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potatocrab · 4 years

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father’s daughter

Butch and Rosie; two stubborn kids who don't know how to communicate with each other—sparks are bound to fly. Just two lonely hearted people that were forced to grow up before they were ready.

After an unsettling argument, Butch relies on old vices to get him by. When he returns to the Megaton homestead, he finds that Rosie has been suffering in silence. Now, he's determined to reconcile their differences and help her grieve over a painful past.

x - x

*Set somewhat immediately after Loose Lips with direct references to that work and Whiskey and Rain.*

Butch DeLoria x Rosie Sheridan (Lone Wanderer)

5895 words | [read on Ao3]

Drinking was a mistake.

Butch only seemed to come to that conclusion too little, too late—always way after the alcohol started weighing his stomach down, and the pleasant burn down his throat turned fowl. He should know better, shouldn’t he? Liquor was evil and the inventor of beer was a cruel mistress. Butch had to remind himself he only called it that because Rosie had taught him about the history of his ‘favorite poison’ as some form of torture while he recovered from a hangover one bright and sunny morning.

Served him right for what he put her through after getting sloshed at Moriarty’s. He couldn’t get a straight answer from her (or Gob, for that matter) on his actions from that evening, but considering who he was, and his track record, there was a probability he either did something or said something stupid. Probably a combination of the two. His only solace was that Rosie didn’t completely ice him out, insisting to drop the subject of his missing memories with the promise he cut back on his vices.

That’s where Butch messed up—again.

Instead of agreeing, he pushed back, digging and prodding for information that she wasn’t willing to provide. Their discussion spiraled into a heated argument before dissolving into bickering, reminiscent of their childhood in the vault. They were two stubborn kids who didn’t know how to communicate with each other—sparks were bound to fly. And so, she ran off to Moira’s to pout in private and he sulked away to the only place he could find comfort—the bar.

He drowned his sorrows, wishing for a different kind of spark between he and Rosie. He’d already been carrying around a flame for her, a fact he was just barely coming to terms with. It wasn’t something worth sharing and ruining a friendship over—not when he couldn’t even manage that. Butch stayed at Moriarty’s all evening—again—until Gob kicked him to the metal wayside.

He tried to continue his wallowing at the Brass Lantern, but all Leo would give him was a can of purified water, insisting he drink it to sober up if he was heading home. The implication nearly sent Butch to the Megaton common house instead—he didn’t deserve to call Rosie’s place that, not when he was still acting like an idiot who hadn’t learned anything since leaving Vault 101 behind. It was that idiocy—mixed with some drunken bravery—that made Butch decide he couldn’t hide away forever. After chugging down another can of water and using the restaurant’s facilities (nearly puking at the pungent, chemical smell of Abraxo), he headed up the rafters and right to Rosie’s front door.

The lights were off, which meant she was either asleep, or had crashed at Moira’s. Butch wasn’t sure which was worse. He either had to be sneaky, or deal with the repercussions of making her feel so uncomfortable that she didn’t feel welcome in her own home. He pushed open the unlocked door as quietly as he could manage, opting for stealth as he slid inside. The house was quiet—but all Butch could focus on was the dull throb at the base of his skull, hoping the sound of his footsteps against the staircase weren’t as loud as he imagined.

At least he managed to keep his balance all the way to the second-floor landing, releasing a deep breath he didn’t notice he’d been holding. All he wanted was to fall face-first into his bed and sleep the terrible day away. Just as Butch leaned against the doorway to his room to call it a night, he noticed the faint glow of a Pip-Boy light coming from Rosie’s bedroom. So she was home. The question now was, what was she doing? Maybe it would be better if he left her alone, but Butch was tipsy, and curious—especially when he heard the click of a holodisk through the slightly ajar door.

“I don’t want you to follow me.”

Hey! Butch perked up when he heard her old man’s voice. What was she doing listening to tapes from her dad, and why was she doing it in the dark?

“God knows life in the Vault isn’t perfect, but at least you’ll be safe. Just knowing that will be enough to keep me going.”

Butch frowned, finally registering that he was listening to Doc Sheridan’s last recording before he abandoned Vault 101—before he abandoned Rosie. At first he felt angry. Butch had to deal with the fallout of the doctor’s choices and had seen the pain caused to those he left behind—even if Rosie never talked about her father, or his death.

“Goodbye, Rosemary. Darling.” Shit—was she crying? He could definitely hear her sniffling. “I love you.”

That’s when Butch realized he was intruding—this was not meant for his ears. He took a step back, trying to slip into his room undetected. His boot knocked the door with a bang while the metal floorboards creaked beneath his clumsy movements. There was no recovering from that. He winced, clenching his teeth as he heard Rosie’s alarmed gasp, stuck to the spot just listening to the faint shuffling on the other side of the door.

“Butch?” she hushed, the light shining in the direction of the hallway. “I—is that you?”

Damnit. He sighed, slumping forward. The jig was up, and now his mind was racing with all the possibilities of how he could manage to sweet-talk his way out of the situation. Make it not look at bad as it seemed—like he wasn’t eavesdropping, or that he hadn’t just spent the last several hours knocking back stale beer and whiskey.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Oh.”

Well that wasn’t very reassuring. Butch couldn’t tell if she sounded disappointed, or surprised. Or just sad. He swallowed the lump in his throat, deciding to inch closer to the doorway, pushing one hand through the gap and wiggling his fingers in a wave.

“See?” he called, waiting a few beats before poking his head inside.

Rosie was sitting on her bed, hugging her knees to her chest, one thick blanket wrapped around her shoulders to combat the winter chill. In front of her was a spread of holodisks and other belongings—hard to tell when the only light was coming from her discarded Pip-Boy on the nightstand. But it was fairly obvious that she had been subjecting herself to some kind of melancholy trip down memory lane, something that Butch felt he was too inadequate and too inebriated to deal with. Still, he wasn’t about to just…leave her alone.

“Want some company?”

He was sure she was going to tell him to get lost, but she nodded, moving the tapes to the side so they were almost out of view. “Okay.”

Even with her whispered approval, he hesitated in the doorway, hating that he wasn’t as sober as he wanted to be, and probably smelled like a Brahmin’s backside. Or worse. Eventually, he made it to her bedside, rubbing the back of his neck as a nervous flutter of warmth radiated through his chest. She generally didn’t let him into the privacy sanctuary of her room and now he was inches away from where she slept. He’d feel more excited about the situation if his mind wasn’t so cloudy.

Rosie stared up at him with a disappointed frown. “You’ve been drinking.”

Butch gulped, trying to ignore the lingering taste of alcohol on the back of his tongue. Maybe it would’ve been better if he stopped for a smoke on the rafters before sneaking back there, or maybe that would’ve just added more fuel to the fire—he was supposed to cut back on that too. He slowly blinked, realizing the silence had stretched on too long for him to lie.

“N—yeah,” he said with a defeated sigh.

More awkward silence. He eyed the space she’d cleared. Was it meant for him? No time to be presumptuous—that’s usually when he made a total ass of himself. Rosie followed his line of sight and nodded, saying nothing else. Butch took the hint to sit down on the edge of the mattress, leaving enough space between them so she wouldn’t feel crowded. Even so, she shifted her legs away, adjusting the blanket so it was tight around her shoulders, almost like she was guarding herself from him. It was hard not to take it personally, but if Rosie didn’t want him there, she would say so. Right?

Ugh. He was too drunk to deal with this level of confusion and self-doubt. What he needed was an appropriate conversation topic that wouldn’t make her more upset. Butch nervously drummed his fingers against his knees as he glanced around her darkened room, before suddenly noticing there was something missing.

“Hey, where’s Dogmeat?” he asked. He thought about how there was no robotic voice to greet him when he returned to the house. “Or Worthy?”

“Moira offered to run Wadsworth’s maintenance routine so she could study his specifications,” she explained with a small shrug. “I left Dogmeat at the shop too, so it would be quiet. So I could be alone,” she avoided his stare. “I didn’t think you’d be coming back tonight.”

“Where else was I supposed to go?” Butch felt a little offended, frowning at her. “Common house was full—” A lie, but she didn’t need to know that, not when he was after sympathy points. “Don’t exactly have the caps to crash at the Saloon, ya’ know.”

Rosie regarded him with an annoyed expression, and he bit his tongue, already regretting what he’d said. “Plenty of caps to spend on the booze, though.”

“I’m sure you’re friendly enough with the girls there, maybe you wouldn’t need to—” she stopped herself short, pursing her lips as her face flushed pink with color. She turned away again.

Butch’s head was clear enough to catch her insinuation, and he didn’t care for it. He could deal with being called a drunk, but he wasn’t some manwhore, sleeping around with any available gal in the Wasteland. Those days were long behind him, especially now that he was with Rosie. Not with Rosie—not in that way.

What was with her, anyways? She’d been acting strangely lately; more flighty than usual, and more emotionally and physically guarded. A weird and worrisome setback after the trust-building they’d done in with their friendship. Rosie had been her usual, anxious self when they were hunkered down in that rainstorm a few weeks ago, albeit with a few mixed signals that had him thinking she wanted to kiss him as much as he wanted to kiss her. He decided to blame it on the whiskey and her head-cold instead.

But then he woke up one morning, face-down in his pillow with a pounding headache and Rosie’s cold shoulder. She still nursed him through his hangover, showing a reserved kindness with her bedside manner as he suffered through a stomach bug the following few days. No more of Moriarty’s moonshine, she ‘prescribed’, written down on a piece of paper that was taped to his Pip-Boy. A whole week passed of them tip-toing around each other, Butch struggling to comprehend what he’d done wrong. When he asked, Rosie skirted the issue, but he just couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie. He stirred the pot until it blew up in his face.

And now? Now they were here, back at what felt like square one.

Butch groaned, smacking his hand to his face as he tugged his fingers through the front of his hair. They really needed to stop running around in circles like idiots. No more falling back into old habits and old traits like they were still stuck underground and under the thumb of the Overseer. Didn’t they agree to a fresh start? Maybe that’s where the problem was. Nineteen years of rivalry didn’t just disappear with a simple apology and a handshake. The two never really talked about their past lives in Vault 101, like drudging up the past would make things between them more complicated than it needed to be. Seeing Rosie now, curled up on her bed, still teary-eyed from crying over the phantom voice of her dead dad made Butch realize that leaving the past behind and building walls never did any good.

He’d felt guilty before, but the knot in the pit of his stomach was a completely different level of regret. Now that they had a relationship—a friendship—he was desperate to keep it that way. Even if it meant pushing down the other, more intense feelings that had blossomed in his heart. It didn’t matter if he thought that maybe, just maybe, Rosie might feel the same way—he’d do anything to mend their broken bonds.

Rosie suddenly moved, leaning forward as she spoke. “I—I’m sorry, I—”

“Hey, no—” he interrupted, shaking his head. Butch turned towards her, scooting so he was sitting on the bed more comfortably. “You don’t need to apologize, Rosie. I do. I’m sorry. Acting like an ass, doin’ things I said I wouldn’t, and pickin’ fights with the only friend I got left in the Wasteland.”

He hesitated on that last part, heart aching within his chest. “We’re still friends, right?”

She nodded, the tiniest of smiles pulling at her lips. “Yes, Butch.”

“Phew,” he sighed, trying to inject some humor into the tense moment. He hated when things got too serious, even when it was necessary. “I really mean it. I don’t wanna keep fuckin’ up like this, backsliding into the jerk you hated growing up.”

He clenched his fingers into a fist before very carefully reaching over to tap her knee. She glanced at where his hand rested but didn’t flinch away.

“You’re all I got, ya’ know?” the words sounded familiar as he spoke them, but he wasn’t sure why.

Rosie’s eyes widened a little, and then, her smile increased—just barely. “Yes. Of course. Who else would take care of a sad sack like you?”

Butch pursed his lips, confused as to why that sounded familiar too. She rested her hand over his for a moment, giving it a light squeeze before flipping it over and sliding her fingers up his wrist to the latch of his Pip-Boy. He watched her movements, finding a strange sort of intimacy to her removing the device and glove for him, as if he wasn’t perfectly capable of doing so himself.

“My apology stands,” she sighed, resting the Pip-Boy on the nightstand next to hers. The light wavered, drowning them both in an eerie, muted glow. “I—I’ve been harsh on you, making demands when I should’ve been more patient.”

“I deserve it,” he replied. He wanted to put his hand back on her knee, wanted any excuse to touch her again, but held back, plucking at a loose strand on his jeans. “Hey, so uh…the other night…”

He trailed, anxious about bringing up the topic that had set off this chain of events in the first place. Rosie blinked at him and said nothing.

“I just—” he tugged at his shirt collar, wondering why he felt so hot. Was that a normal sign of intoxication? “Ya’ got me worried that I did somethin’ really stupid, like…” he trailed off, flicking his gaze away from her face, focusing instead on the way her fingers were twisting around the hem of her blanket. “I didn’t try to hurt you, or—”

“What?” Rosie said, alarmed. She shook her head in earnest. “No! Nothing like…that.”

As intense as she sounded, her words did little to reassure him. Butch continued to pout, wondering if she’d lie to him to spare his feelings. Then again, Rosie wasn’t exactly the best at fibbing, and had the worst poker face. She seemed to notice his skepticism.

“You…asked me to stay with you, so I did,” she reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair back behind her ear and kept her hand there to rest against the side of her neck. It was distracting, almost as much as her soft laugh. “You thought that me helping to take off your jacket meant the evening was leading into something more, but I assure you, even when inebriated, the Butch-man is all talk and no action.”

He was momentarily stunned by her joke, before putting the puzzle pieces together. In a drunken state he’d propositioned her and now, instead of being mad at him, she was teasing him. He flashed her an overexaggerated pout, one that had her hiding her grin behind her hand. Butch leaned sideways across her bed, digging his elbow into the mattress as he propped up his head.

“If ya’ wanted some action, girlie, all you had to do was ask,” he beamed at her, adding a wink when he noted the tint to her cheeks. Too easy. But he wasn’t there to get carried away with flirtatious innuendo—not now. “Ya’ sure I didn’t do, or say anything else that night?”

There had to be more to the story, he just knew it. She wouldn’t have reacted the way she did otherwise. Rosie hesitated, all the humor draining from her face. “You didn’t.”

Before Butch could say anything else, she continued. “Why have you been spending so much time drinking at the bars anyways?”

The pointed question caught him off guard, and he struggled to think of a good enough answer. One that didn’t make him feel vulnerable, at least. As withdrawn as Rosie was about her feelings, Butch was way worse—just so happened that his coping mechanisms were far unhealthier, and probably genetic. From where he was positioned, it was easier to see the collection of holodisks and loose papers, remembering that he’d intruded on a very private moment. He owed her some honesty, for once.

“Homesick, mostly. I think. Maybe,” he cleared his throat, unsure. He traced his fingers against the fabric of her sheets, focusing on the way her left hand rested on the bed in front of her—he still wanted to hold it. “Not for the vault, but…ugh. It’s hard to explain. I’m just—”

He chewed on his bottom lip, in disbelief he was about to say it out loud. But it didn’t seem so strange admitting it to Rosie. “Sad.”

When he finally looked back to her face, he found her blue eyes shining with a kind of sympathy he didn’t expect to find. “I know the feeling.”

Silence blanketed them, but it isn’t as uncomfortable as it was before. There was a quiet understanding as they regarded each other—just two lonely hearted people that were forced to grow up before they were ready. At least they had each other. Butch only wished that fact didn’t make his chest constrict with a kind of yearning that could never be fulfilled.

In an effort to distract himself, he glanced back down at the tapes she had haphazardly shoved beneath the spare pillow. The question danced on the tip of his tongue, and if he had been sober, he probably would’ve remained silent.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Rosie wrung her hands together, obviously anxious at his question. “How much did you hear?”

“Noth—” he decided it was best not to lie, especially when she frowned at him. His whole body felt warm again. “Your pops. Calling you Rosemary.”

She flinched, startled, eyes going wide behind her thick framed glasses. Butch knew it was her full name, but nobody except her old man, the Overseer and Mr. Brotch called her by it. He’d certainly never used it, well, until now. No wonder she seemed surprised—did it sound as foreign as it tasted? She’d given him strange looks when he started using Rosie more often than Stitches, but this was something a little different. A lot different. Like he’d spoken something sacred and forbidden, yet she didn’t look like she wanted to smite him.

“I—” she took a shaky breath, steadying herself. “You know what happened to my dad?”

He nodded solemnly, remaining silent and unmoving. Butch kept his eyes glued to her face, thinking about how he learned about it all secondhand. When she found him in the Muddy Rudder in October, she briefly mentioned her father had died. It wasn’t until he traveled with her to the Citadel that the rest of the blanks were filled in, and he learned about Project Purity and the Enclave, and how Doctor James Sheridan had sacrificed his life to keep the technology out of group’s hands. Rosie had witnessed it all, and barely escaped with the surviving scientists into Brotherhood safety. But she never spoke about it, so neither did he. If Butch knew how much suffering she’d been doing in silence, he might’ve said something sooner.

“I’m still trying to get over it all,” she whispered.

His heart ached for her and the amount of grief she must’ve been fighting through. The regret returned to churn at his stomach, fighting with the ever-present butterflies. Some friend he was. He wanted her to know he could be a compassionate and thoughtful guy—he could show off his romantic side later, God willing. Tonight, Butch DeLoria wore his heart on his sleeve.

He slid his hand across the space between them, and lightly grasped her fingers, brushing his thumb across the back of her knuckles. “Maybe you don’t have to.”

Rosie stared at their clasped hands for a moment, regarding his words. He reluctantly let her go when she pulled away, suddenly turning towards the nightstand. She grabbed his Pip-Boy, placing it between them, leaving hers behind so it could continue to serve as a makeshift lamp. Then, she reached to rifle through the holodisks on the bedspread, the blanket around her shifting. Butch ignored the way her loose shirt flashed the bare skin of her shoulder—now was not the time to get excited over a little bit of flesh.

“I only got to work with my father for a brief time at the Jefferson Memorial,” she started to explain, lifting up a tape that was labeled Project Purity Personal Journal. “I collected all of his journals and recordings but didn’t get a chance to listen to them until…after.”

She hesitated on placing the holodisk into the Pip-Boy’s player. “Like father, like daughter. He was very meticulous in his recordings. Some of these journals date back to before my birth. Before…my mom died and…my dad fled to the vault.”

Talking about her old man was one thing, but Butch wasn’t about to broach the topic of her mother. Hell no. You want to talk about something forbidden, that was it. Rosie didn’t dwell on what she said, toying with the playback controls.

“I thought if I read his notes, listened to him explain…” her voice broke as fresh tears formed in the corners of her eyes. “I would get the closure I’ve been chasing. But—”

She pressed play, and Butch involuntarily winced at the sound of Doctor James Sheridan’s voice. In Vault 101, he wasn’t somebody that necessarily ever had a kind word to say to him, not that Butch was deserving of such respect. He was Rosie’s childhood bully, a general menace, and was always messing up his clinic with blood and excuses. It was strange to hear him in such a disjointed manner, musing about Project Purity. He sounded tired. Guilty.

“It’s been close to twenty years since my last entry. Since I left all of this behind to make a life for my daughter, Rosemary. We spent all that time in Vault 101, tucked away from the rest of the world. It wasn’t perfect, but it was safe, and that’s all I could have hoped for.”

He glowered at the squiggly lines that appeared on the screen of his Pip-Boy. If the good doctor thought Vault 101 was safe, he was living in a world of delusion. Probably why he finally broke out, come to think of it.

“Now, my daughter is a grown woman. Beautiful, intelligent, confident. Just like her mother.”

Rosie was covering her face with one hand now, but it was obvious that she’d begun to cry in earnest, teeth clamped down hard across her bottom lip so she’d remain as silent as possible.

“And as hard as it was to admit it, she doesn't need her daddy anymore.”

The recording ended.

Rosie was unable to hold back the quiet sounds of her sobbing and snapped both hands to her face in and effort to hide her tears. She pushed away her glasses, rubbing at her eyes and cheeks as she turned away. It wasn’t like Butch hadn’t seen her cry before, but this was raw, unfiltered emotion. More than ever he felt like an interloper, like he was seeing something not meant for his eyes.

“I can’t help but feel like…” Rosie hiccupped away another sob, frantically wiping at her face. “Like he blamed me. The reason why Project Purity didn’t continue, why it failed. The reason why my mom died—it was all because of me.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “All those years growing up in the vault. It wasn’t like he was…abusive, just…distant. And now I know why.”

Butch decided it was time to move, time to say something—time to lend some kind of comfort. Even if she ultimately rejected it, he had to try. He pushed himself to sit, scooting his Pip-Boy to the side so his legs could occupy the space instead. In retrospect, he was a lot closer than he intended to be, but there was no backing away now, no second-guessing his decisions. Heart. On. Sleeve.

“Hey, hey,” he tentatively reached out to her shoulders, rolling them under his grasp. “Don’t—”

He wasn’t about to tell her not to cry, but what she was suggesting didn’t sit right with him. Butch titled her chin up with a fleeting touch. Rosie inhaled sharply, and her hands fell to his forearms, but she didn’t push him away. She still couldn’t look at him, staring down at what little space remained between their bodies.

“No way your old man thought that way about you,” he said, tilting his head in an attempt to catch her eyes. “I mean—he wouldn’t say all those things about ya’ if he didn’t think it was true, right? Never thought you’d hear them, so why lie?”

Rosie’s breath was still shaky, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. He quickly swept them away with the pad of his thumb and gingerly cupped the side of her face, fingers tangling in her hair.

“Beautiful, intelligent, confident,” he repeated the words from the holotape, hoping that if she couldn’t believe dear ol’ dad, then she’d at least believe him. “Sounds like the Rosie I know.”

Finally, she looked at him and the breath was stolen right out from his lungs. Her eyes were still glossy, but she’d stopped crying, the blue of her irises shimmering so intensely it was like he was being hypnotized. A blush had settled across her cheeks and nose, creeping up from her pale neck. Butch flicked his gaze to her slightly parted lips, realizing that by titling his chin down, he could kiss her.

A split second of clarity snapped his mind into focus and like a punch to the gut he realized how much of a dumbass move that would be. Kiss her? That was the kind of debauchery that got him into trouble with Rosie in the first place. He thought so, at least. Plus, he couldn’t kiss her when she was vulnerable, and while he was still so full of booze he might as well puke in her trash bin. No way did he want their first kiss to be one he regretted.

Rosie’s fingers dug into his jacket and regardless of what the silent signal meant, he pulled away, giving her space. He couldn’t look at her face for a long while, not wanting to see the possible disappointment in her expression. When he finally dared to glance up, he found her staring at his boots, dirty from whatever he’d walked across while in town that evening. And now they were resting across her bedsheets.

Butch let out a nervous chuckle as he swiftly untied the laces and pushed them off his feet. Rosie offered a lopsided smile at the gesture, though he had to wonder if she actually wanted him to leave instead. He wiggled his toes in his socks, reminding himself that if she wanted him gone, she’d say so. When the silence stretched on for too long, he awkwardly gestured to a holotape that was labeled differently than the others.

“What’s that one?”

Rosie’s smile was much more genuine as she read the label. “Better Days.”

“What’s on it?” Butch asked cautiously. “Doesn’t sound so science-y.”

“It’s—it’s one of my mother’s recordings,” she explained, in a quiet voice.

Butch’s curiosity was spiked. “Whoa, really?”

She seemed to be considering something before grabbing for his Pip-Boy again, swapping out one holodisk for another. This time, he wasn’t sure what to expect, leaning closer to the device in anticipation.

“...that batch of tests was inconclusive, but Madison and I are convinced it's a problem with the secondary filtration system. We're going to re-calibrate the equipment and try again tomorrow, so that—”

Rosie paused the playback, and Butch couldn’t help but grin at the voice he’d heard. He met her gaze, and softly laughed, which only perplexed her. “Your ma sounds just like you,” he said, catching her little, flustered expression. “I mean, you sound like her. Smart. Got those brains from somewhere, huh?”

“I—” she bit down on her bottom lip, holding back a beaming smile. Butch wished she wouldn’t. “I suppose so.”

“Is there more?” he felt selfish for asking. This was her mom, and she’d been willing to share such a private memory with him. He didn’t have to be so greedy.

Rosie fiddled with the Pip-Boy controls, the tint to her cheeks returning. “It’s…embarrassing.”

“Whadd’ya mean?”

She was suddenly interested in a spot on the metal ceiling. “My mom was uhm…interrupted,” she said. “By…my dad.”

Oh. Butch bit back a lewd expression, considering these were Rosie’s parents. Her deceased parents. She noticed his reaction and leaned forward to give his shoulder a playful shove. Well, that was a good sign, if any, that they were back on good terms. Or headed that way.

“Get your mind out of the gutter!” she reprimanded, even if there was a trace of amusement in her tone. “It isn’t like they recorded a—a sex tape, or something.”

Butch’s brain short-wired on Rosie uttering the words sex tape, and it took him a couple seconds to catch up to reality. He pointed at the glowing screen. “How do I know? You’re the one who won’t play it.”

She huffed, but eventually continued the playback, lifting both hands to press against her face as her mother’s voice echoed around them. Whatever Butch was expecting, it wasn’t the playful teasing of a woman scientist, distracted by her amorous husband. Much different than those racy holofilms the Snakes and him used to sneak a peek at in the restricted area. This was romance—this was love.

“We'll move on to diagnosing the issues with the radiation dampeners. That should... Ow! James! Now? We really shouldn't...”

The tiny chortle is what really set him off. Why’d it sound so familiar, like he’d heard it before, replying in his dreams? Butch quickly realized, as he looked back up to meet Rosie’s eyes that he’d heard her giggle in the same way—a rare and wonderful thing, but he’d heard it enough times to catch the similarities now. He wanted to hear it again. Not in a faded memory, but straight from her lips—and he wanted to be the cause.

“Sounds like…they were happy,” he finally said.

Rosie slowly nodded. “Yeah.”

She moved the Pip-Boy back to the nightstand, and he took the hint that there would be no more listening sessions that evening. He had no idea what time it was, but it had to be late, and no doubt that she’d exhausted herself crying—both before and after his arrival. It was time for him to leave.

“Butch?”

This time, Rosie was the one to close the distance, scooting closer to his body before wrapping her arms around his neck in a loose hug. She rested her chin against his shoulder and sighed, the sensation causing a shiver to run down the length of his spine.

“Thank you,” she whispered. It was all she said.

Butch caught up to the moment, looping his arms around her waist, daring to squeeze her closer. “Yeah.”

After a few minutes, she nuzzled her cheek into the leather of his jacket. “You smell like gin. And cigarette ash. If it weren’t for the pomade and cologne, I’d probably kick you out.”

Butch snickered, but his brain was too hazy to come up with a proper comeback. Either from a sudden onset of drowsiness or the lingering effects of his intoxication, he wasn’t sure. “Yeah, well you…”

He rested his head against hers, pressing his nose through her dark hair. She smelt pretty, fresh and warm from a recent shower. The words fell from his lips before he could stop them. “You smell nice.”

Rosie very softly laughed, a quiet little giggle that ghosted across the shell of his ear and warmed his body and soul. She went quiet after that, going still in his arms. He didn’t dare to move, even after several minutes turned into almost a half-hour. His eyes went droopy, and he started to tilt sideways as it became harder to combat sleep.

“Hey, Rosie,” he hushed, trying to rouse her. “Time for bed. Think you’d rather sleep horizontally, yeah?”

She hummed, arms tightening around his shoulders. “Okay.”

When he tried to pull away again, she protested. “Don’t leave.”

Butch froze in place—surely she was sleep-talking. Did she know what she was talking about? Just a few weeks ago she was abhorrently against the idea of sharing a bed and now…?

Rosie spoke one last time, in a barely-there whisper. “Please.”

There was no denying her now, not that he necessarily wanted to leave. Butch only wished the circumstances were a little bit better. Clearer. Less muddled and thick with heavy emotion. If he wasn’t so tired, he might’ve had a crying session himself, but that could wait for another evening.

Instead, he shifted their bodies backwards across the bed, uncaring that they were laying across the mattress diagonally, and that his feet were hanging off the bed. If he moved her again, he’d surely wake her and risk ruining the entire moment. He grabbed the blanket and pulled it across their torsos, shielding them from the cool air of her room. Rosie snuggled close, arms curled tight against his chest—she was blissfully asleep. Butch tucked his arm around her waist, allowing himself one fleeting kiss to her temple as he succumbed to the darkness of sleep.

“Goodnight,” he whispered. “Rosemary.”

#fallout 3 #butch deloria x f!lone wanderer #butch deloria #rosie sheridan #fallout fanfic #rosie sheridan fics #angst train choo choo #donald glover emotions (tm)#more of Butch in his feelings #Rosie has a cry #they do hug though so it's not all sad

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no-ill-wind · 6 years

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Top 10 Tracks of 2018

After the announcement of Grammy nominees, I sat down to sort out my ten favorite new tracks of 2018. Last year saw major releases from my top three favorite acts and releases by a few more groups that would become new favorites. This year did not pack that same punch but thus allowed me to branch out further and latch onto some other artists I might not have explored as much. As usual, I’m only sharing one track per artist.

10. Best Part - Daniel Caeser feat. H.E.R. A favorite in pop circles in 2018 that also offers some of the most distinctive and delectable harmonies of the year. These two collaborators come together so genuinely that they sound like they’ve been one act all along as they sing, “You're the coffee that I need in the morning // You're my sunshine in the rain when it's pouring.” What a beautiful sentiment. From dancing to this song with my partner to hearing my guitar students eager to learn it in class, this song has followed me through the semester and I am glad for it.

The list continues below with Gorillaz, Childish Gambino, and more.

9. Black Eyes - Bradley Cooper While not the banner song of the crowd- and critic-favorite film A Star is Born, “Black Eyes” is no less impactful, being the electrifying opener to the 2018 film. It strikes you with the one-two punch of, “Wow, can Bradley Cooper sing!” and “I can’t wait to see what else this film has in store!” It’s a moment of true musical cinema. Cooper and Co. leverage the power of music in incredible ways from start to finish, and as a result this introductory song stayed with me long after leaving the theater.

8. Suspirium - Thom Yorke Radiohead frontman Thom Yorke followed in the footsteps of his counterpart, Jonny Greenwood, in pursuing film score this year. While Greenwood has already enjoyed an Oscar nomination for his soundtracks, Yorke is just now applying his electronic and ethereal musical sensibilities to the world of film music. Despite the appropriately eerie and desolate electronica that accompanies most of this year’s Suspiria remake, the title (ish) song that also served as the soundtrack’s lead single is a bare but entrancing piano waltz. “Suspirium” thus captured my imagination immediately, as I knew it would as the latest brain child from the brain behind my favorite band. Everything that I love about Radiohead is here.

7. This Is America - Childish Gambino Donald Glover proves himself to be one of my favorite working artists with everything that he does. The mere fact that he does everything is inspiration enough. For years he was one of my favorite actors and comedians. Then in 2016 he surprised even die-hard fans with what unarguably became the best song of the year with “Redbone.” “This Is America” deserved all of the attention it got. A pastiche of musical styles and a barrage of complicated images, the video which introduced this song to the world is as complex as they come. The music is visceral, perhaps the most significant factor that divides casual media with serious and meaningful art. The answer to “How could he top ‘Redbone?’” is this.

6. Magic City - Gorillaz Everything about this album is a reaction to 2017′s Humanz, from it’s length to it’s relative though glaring lack of featured artists. As someone who cherished Humanz as the first release from the band I experienced as a converted fan, I struggled to really get into The Now Now at first. I am all about it now, but from the beginning the track that I felt perhaps the most affection for was “Magic City.” With surreal imagery and sincere emotion operating side-by-side, this track works as the heart at the center of this chill and synthetic album. It plays in my head constantly.

5. 100 Years - Florence + the Machine Though The Guardian deemed this track a “misfire” in their tempered review, I knew from first listen that it would become my favorite from the album. Though I agree with some of the reviews that High as Hope marks perhaps F+TM’s most tepid album thus far (don’t get me wrong, it is still remarkable), I disagree here and knowingly go against the grain of criticism in declaring “100 Years” the best song on the album. What the album suffers from is a low-rumbling sense of self-parody, as if this album was someone else’s attempt to create “Florence” with a capital F. Here on this rousing track, Florence and her machine rise above their own formula to bellow out the most fresh, bold, and sincere thrill since How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful.

4. Movement - Hozier Hozier’s next big hit, though arriving late in the year, was instantly captivating. Perhaps it was the bewitching switch from minor to major as the music flows from verse to chorus. Perhaps it was the hypnotic grace of dancer Sergei Polunin. “Movement” boldly announced itself as a worthy successor to Hozier’s breakout “Take Me to Church,” perhaps its superior. In suitable fashion, Hozier reasserts himself as beloved purveyor of graceful, harmonious indie rock.

3. Make Me Feel - Janelle Monae This might be Monae’s year, as she wields the potent weapon of her third studio album, Dirty Computer. She sets her sights on the hearts of critics and audiences alike with music that is both intensely addictive and socially advocative. The song feels like the moment just before bubblegum pops, like the euphoria of feeling so in love that you can feel it in your stomach. It’s the song that has come to define “bisexual lighting” while also being one of those songs that you can put on repeat and never lose the way it makes you feel. I am afraid that Dirty Computer is too interesting to walk away with the Album of the Year award it has been nominated for - the Grammys prove time and time again to be bound by the gravity of what is simple and what is everywhere - but Monae certainly deserves the accolade if the Recording Academy can muster the courage.

2. Please Don’t Die - Father John Misty God’s Favorite Customer was Father John Misty’s The Now Now. It is an about-face from an album released the previous year that many people deemed too big or too full, focusing less on the outside world and turning inward to the artist himself. Unlike Damon Albarn, however, Father John Misty stayed jarring rather than go languid. The fifth track from his fourth album is jarring before you even hit play with such an abrasive and forthright title. What follows is a heartfelt and concerning look at his own self-destructive habits from the outside, specifically from the point of view of his concerned wife. She shows up in the music video as the angelic hero he has always painted her to be, but the daring falsetto that strains above the plodding undercurrent of the devil’s sleigh bells intimates the fear that it might be too late to be saved. It is a potent song that wakes the album up from the ennui of formula. While the album is angsty through and through, it sounds at times like someone else was paid to write a Father John Misty album based on the model of his first three albums, in much the same way that Florence’s new album does. “Please Don’t Die” thus plays the role of wake-up call in more ways than one, and from the first listen claims the title of enduring favorite that will, ironically, outlive the rest of this album.

1. Beyond - Leon Bridges By perfecting a throwback sound that you can’t help but look forward to, Leon Bridges has crafted what is easily this year’s most charming music. The Fort Worth darling has proven himself more than just “interested” in recreating the sounds of decades past, but damn good at it. If we opened the yearbook of this year’s musicians to look at the Superlatives, Bridges would be “Best to Bring Home to Mom and Dad.” It all seems genuine though. It’s more than just a novelty act, summoning the Ghosts of Soul Music Past. The whole album delivers the power of soul straight to present audiences like he’s a man dancing by a jukebox in a diner in the past who is so in love that his song can be heard not just across space but across time. As catchy and endearing as it is well-constructed, “Beyond” is wholesome music that feels like butterflies, probably best summed up by the wonder-struck fadeout, “O me o my I can’t explain, she might just be my everything.”

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