"Butch, if you don't calm yourself, I'll have to call security." Butch jumped. He turned to bite out something snappy, but the ghost of a grin on the doc's face stopped him in his tracks.
He settled for a low, "Maybe if you were in here makin' sure his ass wasn't grass," under his breath.
A hand clasped his shoulder. "Look, I've told you before, he's going to be fine-"
"Do not-" he shoved the hand away- "fuckin' touch me. Do you know who you're fuckin' with?"
"I don't have time for your bullshit, Butch," Preston snapped, and his age seeped back into his eyes.
Butch snarled. But he couldn't think of anything to say. A fleshy bog weighed down his mind. Instead of going to his bunk to sleep, as he'd planned, he stalked down to the bar. Not to drink, no; he didn't have the caps, not with Tommy being out of commission. He sat in a musky, cold corner until he drowned in the haze of stale sweat and cigarette smoke.
When Belle Bonny shouted at him to get his ass home, he couldn't bring himself to be pissed off. Didn't even want to call her a raggedy old hag, though it would give him something to laugh at.
-----
On the second day, Butch crawled into the clinic when he was sure nobody was looking. His jacket caught on the door, which slammed shut behind him and startled a jump out of him. Again with the fucking flinching.
The kid stirred, eyes glassed. Something rough and mumbled spilled out of his mouth, something Butch couldn't understand.
"Wanna try that again?" Butch stomped around a bit, but couldn't keep the worry lines in his brow from smoothing out some.
"Said, what're you doing here," Tom forced out as his eyes struggled to focus.
"Oh, fuck off. Only been waiting on you for how long, that's how you wanna be?"
"No, I... where am I?"
"Middle of Rivet City, cotton-for-brains."
Tom grunted, tried to sit up.
"Hold the phone, that ain't smart," Butch said, and gestured to the leg bound in a splint. "Don't you remember? You busted your shit up somethin' fierce. You're lucky you ain't dead, else I'd have found you and killed you myself."
It Catches Up With You (2a/?)
He settled for a low, "Maybe if you were in here makin' sure his ass wasn't grass," under his breath.
A hand clasped his shoulder. "Look, I've told you before, he's going to be fine-"
"Do not-" he shoved the hand away- "fuckin' touch me. Do you know who you're fuckin' with?"
"I don't have time for your bullshit, Butch," Preston snapped, and his age seeped back into his eyes.
Butch snarled. But he couldn't think of anything to say. A fleshy bog weighed down his mind. Instead of going to his bunk to sleep, as he'd planned, he stalked down to the bar. Not to drink, no; he didn't have the caps, not with Tommy being out of commission. He sat in a musky, cold corner until he drowned in the haze of stale sweat and cigarette smoke.
When Belle Bonny shouted at him to get his ass home, he couldn't bring himself to be pissed off. Didn't even want to call her a raggedy old hag, though it would give him something to laugh at.
-----
On the second day, Butch crawled into the clinic when he was sure nobody was looking. His jacket caught on the door, which slammed shut behind him and startled a jump out of him. Again with the fucking flinching.
The kid stirred, eyes glassed. Something rough and mumbled spilled out of his mouth, something Butch couldn't understand.
"Wanna try that again?" Butch stomped around a bit, but couldn't keep the worry lines in his brow from smoothing out some.
"Said, what're you doing here," Tom forced out as his eyes struggled to focus.
"Oh, fuck off. Only been waiting on you for how long, that's how you wanna be?"
"No, I... where am I?"
"Middle of Rivet City, cotton-for-brains."
Tom grunted, tried to sit up.
"Hold the phone, that ain't smart," Butch said, and gestured to the leg bound in a splint. "Don't you remember? You busted your shit up somethin' fierce. You're lucky you ain't dead, else I'd have found you and killed you myself."