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What was supposed to be a speedy trip west to the Super-Duper Mart had quickly turned into hours of stalking raiders and scavenging the abandoned grocery store for food and medical supplies. Butch was quickly questioning why he’d agreed to tag along with Rosie in the first place. It’d barely been a month since hooking up in Rivet City—maybe there was still time to get away from whatever the hell kind of crazy she was constantly finding herself wrapped up in.
Not that he was one to back down from a fight—ma didn’t raise no coward—he was only annoyed that both Rosie and that Craterside supply lady had assured the building would be empty. If there was anything he’d learned from his short time in the Capital Wasteland, it was that danger reared its ugly head at every possible second. Butch made a point to remember to stop believing it when Moira said it would be safe. She was, after all, the same person who’d sent him and Rosie into Minefield.
But now he was playing pack-brahmin, loaded up with more than a few bags of assorted junk they’d looted. Rosie’s load was considerably lighter, which Butch supposed was fair enough, considering her smaller frame. He was surprised she’d survived this long on the surface without bulking up, at least a little bit. Without meaning to, his eyes roamed down the length of her body. When he realized he was watching the curve of her ass as she walked, he frowned.
She noticed him staring—scowling—and her expression fell. “What?”
“Nothin’” he feigned ignorance, snapping his vision to the sky—immediately regretting the decision as the sun created blurry spots in his eyes. He huffed, adjusting one of the heavier bags. “Why’d you drag me out here?”
“You could’ve stayed in Megaton,” she mumbled.
“Pfft.”
Butch dared to glance over, only to find Rosie staring at her shoes as she walked with a full pout—why’d she always have to be so upset? Was it something he said? Why were girls—why was she—so complicated and moody? Why did he care? Whatever.
“Guess it’s a good thing I tagged along,” he mused.
In an effort to pack light, she’d left her plasma rifle at home. Which was a shame—when she managed to aim the thing correctly, it packed a serious punch, and Butch loved watching the weapon turn their enemies into bright green piles of goo. Rosie wasn’t much of a sharpshooter with anything else, which had him questioning how she’d managed to survive the Capital Wasteland for so long.
He eyed the holstered pistol on her hip, reminding himself not to stare at her ass. “Always knew I’d be a better shot than you, four eyes.”
Rosie whipped her head around, a blush already radiating over her cheeks. “I—”
Before she could—or couldn’t—say anything, a flurry of shots rang out in their direction, causing her to shriek in surprise. Butch barely managed to take notice of the group of hostiles running over the hill when more gunfire echoed around them, a stray bullet whizzing past his face and into the nearby pile of rubble. He didn’t hesitate to grab Rosie’s arm, practically pushing her behind the nearby burnt out car.
“Hey!” she yelled. Despite the danger, she obviously didn’t take kindly to being manhandled. She tried to push him away, but he tucked her head lower, even if that meant their bodies were huddled close in the confined space. Rosie didn’t hide her agitation. “Butch!”
“Would ya’ rather get shot at?” he snapped, holding back from shoving her into the dirt—though, maybe that’d be the safest hiding spot for her. He grumbled as he dropped the bags he was carrying, pulling free his pistol from its holster. “Thought we got all the raiders?”
Rosie shifted to lean her head back just enough, peeking over the edge of the car’s roof. She yelped, ducking back down as a spray of bullets came in their direction within seconds, ricocheting off the rusted metal of their flimsy hideout. At least the pre-war car was already smoked-out by a previous fire, otherwise one well-placed bullet and they’d be atomic toast.
“Those aren’t raiders,” Rosie explained, adjusting her glasses. “Those are Talon Company mercenaries.”
Butch checked to ensure his weapon was loaded but found that he didn’t have much ammo to spare after their grocery store escapade. “What’d ya’ do to piss them off?”
She didn’t have a chance to respond, though he could tell she was irritated by his pestering—but when wasn’t she? Instead, the two became instantly preoccupied by the advancing mercs, shooting off automatic rounds from a nearby barricade. When they paused to reload, Butch dared to pop up long enough to return fire, trying to count how many Talon bastards he saw as he squeezed the trigger of his pistol. At least one of his rounds managed to find a target, the man’s body crumpling to the ground as the others shouted. Rosie must’ve been shooting too, because another mercenary body fell shortly thereafter.
“You’re a good shot after all, four—”
He was rudely interrupted by the last Talon merc jumping out from behind the concrete barrier, blasting more rounds from his reloaded assault rifle. Rosie instantly yanked Butch back behind the car, but not before he felt something sharp and hot graze his skull. Within seconds he could feel something wet dripping down the side of his face, and when he lifted his hand to touch, it felt sticky. Gross.
“Oh God,” Rosie’s voice was hushed, if not panicked, eyes wide as she looked at him in what he could only describe as absolute horror. Not that she hadn’t looked at him like that before in their youth—but now, it was…a little worrisome. He pulled his hand away to see blood staining his fingers. Oh—yeah, that was bad. “Butch?”
He blinked, wondering why he didn’t feel any pain, considering he’d just been shot in the head. Was he dead already? “I don’t—”
Rosie shook her head, dropping her weapon to the ground so she could cradle his head in her hands, carefully. As if they weren’t in the middle of a firefight—except, the Talon mercenary seemed to have stopped shooting again. Either way, she seemed much more concerned about his injury, tilting his chin to the side and leaning closer despite his protest so she could examine it.
“It’s just a graze,” she sighed, relieved. “Medically—a flesh wound.”
“Oh goodie,” Butch had a hard time feeling excited when there was blood pouring from his head. “Patch me up, will ya’?”
“Come out! So I can finish the job!” the Talon mercenary yelled out, interrupting their clinical assessment.
Rosie’s eyebrows knitted together into deep concentration. “I think he’s out of ammo.”
She was right—he hadn’t reloaded or tried to fire on them in the last minute or so. Butch looked down at his own pistol and clicked free the magazine, muttering under his breath when he saw there was only one bullet left to spare. No way in hell he’d be able to make the shot in his condition. And Rosie—she might as well just shoot straight up into the air. As if she could tell he didn’t like their odds, she shifted to tug free the combat knife strapped to her calf—something Butch had never seen her wield. He knew she carried it, but as far as he knew, it was all for show, or for cooking when out on the open road—not for…
He eyed the large blade in her hand. “What’re ya’ gonna do with that?”
“There is more than one way to kill a person,” she responded, sounding more sure of herself—and more deadly—than ever before. Butch gulped, unsure if he was scared or excited—his heart was certainly racing, but he decided to blame it all on the adrenaline rushing through him after being shot.
Footsteps crunched in the dirt, signaling the merc was closing in on their hiding spot. “I don’t have all day!”
Rosie seemed to steady herself with a shaky breath, nodding once as she jumped up from her crouched position.
“Hey, wait—” Butch tried to stop her, but lacked the energy to pull her back to safety.
It didn’t matter anyways, as she startled the Talon mercenary into dropping his weapon—it hardly mattered if it was loaded or not. He defaulted to swinging his fists towards her, but Rosie’s small frame made her agile and able to dodge the incoming blows. Even though her attacker was more than twice her size, Rosie proved to be a worthy opponent. She grabbed onto the man’s armor, yanking him close as she plunged the knife into the gap along his side, twisting the blade once it was buried deep enough. Brutal, but effective.
Butch watched on, stuck in his own delirium, wondering if he was imagining the scene playing out before his eyes. He had a hard time believing the same scrawny nerd he used to tease back in Vault 101 was capable of killing a man with her bare hands. Rosie struggled to balance the weight of the mercenary as he gurgled his last breath, collapsing against her before she gave a sharp shove so he’d topple to the ground instead. She was breathless, chest heaving in and out as she studied the red-stained knife in her hand with a pensive frown.
As soon as Butch made a pained sound she was back at his side, tossing her weapon to the dirt and digging through her bag for her case of medical supplies.
“Okay,” she mumbled to herself, wiping at brow with her forearm, causing blood to streak down her skin like a macabre stain of warpaint. Butch wistfully thought to himself that it looked beautiful. Okay—maybe he was more delirious than he realized—did he have a concussion? How much blood had he lost since that gunshot…graze…flesh wound? Rosie wasn’t supposed to be beautiful—she was…she was…
“Ugh.”
“Hold still,” she instructed. She’d cleaned her hands with a bottle of purified water and dampened a clean towel with what remained. Though, as soon as she touched it to his scalp, he flinched away with a yelp. “I said—”
“Yeah, yeah!” he argued, leaning back when she gently tugged on the other side of his face.
Butch remained quiet as Rosie worked on cleaning his wound, carefully and quietly explaining to him everything she’d need to do in the process. He seemed to recall she always had good bedside manners as her dad’s clinic assistant, even when she had every right to refuse treatment or enact revenge on the likes of him. One of those dreamy thoughts came back as he wondered if her hands had always been so soft—ew no—what? Butch blinked hard, forcing the idea from his mind.
“More stitches from Stitches,” he muttered instead, unable to hold back from teasing. Rosie sighed, shaking her head in disapproval as she finished of the final tiny thread. Butch rolled his eyes—couldn’t she take a joke. “What’s the damage?”
“Lucky for you, the scar will heal,” she noted. “You’ll be back to breaking hearts in no time.”
What’d she mean by that?
Butch watched as she packed up her supplies, focusing more on her solemn expression. He had to wonder if he, or his injury, was the reason. He reached out to catch her hand, sliding his palm up to hold her wrist. Rosie flinched, glancing down at his hand like his touch alone burned her skin like fire. He’d noticed that reaction before—when he’d pushed them to safety and on numerous occasions before. When would she stop reacting that way around him? Sure, they’d had their difficulties in the past, but he’d apologized, and they both had agreed to a fresh start. He really needed to figure out why he cared so damn much in the first place.
“I’m just one big burden, huh?” he huffed, instantly dejected by the own voices in his head.
Rosie peered at him, alarmed. “What?”
“Admit it, Stitches,” he pouted. “You can’t wait to be rid of me.”
For a long while, she matched his expression, and didn’t say anything. Finally, she shifted to sit next to him so they were both leaned against the shell of the burnt-out car.
“Don’t—don’t tease me,” she warned, cheeks tinted pink.
Butch tried not to grin. “I won’t, I swear.”
“I—” she still hesitated. “I’m glad you’re around, Butch. Without you, I’d have found myself in trouble, injured or worse. And not just today.”
For once, he decided not to crack a joke. He thought about saying something profound like, he’d gladly take a bullet for her but for starters—he’d already done that—and that it sounded far more romantic than he wanted to be. He tried to play it cool, even if his head and heart were swimming with unexplainable emotions.
“That’s what happens when you’re in a gang yeah?” he shrugged. “Blood oath and whatnot. Tunnel snakes for life, remember?”
Rosie glanced at him. “I never joined the Tunnel Snakes. You just gave me your jacket.”
Butch shrugged again and stuck out his hand, initiating a handshake. “Good enough.”
She nervously laughed, slowly sliding her hand into his, awkwardly following along with the movements he’d perfected with the former members—she’d catch on eventually. Her touch lingered and he decided in the moment that saying something nice might go a long way, especially with Rosie.
“I got yer back,” Butch squeezed her hand and nodded. “Kay?”
Rosie returned the gesture, along with a tiny smile. “Okay.”