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eeveevie · 4 years

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loose lips

Rosie just wants to have a quiet night of studying, but that changes when she learns Butch is causing a ruckus at Moriarty's Saloon. After collecting him and taking him home, he says a lot more than he intended while under the influence.

Unprompted, but I’ve been sitting on this idea for a long while. I make reference to this in a few of my other one-shots since I go back and forth between pre-relationship and developing-relationship fics for these two.

Butch DeLoria x Rosie Sheridan (Lone Wanderer)

3200 words | [read on Ao3]

Sitting upstairs in Craterside Supply, Rosie was immersed in her research, reading over the extensive notes she had taken after investigating the colony of mirelurks in the Anchorage Memorial. The work on the Wasteland Survival Guide was a welcome distraction, allowing her to keep her mind busy until the Brotherhood provided her with a solid lead on where to find a G.E.C.K. Moira had set up the private sanctuary in her shop a few months ago, more than happy to give the vault-dweller a quiet place to study. Even though Rosie had her own residence within Megaton, it was difficult to get any work done when she had Butch DeLoria as a housemate.

Ever since finding him in Rivet City, he’d been her constant companion—annoying and distracting at first, but gradually became someone she could rely on. He made an effort to be less of a jerk, owning up to the mistakes of his youth, and performing thoughtful gestures of kindness for her unprompted. Rosie wouldn’t admit it aloud, but it was nice having him around. The more she got to know him as her friend, the more she realized they had a lot in common. Unexpected from the boy who used to stick gum in her hair. Now, he watched her six with a loaded pistol and cooked her breakfast (sometimes—when he remembered to set an alarm, that is). She liked him—a lot more than she wanted to.

Rosie could hear Moira teasing her about the redness in her cheeks—little red potatoes—all dreamy-voiced as she expressed desires for the two to ‘circle up’ and have babies. Assuming by the order of things, it had to be Wasteland slang for marriage, which was horrifying for so many reasons. Maybe it was a bad idea to confide in her shopkeeper friend about her potential feelings for Butch. Now she’d never hear the end of it when all she wanted was peace and quiet.

Just as Rosie refocused on the lines in her journal, the metal door to the shop creaked open, disrupting her train of thought—descended from local crabs, I’d call them…

Moira’s chipper voice echoed downstairs. “You’re back so soon?”

Rosie glanced to her Pip-Boy to confirm it was past store hours. She grumbled to herself, wondering if Butch had gotten bored and decided to come collect her for a more fun activity—it wouldn’t be the first time. Distracting, she reminded herself, for completely different reasons than before. She didn’t want to parade around town with his arm slung around her shoulder—or did she?

“Ugh,” she groaned, hand sliding across her face and smudging her glasses. Rosie stood and leaned over the railing, prepared to reprimand her companion when she realized Butch wasn’t even the one standing in the doorway.

Mitch, Craterside Supply’s mercenary was disgruntled as ever, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed. Moira paused from cleaning the countertop to look at him, giving him the full attention she gave anyone she talked to.

“It’s your night off, Mitch! Shouldn’t you be enjoying it instead of standing there like you always do?” she ended her sentence with an easy sounding laugh, something Rosie wished she could emulate.

The merc muttered something incoherently, lips set in a fine line when he regarded his employer. How the two got along was anybody’s guess. Rosie imagined it had something to do with the frequent exchange of caps—though, Moira’s glowing personality seemed to melt even the coldest of hearts.

“There’s a problem at Moriarty’s,” Mitch explained, briefly.

“Oh no!” the redhead exclaimed, more intensely than the mercenary expected. “Is everybody alright?”

Mitch let out a deep sigh and let his eyes roam to where Rosie was perched, silently eavesdropping on their conversation in clear view. She sheepishly backed away before stepping back, realizing it was a little late to pretend she hadn’t been listening. He gestured to her with a jutted-out thumb.

“It’s that other vault-kid you like so much,” he said, with just enough distain in his voice it verged on resentment. Rosie wanted to smile, thinking the mercenary was jealous of Moira’s affections towards the younger visitors. Her mind was preoccupied, however, when she realized he was talking about Butch. “That boy can’t hold his liquor. He’s no Jericho, but he’s still a rowdy drunk.”

Rosie felt a rush of disappointment at the information. She had hoped that Butch would stop spending so much of his free time at the Megaton saloon, wasting his caps on alcohol. This behavior seemed like a step back in the wrong direction, backsliding into his old, rebellious ways. Maybe she was wrong to think that people could change—that Butch could change. Regardless of how tumultuous she felt at the moment, Rosie knew she couldn’t sit idly by. So much for staying in and studying.

“I’ll go,” she said as she descended the stairs. “Before something worse happens.”

Mitch smirked. “Moriarty already had him drink the moonshine, and we all know what’s in that.”

“Oh, my poor sweet potato,” Moira cooed, tilting her head to the side in a sympathetic gesture. Rosie pressed a hand to her mouth, trying not to retch at the thought—she’d heard the rumors—and sent a silent prayer, hoping they weren’t true on Butch’s behalf. Her shopkeeper friend looked at her. “Do you need any help?”

Rosie shook her head, doubting that either of them would be of any real assistance. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Moira. Thank you again.”

“You’re very welcome,” she replied with a bright grin. “Take care of widdle Butch, now, okay?”

Rosie could only nod and fled from the building before her friend could embarrass her with any suggestive comments or innuendo. The last thing she needed was for the mercenary to know about her unrequited crush.

Moriarty stood outside his establishment as Rosie approached, smoke in hand as he overlooked the night sky. He noticed her just as she made to slip by to the entrance, in no mood to want to speak to the surly man.

“Aye, if it isn’t Miss Sheridan,” he crooned, feigning pleasantries. “Here to collect yer loverboy?”

She huffed, clenching her fingers into fists before relaxing. Better to kill him with kindness, she reminded herself. “I hope he hasn’t been too disruptive,” she said, forcing a smile.

“The boys’ entertaining, I’ll give ‘em that,” Moriarty replied. “See for yerself. May haf to hire ‘em for the bar—”

Rosie turned on her heel, tuning out his accented words as she pushed through the sturdy metal door to the bar. She rarely visited the saloon, and the stench of booze and nicotine overwhelmed her as soon as she crossed the threshold. Immediately she found who she was looking for, sitting at the bar with his back to her so all she could see was the Tunnel Snakes embroidery. Butch. He was hunched over the counter, empty beer bottles and glasses surrounding his frame. It had only been a few hours since she’d last seen him, but apparently he’d been busy.

“One—one mrr,” he slurred at Gob, who stared at him with a mix of pity and annoyance. “Jus one!”

The ghoul bartender sighed, shaking his head. “Kid, you ever hear of alcohol poisoning?”

“Wha-uh?”

Gob noticed Rosie standing in the entranceway and relaxed, though his expression became much more sympathetic. “Better sober up, unless you want to disappoint your best gal.”

Butch perked up, swiveling around in the barstool so fast that he nearly toppled out of the seat altogether. She rushed to steady him, wincing at how much heavier he seemed—maybe it was all the beer and whiskey. With one arm wrapped around his torso, she held him upright against the bar.

“Stitches!” he greeted, awkwardly slinging an arm around her shoulder and dragging her close for a sideways hug. “Here!”

She nodded, choosing to ignore him for the moment and glanced to Gob who was studying their exchange. “Did he drink all these?” she asked, pointing to the display bottles.

“Sure did,” Gob answered. “Would not stop talking about growing up in the vault, and then leaving the vault. Talked a lot about you, actually.”

Rosie blinked, her heartrate steadily increasing. “What?”

The bartender gave a dismissive shrug. “But then he started singing, which soured the mood.”

Despite herself, Rosie smiled, amused by the thought. Plus, he’d been talking about her—she didn’t know what about, and he’d been drinking—but that certainly made her emotions aflutter.

“You’re cute when you smile, Stitches,” Butch mumbled, head titled to the side as he stared up at her with a sideways, dreamy smile.

Rosie instantly felt her face flood with heat. Gob smirked at the two and all she desperately wanted was to get out of sight from him and Butch. Speechless, she fumbled through her skirt pockets for a handful of caps, placing them on the counter, implying it was for the mess and for any unpaid drinks. She tightened her hold around Butch’s waist, holding onto the arm wrapped around her shoulder as counter-balance as she hoisted him from the barstool.

Gob watched the two. “Got him?”

“Ssshe’s got me!” Butch answered for the both of them with a beaming grin.

Rosie clenched her teeth, sucking in a breath as she adjusted him again, nudging at his feet so he’d support the weight of his own legs. It was a futile effort, but she’d helped carry heavier people with her father down in the vault. She could help an inebriated Butch walk back to her house across town…maybe. Gob still moved from behind the bar to push open the front door to make her exit easier. Caught up in the moment, she offered him a passing remark.

“If you hear a loud crash, we’ve fallen from the rafters. Please send our bodies to Moira,” she instructed sardonically. “For science.”

x ------- x

Butch was of no help in the journey across town. Rosie would’ve guessed he had fallen asleep if it weren’t for the occasional drag of his feet and giggle, followed by an incoherent stream of words. All the while, she couldn’t help but wonder what had led to his sorry state—why’d he chosen to drink so much in the first place. Rosie knew he had the penchant for it—a bad habit learned from his mother—she was naïve to think the pattern would drop now that he was on the surface. Thinking back to her medical training and knowledge on addictive personalities, it wasn’t always so easy. The best thing she could do was to be there for him—he had done the same for her when she went through the paces of the emotional trauma of her father’s death—maybe the Wasteland was finally getting to him. Regardless, she could be a supportive friend. Friends—that’s what they wanted to be, right?

What if she wanted more?

“Ugh.”

“Huh?”

Rosie ignored Butch’s confusion and pushed open the front door, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process.

“Good evening, Miss Sheridan,” Wadsworth greeted as soon as they entered her Megaton home. “Oh, and Mr. DeLoria, he appears to be incapacitated. Do you require assistance?”

Rosie nodded as she continued dragging his body along side hers towards the stairs. The robot-butler instantly floated over, gently sliding a metal appendage under his other arm to assist in carrying him up to the second floor.

“Do you need the bathroom?” Rosie asked him, repeating the question when Butch shook his head too quickly. “Are you sure?”

“I ain’t gonna hurl,” he assured, a whine in his voice.

She was more worried about him pissing his pants but wasn’t about to embarrass him (or herself) by stating the fact out loud. Wadsworth continued to help carry him to the smaller bedroom, depositing him on the edge of the mattress where he promptly flopped backwards, arms flung to the side.

“I shall fetch you some water!” the Mister Handy exclaimed, whizzing away to perform his task.

Rosie exhaled like she had been holding her breath since leaving Moriarty’s, wondering if her pulse would ever settle. She glanced over her shoulder to find Butch sprawled out on his bed, legs dangling off the edge and boots twitching against the metal flooring. It would’ve been an amusing sight, if he weren’t so intoxicated. With another sigh she approached, quietly sitting down next to him.

“I’m taking your boots off,” she explained, looking up at his face to see his eyes were closed.

He hummed in response. “Oh-kay.”

One, two clunky black combat boots fell to the floor with a clang, and Wadsworth returned with a bottle of purified water. After another whirl of his robotic arms, he left the room, leaving the two alone. Rosie tapped Butch on the knee with the bottle.

“Sit up,” she instructed, shaking him harder when he didn’t move. “You need to drink some water.”

Slowly, he lifted himself onto his elbows, head rolling like it contained bricks instead of a squishy brain—she wondered sometimes if that were actually the case. He pushed himself up and swayed close, lips quirked up in a smirk.

“He-llo.”

Rosie bit her tongue at the foul stench emanating from his mouth, wishing Wadsworth had brought bubblegum as well. Oh well—Butch could worry about his hygiene in the morning—no doubt his hair would be a mess too. She pushed the purified water into his hand and guided it to his mouth, sliding away only when he started to drink on his own. When it was empty and sitting on the nightstand, he began wriggling out of his leather jacket, only to get the sleeve stuck on his Pip-Boy, as expected. Rosie shifted around to help him, half-standing, half-kneeling on the bed as he almost resisted her help, until he noticed their compromising position. As soon as his Tunnel Snakes jacket and Pip-Boy laid discarded on the foot of the bed, he wrapped an arm around her waist, nearly knocking their heads together.

“If ya’ wanna get closer to me, that’s all you gotta say, girl,” he muttered, sending sparks across her skin.

Impulsively, she pushed away, standing upright, almost falling backwards from how dizzy she felt. Butch looked up at her, steely eyes glazed over in mild confusion. She needed to set the situation straight immediately, before boundaries were crossed and feelings were hurt. Her feelings.

“That’s not what’s happening right now,” she spoke quickly, waving her hands.

He followed the movement of her fingers, and she wasn’t sure if he understood. The silence stretched on for too long, Butch staring at her with doe-eyes, the softest hint of a smile. Why wasn’t he saying anything? And why couldn’t she say anything back? Rosie thought about forfeiting and leaving him as he was when there was the most subtle change to his expression, brows furrowing as his eyes flickered across her face.

“I—I don’t feel so good,” he mumbled before falling backwards.

Rosie jumped into action, shifting his body so he was laying properly along the bed, repeatedly checking his vital signs to ensure he was only passing out from exhaustion and not acute liver poisoning. Eventually, she moved his jacket and Pip-Boy aside, pulling the blanket over his body so she could better tuck him in—if he got chills during the night, he’d appreciate the warmth. Just as she was pushing herself off the bed, Butch’s finger’s tightened around her wrist.

“Hey, don’t,” he murmured into the pillow, one eye peeked open. “Stay?”

Rosie was about to protest when he smiled, and her chest tightened with a kind of yearning she was only recently familiar with. She didn’t want to leave him, not now, not ever. Through the good, the bad and the drunkenly. Even if he didn’t feel the same way about her, romantically—she’d find a way to get over it—just as she’d done before in the vault. Without offering him an answer, she scooted towards the headboard, leaning her back against it and stretching her legs along the sheets next to his body. Butch eyed her, but he surprisingly didn’t make a snarky remark about her choosing not to snuggle up close. Instead, he lifted his head and plopped it right into her lap, hooking his arm loose around her legs.

More silence fell over them, more quiet that Rosie didn’t know what to do with. She didn’t know where to put her hands, wringing them awkwardly by her chest as she studied Butch’s profile. His eyes were closed, usually coifed hair now a wavy mess hanging down his forehead. Hesitantly, she rested her fingers there, pushing back the black strands, studying the faint constellation of freckles she’d never noticed before dotted across his skin. When she noticed his smile increase she repeated her movements, steadily combing her fingers through his hair and across his scalp in a calming motion that reminded her of being cradled as a toddler in her father’s arms. This was far more intimate, however.

“Love you Rosie,” he mumbled into the fabric of her skirt.

She froze immediately, staring at his face wide-eyed and frantic. What? What? Her heart seized to beat for a second before fluttering to life so rapidly, it felt like she was going to have a stroke. He had to be drunk still, or she had to be dreaming. Or both. Maybe she was inebriated. As the thoughts swirled in her head, sending her into a panic, Butch continued, unaware of her stunned reaction.

“You’re my best friend.”

Oh.

Rosie swallowed the lump in her throat, but only found herself conflicted. So it wasn’t romantic love, but…platonic? That was still one hell of a confession, coming from Butch, but she would be lying if she said she wasn’t letdown. Even with all the sudden fear that settled over her, it didn’t compare to the disappointment she felt now. Though, it wasn’t the first time she’d had unrequited feelings, and she was sure it wouldn’t be the last. That didn’t mean she was about to throw away a friendship forged from a rocky past.

Butch hugged her knees a little tighter. “You’re all I got left, ya’ know? The only one who’d take care of a sad sack like me.”

Rosie smiled, brushing her thumb across his forehead in an affectionate sweep. Completely unsure of what to say, or how to respond, she hoped it was enough. She was sure that he would’ve never said these things to her sober, anyways. If she said anything now, he wouldn’t remember, so it was better to enjoy the moment while it lasted. As soon as he was asleep, she would sneak away and decompress in her own room, try to sort through the emotional weight of it all. She decided that if he didn’t recall tonight in the morning, she’d not bother with bringing it up to him again—no need to embarrass him—even if she’d remember it forever. Rosie thought about what he said, realizing it was true. Butch was all she had.

Maybe one day, she’d tell him too.

#fallout 3 #butch deloria x f!lone wanderer #butch deloria #rosie sheridan #otp: it's just a flesh wound #fluff and salt bae angst #the emotions are thicc here #poor rosie baby #do I imply Butch was pouring his guts out to Gob? Maybe #(yes)

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xaz-fr · 6 years

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In the Cypress Commons 8 (vignettes)

A little cough worked itself out of her mouth as Layali landed on the lawn outside of the Manor. She knew it was hot in the Hall but she felt a chill and curled her leathery wings around herself. No one could know she was out here. It would be bad. Not for anyone but herself really. She didn’t feel like getting a talking to again by her mother.

A long necked dragonoid was sitting on a stool by the front door, rocked back on two legs in the early morning. Her wild curls a cloud around her head like a halo. She looked down at Layali with cool yellow eyes. “Hello,” Layali said in a soft voice.

Innya looked her up and down. “Who’re you? What do you want?”

“I’m… Layali. I need to see the Master.”

“What for?”

“I need his help.”

Innya sucked her teeth, put the stool down on all fours and stepped off. “Come inside,” was all she said. Layali followed her inside and into a study with a plush chair at a desk, the walls lined with bookshelves stuffed with books. “Wait here,” and she closed the door on Layali by herself. She felt another chill and held her arms, rubbing them. As she waited she looked around. Maybe something here could help her? If anyone would know it would be the Master. He was the smartest thing in all the Hall, even more than her mother who was ancient. The Master was a greater repository of various knowledge.

The door opened again and she turned. The Master was in a morning robe and a pair of shorts and not much else like he’d just rolled out of bed. Despite that his hair was still manicured and his beard brushed. “Hello there,” he said like he hadn’t just been sleeping.

“Master,” she said, still holding herself against the chill she felt.

“Innya said Layali was here. Which should be impossible since Layali is the progenitor. So who are you?” he asked patiently.

She blinked at him, his cunning yellow eyes bright with interest. “I am the progenitor, Layali,” she said seriously.

He looked her up and down, “You’re a girl.”

“I don’t age like other dragons. I am not a child,” she said.

“Very well. What can I do for you?” he moved deeper into his study and leaned against the desk. She could tell he didn’t believe her. That she was the progenitor.

“Do you know the names of the Gods?” she asked him.

“You woke me up for that-?

“Their true names,” she interrupted. That piqued his interest. “I need to know their true names.”

“Why?”

“Then the Windsinger will help me,” her voice cracked as she spoke. She hadn’t dreamed of the Windsinger in a long time but she could still remember the last one. The promise of her cure if she found the names of the Gods. Their true names.

The Master tilted his head at her. “You’re not going to tell more, are you?”

“I don’t know more,” she coughed again.

“Hmmm. The names of the Gods. That’s an interesting idea.” He wandered around his study. “I will have to do some research.”

“I can come back,” she said and coughed again, harder this time. When she pulled her hand away from her mouth there was some blood in it. “But I can’t stay now.”

“What is the Windsinger going to help you with?” he was too curious.

“I’m very sick,” she whispered. He said if I found the names of the Gods he would tell me how to cure myself.”

The Master frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll look. It will take some time. Shall I send someone to the Tree when I have something?”

“Please. Come at night, do not have them announce themselves. I will know.”

“Why not?” he asked as another round of coughing hit her again.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” she said once she was done and showed the Master the blood in her hand. “I need to go. Send someone when you find something.”

He saw her out. “Innya,” he said to the guard at the door. She hummed in response, “See young Layali back to the edge of the Eye and then return,” he said.

“Sure thing,” Innya said boredly slid off her stool and flew after Layali as she stumbled her way into the air.

@deadpool-scar-bro @hikayelastoria @cornsnoot-fr @redlion-fr @mushroomdraggo @murdoch-fr @tales-around-sornieth @frxemriss @rainhearts-hatchery @rexcaliburr-fr @bruin-fr @starry-ampelope @plainstriderbard @reanimatedfr @voltaic-ambassador @sirensage-fr @journey-taken-fr @ally-fr @golden-lionsnake @rookfern-fr (let me know if you’d like to be added to the lore pinglist)

dragons are humanoid unless said otherwise

#flight rising #fr lore #fr lore share #lore share #cypress hall #Cypress Commons

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