously, he handed over a few more caps for her silence, hoping she wouldn’t spill the beans.
Rosie paid him no mind as she continued speaking with the Scribes, though, he had to admit it was kind of adorable to see her unusually chatty—talking about scientific mumbo-jumbo and medical marvels. Butch moved on, sneaking off to the barracks where he could work unnoticed. He spent the rest of the evening—at the cost of skipping dinner in the mess hall—dusting off the covers and pages of the journals, making sure they could be properly written in. He tore off strips of tape and stuck them to the front covers, using the pen to carefully write Property of Rosie Sheridan—pausing more than once to remember if he’d spelt her last name correctly. Hopefully, she’d forgive him for the messy scrawl—it was the thought that counted, right? Using the parchment, he wrapped up the stack of books before securing the package with the string—the bow he attempted looking more like a jumbled knot of brown rope. Oh well.
When he went looking for Rosie, she wasn’t where he’d last seen her in the Citadel laboratory, or in the A-ring with the rest of the scientists. Most of them shrugged at him, but at least the Elder-guy was helpful.
“I believe Miss Sheridan has retired for the evening,” he explained, with a nod. “She expressed that she wanted to study the notes received from Scribe Rothchild. You may find her in the private suite we’ve provided—though,” the old man narrowed his eyes, ever suspicious. “There will be no unscrupulous behavior in my barracks.”
Butch wasn’t sure if he should be offended or grossed out. Why did everyone have to assume he and Rosie were some kind of item? “Yeah, yeah,” he begrudgingly answered, turning away with a grimace.
He wasn’t pleased to be backtracking to the B-ring, shifting the packaged bundle of journals back and forth in his arms, but reminded himself it would be worth it once he saw her reaction. As soon as he was in front of her private quarters, he knocked twice, waiting a split second before pushing open the door.
“Hey Stitches, lookie what I—”
Butch paused in the doorway when he realized Rosie was hunched over her desk—not deep in concentration—but completely passed out, asleep. Her face was resting in the bend of her elbow, glasses awkwardly pushed up on her brow as she let out little contented sighs. He couldn’t help but smile. Quietly, Butch entered the room, placing his gift down on the desk in front of her in the hopes she’d find it when she woke in the morning.
Before he left, he grabbed the blanket from her bed and draped it over her shoulders, carefully removing the frames from her face and placing them where they would be safe. She shifted, if only to make herself more comfortable where she sat. Butch scurried away before he was tempted to pick her up and tuck her into bed properly—bewildered by the very thought as it entered his mind.
The next day, Butch woke up with a note taped to his Pip-Boy in Rosie’s neat handwriting with an added smiley face—Thank You.
IV. STITCHES
“What’re you doing with my jacket?”
Butch stood in Rosie’s doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, one brow arched as he looked at her curiously. The way he was standing—wearing his faded white t-shirt, loosely tucked into his dusty blue jeans—extenuated his arms, muscles growing more defined by their travels in the Wasteland. He wasn’t wearing his leather Tunnel Snakes jacket, well, because, she had it.
Lately, she’d noticed the embroidery on the back of his jacket had started to fade, the green thread fading and fraying from damage. She knew Butch could be vain but hadn’t said anything about the wear and tear. Maybe he hadn’t noticed, or maybe he didn’t want to make a fuss—for once. Rosie decided she’d take matters into her own hands and snuck the jacket away from him one night while he was preoccupied in the bathroom. Men and their long showers—she didn’t want to think about what he was doing in there, wasting what precious hot water they had.
It would’ve been easier to swap the jacket for the one he’d given her when she left the vault all those months ago, but Butch would’ve noticed. Either the smell (even though she thought the one she had smelt like him—not that she had expert knowledge in that), or the lack of wear would tip him off—she hadn’t been wearing it since he gifted it to her, which left her feeling somewhat guilty. Better to fix the one he owned and return a kindness he’d been showing her for months.
They were friends now—good friends—a friend shouldn’t make her feel so anxious, standing in her bedroom doorway with a lazy smile.
“I—” she froze, nearly poking herself with the needle as she thread it through the thick leather. She swallowed the lump in her throat as he entered her room, crossing over to lean against her desk to inspect what she was doing more closely. “I wanted to repair the stitching on the back for you.”
Butch’s grin increased like she’d just told him a joke, but it was lost on her. “You’ve always been good at stitchin’, Stitches.”
Rosie’s cheeks flushed with warmth at the nickname, taking on a different meaning in the context and the way he said it in such a teasing way. Almost like he was flirting. She fumbled a little bit, fingers shaking as she finished the last needle thread.
“There,” she sighed, smoothing out the edges and placing her supplies on the desk. “Good as new.”
She handed the finished product to him and Butch eagerly took it from her hands, shrugging it on and pulling at the collar for the right fit. As expected, he turned towards her nearby mirror, twisting to look over his shoulder at her handiwork in the faded reflection. He was grinning and let out an excited laugh thereafter. Before Rosie realized what was happening, he had yanked her up by the wrists into a squeezing hug, turning his head to press a quick kiss to her cheek.
“This is great!” he exclaimed, pulling away to face the mirror again, unaware of what his action had done to her. “Thanks, Rosie.”
Rosie blinked at the back of Butch’s head, holding her fingers against the searing spot against her skin. That wasn’t what she was expecting, but she hadn’t gone out of her way to do something special for him before either. If this were to be his reaction every time—well then—Rosie smiled, thinking about earning more laughs and spontaneous kisses—she couldn’t wait to do it again.