#who votes for next time rosie needs a proper cry session

[eeveevie]

fresh start

Rosie returns to Rivet City on an errand and finds a familiar face loitering in the Muddy Rudder. Butch is the last person she wants to see, and is the last person she wants to talk to about the recent traumas she’s faced. Homesick and longing for companionship, she agrees to bring him along--but first, the two have a long list of differences to hash out. 

Unprompted, but something I’ve been meaning to do. Back tracking in the timeline I’ve been setting up in their one-shots, but hey, I tend to do that anyways. 

Side note: This is my 100th individual story posted on Ao3!!! 

Butch DeLoria x Rosie Sheridan (Lone Wanderer)

3551 words | [read on Ao3] 

Rosie could measure her entire life in days. If she could reference her meticulously kept journals, she would narrow events down even further by the hour, by the minute. Even without the Pip-Boy on her wrist that showed her the date, she had a running clock in her head, constantly reminding her of the passage of time.

A hundred days ago, she celebrated her nineteenth birthday. Thirty-five days later, she left Vault 101 in search for her father. It had been forty days since he sacrificed himself at Project Purity, forty days since she had begun her search for the G.E.C.K. Twenty days ago, she returned to Vault 101 and resolved the infighting, only to be told by Amata to never return.

It was all documented, perfectly outlined in the notebooks she carried in her pack—but she had memorized the dates, the events so engrained in her mind she would carry them with her until the day she died. One day at a time—she reminded herself like a prayer, the best coping mechanism she had while traversing the Capital Wasteland alone.

That day, she had returned to Rivet City after spending time at the Citadel, agreeing to pick up the last of Doctor Li’s scientific research notes. Rosie intended to perform a few other errands while she visited the permanently docked ship, remembering she hadn’t quite gotten around to narrowing down the city’s true history for Moira and her Wasteland Survival Guide. As she crossed over the expansive bridge, she glanced west to see the Jefferson Memorial on the horizon and paused, overcome with thoughts of her father and what could’ve been. But she didn’t have time to mourn—not then, not now.

Harkness was the only one to formally welcome her as she entered the marketplace, the other merchants too busy with their idle conversations to notice her. Rosie greeted the guard with a smile and noted the way his eyes flicked to the weapon slung over her shoulder. It was the plasma rifle he had gifted her, and she had been careful to keep it in the pristine condition it was in when he first handed it over. Having access to the Brotherhood’s quartermaster helped, but it wasn’t always easy.

“How are you?” he asked.

She considered his question, wondering if he realized how loaded it was. If she answered honestly, it would do nothing but drag the mood down and they were hardly friendly enough for her to become a sobbing, uncontrollable mess. Instead, she steadied her breath and gave a little nod. “I’m well.”

“What brings you back to Rivet City?” Harkness’ nature was to interrogate, so it wasn’t surprising he was prepared with a list of questions for her.

“Science Lab, to pick up more of Doctor Li’s belongings,” she answered. “If Seagrave has the time, I would like it if he can look at my Pip-Boy. There’s something wrong with it.”

Ever since her father filled the monument’s rotunda with radiation, the screens had been half-static, making travel complicated. The scientists at the Brotherhood had tampered with it for all of five minutes before telling her to find somebody with better knowledge of Vault technology—the Rivet City tinkerer was her next best bet.  

Harkness’s eyebrows perked up. “You know, a few days ago, a kid with a Pip-Boy just like that showed up here. Said he was from Vault 101, just like you.”

Rosie’s chest tightened at the implication—Amata had promised to open the vault doors so the inhabitants could trade, but she hadn’t expected it to be so soon. She wondered who would have traveled so far in a short amount of time and briefly, she grew excited at the thought of reuniting with her best friend. Even if her departure had been bittersweet, Rosie would do anything to see Amata—or anybody familiar from the vault, if only to feel closer to home again. Well, almost anybody from the vault. The more she thought about it, only one of the rebels had such a strong desire to leave and that was Butch DeLoria—somebody she had no interest in seeing.

“Can’t say he had much in the way of manners, though,” Harkness muttered.

She frowned, hopes dashed. It was almost certainly Butch.

The guard intuitively picked up on her disappointment. “Thought that would be some good news for you.”

“No,” Rosie fumbled, forcing a polite smile. “Yes—I mean, it’s unexpected, is all.”

“Well,” Harkness cleared his throat. “From what I can tell, he’s been spending his time down in the bar, if you need to find him.”

Rosie did not—but she wasn’t going to be so rude to Harkness about it. She filed the information away in her mind, silently thanking the man with a curt nod before moving on. Seagrave was absent from his stall, so she continued around to the bulkhead door that led to the upper decks, determined to stay focused on her main goal. Doctor Li’s room was practically empty of possessions, save for the terminal on her desk and a few old notebooks in the drawers. Rosie got to work on transferring the data onto a spare holodisk, staring out into the hall as the computer periodically beeped.

Curiosity was about to get the best of her as she thought about making her way below deck to the Muddy Rudder. She had never been to the ship’s bar before—never had a reason to, seeing as she didn’t drink—and so far, nothing in her travels had directed her there. Even now, even with Harkness’ information, she hardly thought a visit was warranted. So what if Butch DeLoria was loitering about in Rivet City? She didn’t even like him, and she was sure he felt the same—even if he had been suspiciously kind in their last few interactions. That homesick feeling returned, clenched gut and heavy chest making it feel like she wanted to retch, or cry, or both.

The computer buzzed at her, signaling the files were ready and the original reason for coming to the city was accomplished. As she walked down the halls, she contemplated renting the extra room from Vera Weatherly but instead, at the juncture, she turned right, taking the path that led to the ship’s stairway. Rosie’s mind was racing, an internal argument raging about what she was doing. Even she couldn’t give herself a clear answer, forced to continue down the stairs until she was standing outside the bar entrance. She just needed to see for herself that Amata had kept her promise and then she would leave—she didn’t even need to speak with Butch.

The second-floor balcony of the bar was dark and deserted, the metal planks beneath her feet creaking as she tentatively made her way down the stairs. She peeked towards the bar and while there were a few people sitting among the barstools, there was one person she recognized all too well.

Butch was hunched over his Pip-Boy, expression hard to read from where she stood. But he looked no worse for wear than the last time she saw him—which was surprising, considering how far away Rivet City was from Vault 101. He wasn’t wearing his vault suit, swapped out for tattered jeans and faded white t-shirt, though he was still sporting the same leather jacket with the embroidered snake on the back—Tunnel Snakes—she had a matching one hanging over the back of her couch in Megaton. His hair was still elaborately styled, and she was sure he reeked of pomade. The only thing that was different about him was the pistol holstered to his side—that, and the glass of whiskey set before him.

“Hey honey,” the waitress greeted, pulling Rosie from her thoughts.

She flinched, realizing she had been standing there at the foot of the stairs just staring—all the lessons on societal norms blanked from her mind as she remained silent. One foot moved backwards, thinking she could just as easily slink away and pretend she never came to the Muddy Rudder in the first place. The older lady looked at her confused, prompting Butch to glance up and over his shoulder. Their eyes met and as he grinned, she froze, instantly regretting whatever decision that led her there.

“No way!” he shouted in disbelief, swiveling to face her. “Stitches. My best gal, the one who sprung me from the vault!” He tapped his glass, which seemed to signal the bartender. “I think I owe this lovely lady a drink!”

Rosie blinked, sure she had woken up in some kind of fever dream. Who did Butch think he was? Did he get off on toying around with playing nice after all those years of teasing and torture? For nineteen years, she had known him as a bully, a jerk—that didn’t get to change just because he had recently discovered how to play nice. Frustration took over and she shook her head.

“No,” she insisted, sidestepping around him. She wasn’t sure where she was heading, but the sooner she got away, the sooner she could berate herself over the foolish choice of finding him in the first place.

“Why’d you come down here then?” he asked, obviously annoyed. His eyes were narrowed as he glanced over her appearance. “A bar ain’t a place for a goody-good like you. Which means, you came to see me.”

She rolled her eyes, arms crossed over her chest. It didn’t matter that there was some truth to his statement—she was never going to admit that to him. Butch motioned to the empty seat next to him and after a stretch of silence she relented with a deep sigh. Better judgement told her to walk away but somewhere deep down she knew if she did, she’d have regrets. Full of apprehension, she eased herself onto the barstool, lowering her pack of belongings onto the floor and shifting it so it was safely tucked under her feet.

“Nuka-Cola?” he offered, and she nodded in reply.

Butch fetched a few caps from his pocket before she could protest, exchanging them with the bartender who set the cold bottle in front of Rosie. She busied herself with taking a few sips, ignoring the fact his eyes continued to dart across her face, occasionally flicking to her rifle and down to survey the rest of her body. She rubbed at her arm, uncomfortable in the quiet—usually when the two were in each other’s presence, it was turbulent. When she returned to the vault, she had purposefully avoided him, until he cornered her in the clinic demanding to know what her problem was. Amata had broken up that argument and Butch hadn’t gotten a straight answer before Rosie left for good.

He grumbled something into his glass before repeating it clearly for her. “Going to give me the silent treatment for the rest of our lives, Stitches?”

“Would that be so bad?” she shrugged, taking another drink. “We don’t even like each other.”

He bristled, eyebrows furrowing. “Speak for yourself. When have I ever said that I don’t like you?”

Rosie scoffed, side-eyeing him. “Actions speak louder than words, Butch,” she set her bottle down and raised her hand, counting off on her fingers. “All those times you tripped me down the hallway on the way to class, put crude notes on my back, when you’d put bubblegum in my hair, or when you cut my braid off?”

“Yeah, okay,” he muttered, face slightly red. “But we were kids!”

“You were a jerk to me up until the day I was forced to leave the vault, and you know it,” she was firm, amazed she had the courage to confront him at all. “Just because I helped your mom and you gave me some stupid jacket doesn’t make us friends.”

His frown was more of a pout as he slouched against the bar. “The jacket ain’t stupid.”

“What are you doing down here, Butch?” she questioned, changing the subject. “How did you get to Rivet City from the vault?”

“Same way anyone does,” he answered, indifferently. Rosie decided that was code for dumb luck. How he seemed to get across the Wasteland unscathed while she barely survived without Brotherhood assistance was baffling. “What do you care? Shouldn’t you be looking for your old man, anyways?” he asked, downing the rest of the amber liquid in his glass with a hiss.

“He’s dead,” she replied, solemnly. The Nuka-Cola was back in her hand and she focused on the bright spotlight hanging above them until shadows formed in the corners of her eyes. “He died before I returned to the vault.”

She didn’t owe him an explanation, but he got one anyways, the truth hanging in the air between them and creating a pocket of tension. Before she could stop herself, or even realize what was happening, tears prickled her vision. Mortified, she raised a hand to try and shield her face, wiping at her eye beneath her glasses.  

“Shit, Rosie—I—” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, silencing himself for a moment. “Hey, hey, don’t cry.”

She was caught off guard by his use of her name, unsure if she could remember the last time he had said it—if he ever had. It was always Stitches, Nosebleed or some other teasing nickname, never her given name. He patted at his jacket, one hand disappearing into the inside pocket before brandishing a white, linen handkerchief. Rosie softly gasped as he pushed it into her hands, staring down at the delicate thing in bewilderment. In one corner, there were two letters—E.D.—it had clearly belonged to his mother. Butch remained silent, head turned away in embarrassment. She removed her glasses before carefully dabbing at her tears, not wanting to tarnish the fabric. Awkward silence stretched between them until he cleared his throat, catching her attention. Even though he was sitting next to her, he was mostly a blurry haze without her glasses, which was fine, given the circumstances.

“Do…you want to talk about it?” he hesitantly asked.

Rosie gave a little shake of her head, wiping at her eyes some more before folding the handkerchief back into a small square. “No,” she whispered. “I’m not ready yet.”

His expression was a mix of sympathy and skepticism, one she had seen from some of the scientists who had survived the attempted Enclave coup at Project Purity. She knew full well the ramifications of keeping her trauma bottled up, but there wasn’t a soul left on Earth that she trusted to help with the magnitude of emotions she was carrying. Not Amata, not Doctor Li, certainly not Butch.

“Have you been traveling around by yourself this whole time?” he asked next.

She sniffled, shooting a slight glare in his general direction. “It might surprise you, but I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” he mumbled. When she adjusted her glasses back on the bridge of her nose, he was eyeing the plasma rifle slung across her back again. He focused in on her Pip-Boy, one hand reaching out to tap at the glass screen. “What’d you do to it?”

Rosie reflexively pulled her arm back, but still acknowledged the flickering screens and garbled text. But it still worked, and she had been managing for forty days. Forty days—the date flashed before her eyes and she clicked through the menus to confirm she was correct. Butch’s fingers wiggled against the cuff once more.

“Give it here,” he encouraged. Rosie didn’t budge—if anything, she shrunk further away from his grasp. “Come on, let me see.”

“What, so you can make it worse?” she refuted.

He scowled at her. “Just give me the damn Pip-Boy, Stitches.”

Reluctantly, she removed the device from her arm before sliding it across the bar to him. Butch studied the screens for a while, tutting his tongue in disapproval. He fished his pocketknife from his jacket, flicking up the blade before prying open the side panel, exposing the wires and processor. He hummed, maneuvering his fingers along a few cables before tapping the screen a few times. Rosie continued to watch him tamper as she drank her soda, wondering where he had picked up the skill. As far as she knew, he had no interest in science or technology, and had never seen him tinkering with projects in the vault. After a few more moments, he wordlessly handed the Pip-Boy back, the reboot screen fading away to reveal a perfectly clear display—free of glitches and errors.

She gaped at him in disbelief. “What—but how?”

“I can be good at things when I wanna be,” he touted, crossing his arms. “I might not be your kind of smart but I’m not stupid.”

Rosie finished securing the Pip-Boy around her wrist, smiling a little when the Vault-Boy gave a thumbs up in recognition of her profile. Her expression fell when she realized her name has been updated to Stitches.

Butch idly drummed his fingers along the counter. “Ya’ know, if you ever need some backup out there, you know where to find me.”

Rosie held back her amusement. Despite what he had just done to help, she was resistant. “No offense, but why would I ever travel with you?”

“I figured you’d want a friend,” he responded, the same annoyed expression from before settling on his features.  

There was that word again. She sighed. “We aren’t—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he chided, interrupting her. “Maybe we could try to be friends. A new gang, just the two of us.”

Butch being who he was aside, the allure of company nearly had her blindly agreeing. The Wasteland was a lonesome place, and the loss of her father and home compounded the isolation. She thought back to how desperate she was for something that reminded her of the vault—but this wasn’t what she imagined. Rosie didn’t want to settle, but she didn’t want to turn away from the offer either.

“I can’t just forgive you for nineteen years of suffering so easily,” she started. “We aren’t underground anymore. You can’t treat me like some plaything anymore.”

His lips were pressed in a flat line as he processed her words. “You were a jerk to me too, you know.”

Yes, Rosie was aware, but she had acted out of defense—she wasn’t going to apologize for her behavior until he did. She silently glared at him, and he rolled his eyes before kicking the toe of his boot against the ground. Of course, they were both incredibly stubborn in their own ways—more alike than she even realized.  

“Fine, fine,” he sighed, scratching at the skin behind his ear as he avoided her eyes. “Whatcha say to a do over? Start over everything between us nice and fresh?”

Rosie made to argue when she realized his proposal actually sounded reasonable. It took a moment to fully understand that Butch had suggested something so amiable, her brain thoroughly confused and mildly frustrated. Why hadn’t he ever approached conflict this way when they were living in Vault 101? Adolescent peer-pressure was a likely culprit, but she had to wonder what else had caused such a dramatic shift in his personality.

“Now isn’t the time to give me the cold shoulder, Stitches,” he said, leaning his elbow against the bar. “Can we just…say sorry and ditch the past where it belongs?”

“You first,” she said firmly. She’d never heard an apology from him that wasn’t coerced from one of the adults.

Surprisingly, he made the effort to meet her gaze, baby-blue eyes locking onto hers. “I’m sorry, Rosie.”

Short, but she supposed it would have to suffice. To his credit, it sounded…sincere. A strange warmth radiated from her chest, but she ignored the feeling, focusing on her response. “I accept your apology,” she nodded. “I’m sorry too, Butch.”

“Whadd’ya say to the Tunnel Snakes riding again?” he asked, mood visibly cheerier. “Or, y’know, slithering, whatever!”

Rosie smiled, amazed where the conversation had ended up. Unexpected, but better to make the best of a strange situation than be stuck in one place forever. Or in her case, wander aimlessly, alone. She nodded at him, handing back the white handkerchief. “Okay, Butch. If you can call two people a gang.”

“Pfft,” he dismissed her skepticism with a wave of the hand. “We’ll be the most awesome gang the Wasteland’s ever seen.”  

A few hours later, the two stood outside on one of the city’s overlook points, Butch leaning over the railing without fear of falling into the waters below. Rosie was plotting a course for their return to Megaton, figuring it would be a good idea to stop at the Citadel and get her companion some better gear, if he wanted. She flicked her eyes up to him, groaning at the way he was developing a large ball of spit to release over the ledge—at least his company wouldn’t lack for entertainment. Behind him, the sun was beginning to set, casting the Jefferson Monument in a hue of dark orange. The pain of the memories still lingered, but at least she wasn’t alone, not anymore.