le whoops. forgot to title the last part as 2/3. Sorry.
- - -
"Nothing! No. Actually, you're my goddamn problem!" It's not true, but it'll get her out of his fucking face. He doesn't want to deal with her right now. The only way he can express himself right now is in pathetic jealousy, which will happen when hell freezes over, and anger. He goes for anger, because fuck, that's the option that's less emotionally taxing.
"Me?" It's slightly annoyed, a little skeptical, and the hint of amusement makes him angrier. Why can't she just understand how he feels? Why should he even tell her what's wrong? He doesn't fuckin' want to, he shouldn't have to. He feels mean today, what with her dancing around flirtatiously, showing him no attention. It's wrong, it's wrong, it's wrong, he thinks, but doesn't care enough to back up those thoughts.
Laced with anger and envy, he snaps out a few hurtful words followed by, "Yeah, you. Whiny, obnoxious son of a bitch that you are." and, because he can, and because it will upset her, and he needs her to be upset as he is:
"Fuckin' useless, like your goddamn old man."
There's a moment of startling, empty silence, and then, goddammit, pain. The punch catches him off guard. He knows he's struck a nerve, crippled one, probably - but he doesn't care. He just doesn't care anymore.
Butch goes down, hands and knees on the dirty ground, moving only to wipe the blood flowing from the corner of his mouth. He can feel Blair standing above him, can almost see her clenched fists and scrunched eyebrows. There's such an angry wave of heat coming from her general direction that he wouldn't be surprised if her pretty brown eyes were actually on fire.
"Fuck you, DeLoria." Blair whispers, quietly, voice cracking with pain on the last syllable.
Dammit. He doesn't even deserve to be called by his name, now?
He kneels there, staring at the small pool of blood that drips onto the floor in front of him. She leaves him, eventually, and the sure, determined footsteps fuckin' echo in his ears, pounding away at the envy that quickly fades into regret.
They've fought before, but never like this. Always fist-fights that ended playful by the time they'd each used up their energy and frustration - never verbal, never emotional. They'd forgive each other silently in one way or another, leaving the last Nuka Cola or buying extra the others' ammo of choice.
Butch figures there won't be any forgiveness this time. He's never brought up her old man, and he's certainly never made fun of her insecurities. He knows he's the only person she's confided those feelings to before. Butch doesn't gossip, even if he is an asshole, and he hasn't torn down anyone like that since he was sixteen.
That's a memory to keep him over night, he thinks, standing and heading up the stairs past the damn "vampires", up to the cots the group had given them for the week.
Before he knows it, he's asleep. Probably from exhaustion, maybe because there's nothing else to do.
Blair doesn't come to bed, and Butch knows that because she's loud and bitchy at night, and he always wakes up to bitch back. She's not around the next morning when he stumbles out of bed.
Vance won't tell him where she went, but Butch knows he won't be seeing the Lone Wanderer for a long time anyway.
Doesn't matter to him. She's got plenty of friends out there.
He sure as fuck doesn't need her. He can do it himself. His world, what's left of it, won't fall to pieces just because she's gone.
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timeasmymeasure
Re: F!LW/Butch - Bitter 3/3
Date: 2012-05-26 11:29 pm (UTC)- - -
"Nothing! No. Actually, you're my goddamn problem!" It's not true, but it'll get her out of his fucking face. He doesn't want to deal with her right now. The only way he can express himself right now is in pathetic jealousy, which will happen when hell freezes over, and anger. He goes for anger, because fuck, that's the option that's less emotionally taxing.
"Me?" It's slightly annoyed, a little skeptical, and the hint of amusement makes him angrier. Why can't she just understand how he feels? Why should he even tell her what's wrong? He doesn't fuckin' want to, he shouldn't have to. He feels mean today, what with her dancing around flirtatiously, showing him no attention. It's wrong, it's wrong, it's wrong, he thinks, but doesn't care enough to back up those thoughts.
Laced with anger and envy, he snaps out a few hurtful words followed by, "Yeah, you. Whiny, obnoxious son of a bitch that you are." and, because he can, and because it will upset her, and he needs her to be upset as he is:
"Fuckin' useless, like your goddamn old man."
There's a moment of startling, empty silence, and then, goddammit, pain. The punch catches him off guard. He knows he's struck a nerve, crippled one, probably - but he doesn't care. He just doesn't care anymore.
Butch goes down, hands and knees on the dirty ground, moving only to wipe the blood flowing from the corner of his mouth. He can feel Blair standing above him, can almost see her clenched fists and scrunched eyebrows. There's such an angry wave of heat coming from her general direction that he wouldn't be surprised if her pretty brown eyes were actually on fire.
"Fuck you, DeLoria." Blair whispers, quietly, voice cracking with pain on the last syllable.
Dammit. He doesn't even deserve to be called by his name, now?
He kneels there, staring at the small pool of blood that drips onto the floor in front of him. She leaves him, eventually, and the sure, determined footsteps fuckin' echo in his ears, pounding away at the envy that quickly fades into regret.
They've fought before, but never like this. Always fist-fights that ended playful by the time they'd each used up their energy and frustration - never verbal, never emotional. They'd forgive each other silently in one way or another, leaving the last Nuka Cola or buying extra the others' ammo of choice.
Butch figures there won't be any forgiveness this time. He's never brought up her old man, and he's certainly never made fun of her insecurities. He knows he's the only person she's confided those feelings to before. Butch doesn't gossip, even if he is an asshole, and he hasn't torn down anyone like that since he was sixteen.
That's a memory to keep him over night, he thinks, standing and heading up the stairs past the damn "vampires", up to the cots the group had given them for the week.
Before he knows it, he's asleep. Probably from exhaustion, maybe because there's nothing else to do.
Blair doesn't come to bed, and Butch knows that because she's loud and bitchy at night, and he always wakes up to bitch back. She's not around the next morning when he stumbles out of bed.
Vance won't tell him where she went, but Butch knows he won't be seeing the Lone Wanderer for a long time anyway.
Doesn't matter to him. She's got plenty of friends out there.
He sure as fuck doesn't need her. He can do it himself. His world, what's left of it, won't fall to pieces just because she's gone.
...Right?