271257 > 130758: be careful. they got you too? i love you
"Bioseal auto-releases when the wearer dies," Mitchell's tone dropped.
"I ain't dumb, I know that. Why does everyone think I'm stupid? That's the only way they come off." It did take Butch a moment. "Oh." He sank back against the thin pillow.
"Well, you're back among the living now, Butch DeLoria. Though in my professional opinion you've got a few days before you're back on your feet. Patched you up best I could though after that robot dug you up."
"A robot?" He didn’t recall any robot.
"Victor. Strange contraption. Never took much of an interest in anyone before. But right saved your life."
"Do you know anything about the men who shot me?"
"Can't say I do. But you could try asking Victor. Maybe Trudy too up at the saloon. She'd know all the gossip. Now, why don't we see if we can get you on your feet a little? Nothing too strenuous.”
Mitchell offered his hand to help Butch up. He accepted, despite reservations. Hurt his pride, though, to need the help.
"One-oh-one," Butch drawled. Out of habit he reached for his pocket looking for smokes. But, of course, he wasn’t in his armor, just a tshirt and boxershorts that sure as hell weren’t his. Great.
"Can’t say I know that one." The old man smiled.
"Good." Damn he needed that cigarette.
Over the course of the afternoon Butch managed a small circle of the house, at least to the kitchen for a light meal and back. Smoked half a pack while the doctor ambled around. Warned him ‘those things’ll kill you.’ Like Butch didn’t know. Like he hadn’t already been dead once.
Good enough to be able to piss on his own. Made the fucking mistake of looking in the mirror. But he wasn’t some dumb kid anymore. Let the sob choke up in his throat and die there. Lots worse had happened to him than getting his damn head shaved. He’d known it when he’d touched the bandage, could feel it without his hands too, how his head was lighter. How he couldn’t feel the strands settling around like they did before he styled it, the way it used to move as he tossed his head back and forth. But seeing it was another matter. Lucky enough his skull was back in one piece. Still, he ran his fingers along his bandaged temple, up to the crown of his head. Short bristles of barely-there growth and nothing more. Swallowed again and again until his hands finally held steady.
Course, had to be that the hair on his face grew faster than that on his head. So while there was only the barest hint of dark fuzz on his scalp, his facial hair had already started growing in jet black and thick. It had only been eight days since he and Tate split up outside of Primm with their assignments from the Mojave Express. A day of travel and seven days out cold because of some asshole taking shit that wasn’t his. Didn’t look at all like himself, bald head and a fucking beard. Wasn’t his look, that was for sure.
Butch’s shave kit was back by the sickbed with the rest of his belongings. Fuckers only took the package. Getting back to bed alone felt too distant and his head too cloudy. Might have ended up cutting himself in the process had he tried to shave. And that was the best case scenario if he actually managed to make it back to the bathroom. All he managed in the end was to splash his face with water and amble back to bed. Tried to blot out his own reflection from his mind. It wouldn’t go though.
Doc told him it should be fine to sleep if that was what felt right. The worst of it should have been over.
He dreamt about that pile of ash. Sweet and powdery. The one he made back in the Capital. Before it was ash it was that hot-shot rookie from the Brotherhood with not enough sense in him. Fucker thought he was gonna be the one to convince Tate to join up when all the others had failed. Was gonna do it by force when Tate spat in his face. Butch wasn’t about to let that happen. Wasn’t going to let anyone lay a hand on Tate. Never again. Irony, right? Killing that fuck with a weapon taken from the Brotherhood’s own requisitions. They’d lost his rifle somewhere in the midwest. Thing was practically coming apart at the seams.
Reckless Games (Butch/m!LW 2/5)
"Bioseal auto-releases when the wearer dies," Mitchell's tone dropped.
"I ain't dumb, I know that. Why does everyone think I'm stupid? That's the only way they come off." It did take Butch a moment. "Oh." He sank back against the thin pillow.
"Well, you're back among the living now, Butch DeLoria. Though in my professional opinion you've got a few days before you're back on your feet. Patched you up best I could though after that robot dug you up."
"A robot?" He didn’t recall any robot.
"Victor. Strange contraption. Never took much of an interest in anyone before. But right saved your life."
"Do you know anything about the men who shot me?"
"Can't say I do. But you could try asking Victor. Maybe Trudy too up at the saloon. She'd know all the gossip. Now, why don't we see if we can get you on your feet a little? Nothing too strenuous.”
Mitchell offered his hand to help Butch up. He accepted, despite reservations. Hurt his pride, though, to need the help.
"One-oh-one," Butch drawled. Out of habit he reached for his pocket looking for smokes. But, of course, he wasn’t in his armor, just a tshirt and boxershorts that sure as hell weren’t his. Great.
"Can’t say I know that one." The old man smiled.
"Good." Damn he needed that cigarette.
Over the course of the afternoon Butch managed a small circle of the house, at least to the kitchen for a light meal and back. Smoked half a pack while the doctor ambled around. Warned him ‘those things’ll kill you.’ Like Butch didn’t know. Like he hadn’t already been dead once.
Good enough to be able to piss on his own. Made the fucking mistake of looking in the mirror. But he wasn’t some dumb kid anymore. Let the sob choke up in his throat and die there. Lots worse had happened to him than getting his damn head shaved. He’d known it when he’d touched the bandage, could feel it without his hands too, how his head was lighter. How he couldn’t feel the strands settling around like they did before he styled it, the way it used to move as he tossed his head back and forth. But seeing it was another matter. Lucky enough his skull was back in one piece. Still, he ran his fingers along his bandaged temple, up to the crown of his head. Short bristles of barely-there growth and nothing more. Swallowed again and again until his hands finally held steady.
Course, had to be that the hair on his face grew faster than that on his head. So while there was only the barest hint of dark fuzz on his scalp, his facial hair had already started growing in jet black and thick. It had only been eight days since he and Tate split up outside of Primm with their assignments from the Mojave Express. A day of travel and seven days out cold because of some asshole taking shit that wasn’t his. Didn’t look at all like himself, bald head and a fucking beard. Wasn’t his look, that was for sure.
Butch’s shave kit was back by the sickbed with the rest of his belongings. Fuckers only took the package. Getting back to bed alone felt too distant and his head too cloudy. Might have ended up cutting himself in the process had he tried to shave. And that was the best case scenario if he actually managed to make it back to the bathroom. All he managed in the end was to splash his face with water and amble back to bed. Tried to blot out his own reflection from his mind. It wouldn’t go though.
Doc told him it should be fine to sleep if that was what felt right. The worst of it should have been over.
He dreamt about that pile of ash. Sweet and powdery. The one he made back in the Capital. Before it was ash it was that hot-shot rookie from the Brotherhood with not enough sense in him. Fucker thought he was gonna be the one to convince Tate to join up when all the others had failed. Was gonna do it by force when Tate spat in his face. Butch wasn’t about to let that happen. Wasn’t going to let anyone lay a hand on Tate. Never again. Irony, right? Killing that fuck with a weapon taken from the Brotherhood’s own requisitions. They’d lost his rifle somewhere in the midwest. Thing was practically coming apart at the seams.