Chapter Text
Butch dreamed of the moment he got out, he knew his sorry ass wouldn't last long cooped up in a place like that - hell, they didn't even give him the job he wanted! ‘hairdresser’?! Have fun trying to change it! No! He was a barber, for Pete's sake, big difference. With help from odd strangers, merchants and almost dying more times than he'd like to admit, he made his way to Rivet City. Not as nice as Vault 101, but at least better than the rest of the wasteland.
Time had passed since then, it wasn't exactly easy to keep track in the wastes. Butch would say three weeks more or less; so three weeks it was. Some old lady had offered him a spare bunker, out of pity.
He slept through the day. As he woke he stumbled into the lower deck, hoping to get a drink - assuming they had booze. There was a lot of baggage to unpack and lord knows a drink does wonders to keep your mind off of things (it doesn’t, but don’t tell him that). There was swagger to his hips, confident to anyone that didn't know him. Realistically? He was nervous, he felt like a lost puppy trying to play with the big bad wolves.
Butch would rather die than admit it, but he’s more than missing the Doctor's daughter. Being without her for what felt like ages left something empty inside. You'd never think them so close — especially with how often they fought. He’d be drinking about that, too.
Butch shuffled onto a rickety stool, putting on his best charmer face before speaking, "So, whatcha got for drinks?” he asked. “Well, there’s always good old vodka - expensive though, bourbon, or the shit we brew here, some beer.” she replied monotonously, reciting it like a script.
Disappointing, but beggars can’t be choosers “Eh, a beer will do. Biggest mug ya got’ …please.” He leans in on his elbows and stares at the counter idly as she gets his drink.
Hardly an hour later he was out of this world, red faced and teetering around the halls. One beer became two, two became three, and so on. His hair was a mess, the strands clinging to his moist skin, sticky, like sap. Did he care right now? No, not really. Later? Definitely.
Butch paid no mind to the people around him. They were just clones, faces on faces, for all he cared. No one here was important, and nothing felt real. A nearby divot seemed as good a place as any to sit for the night, nothing out of the ordinary here. His vision blurred in and out, eyelids heavy while he tried to stave off the nausea. It wasn't until someone passed by with an unmistakable ‘S’ on their back he whirred back into gear.
Was that a tunnel snakes jacket? No one out here had one of those, and the only person he ever gave one to was - oh. Oh god, did something happen to her- A loud “oomph”. He reached for his pockets, hoping to find a weapon. Butch wrapped his hands around his neck and kept his head pinned down. “Where is She? What did you do !?”
The man kicked in protest, switching over to his backside, stomach up. He spat in Butch's face, trying to wrangle him off. Butch was thrashing, violent, like a wild animal. "Now I dunno know who the fuck you are," Butch growled, fists shaking, "but you tell me right now what you did with her!" He slammed his knuckles into the man's jaw, again and again. "No one else is supposed to have that jacket!" Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, nothing was making sense, bleary eyed and piss drunk out of his god damned mind.
Did Butch really not recognize him? His face, or eyes… hell even his hair colour should’ve been a dead giveaway, it’s not exactly popular. Then again, the surgeon had done a hell of a job. Wyvern hadn't seen his own reflection in months, but he remembered the old him. Apparently, Butch didn't.
"Butch... ? Jesus.” He let out a few wheezing hacks with blood still making its way through his mouth. Bitter, metallic, one he knew all too well from months in the wastes.
The punching stopped.
“How the fuck do you— how do you know who I am? You better start answering now.” he was barely releasing his grip, giving a more-than-skeptical glare.
“I.. will but first can you— get off of me- and we can go somewhere else. Less open.” That.. came out hoarser than he intended, but it’s hard to talk with over a hundred pounds crushing your ribs and clammy hands on your throat.
Dirt and blood smudged on his face. He half-carried Butch, who leaned heavily against him, barely able to walk. Tossing a handful of caps to the hotel clerk, The man guided them to an empty room. He threw himself and Butch down on the bed. He gave a pained sigh then pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated.. Butch was drunk, upset, and maybe even more of a mess than he was. How would he explain this? It's not something anyone sees in the Vault, and any time he’d tried to talk about it back then, people shut him down.
Laughed, worse.
He gave a moment of thought before speaking.
“You want an answer? I didn’t do anything to her,” he said, the words catching in his throat. Just saying it made him want to vomit… “Nothing happened because… it’s me, Butch. I am her. Or I was.”
He gave a pleading look, his mind racing a hundred miles an hour.
“......Wait, So you're sayin’, you're.. G—I, shit, do I call you that? What do I..” Butch was the last person he thought would accept it, let alone so easily. A heavy stone laying on his chest had been lifted.
As awful as it was, he couldn't help but laugh.. “It's Wyvern now.”
Butch ultimately decided that this fit better. Hell, he too, was a black sheep in a crowd of white wool.
“I think I like that. I'm glad I got you back.”
This whole thing reminded him of when they were early teens, still full of the energy of childhood but the rollercoaster hormones always seemed to bring. A particularly bad fight had broken out between the two – Wyvern had made a snide comment about his mother, Butch retorting about the others lack of one. You know the rest. Wyvern stood victorious in their tussle.. Butch still remembers the sound of his own arm breaking.
***
Butch cried, he cried until he couldn't breathe. Some damp corner no one in the Vault ever checked, or so he thought. It was a few hours later when Wyvern, nose still bleeding, came wandering down. He felt guilty, he never actually meant to hurt Butch like that. Never. He was going to the shooting room his dad showed him a couple years back, Butch just happened to be there, too.
An unexpected visitor. ‘Hey.. , listen man, I'm sorry. My dad can fix you up’ the words were soft, genuine. He wasn't sure how to react at the time. ‘Fuck off, Nosebleed. I don't want your daddies help anyway.. don't need it. Get outta here.’ Wyvern didn’t leave. Instead, he sat down beside Butch—probably a little too close for comfort. ‘Nope, not going anywhere, not until you agree to let me get you help.’ Butch groaned, god, this kid really was a goody two shoes. No response. He'd hardly noticed he was passing out from pain when he felt a warmth covering his hand. ‘What're you doi–” he was cut off, Wyvern was looking so deeply into his eyes. Almost predatory, it was offputting. Butch couldn't help but stare back. Minutes passed, and then the spell broke. ‘Shit,’ Wyvern snatched his hand away, ‘Sorry, just..’ he looked regretful. ‘Just forget about it, man. Fine, you can take me to see the Doc. Least’ that gives me an excuse to get outta whatever this is.’
Everything was different, and the same.
“Me too, Butch.”