Ghoul Scavver Tiff

Butch ^

Another snippet of the Charon x Butch one shot!

——

Butch swallows.

At first he figures it’ll be a bit of a bitch to carry, but he can tough it out. He grabs the bag’s straps and pulls. It lifts an inch off the ground before thumping back down.

Jesus Christ. What’d he pack in here? A spare water plant? Young blood, his ass.

“Oof—”

The sound slips out before Butch can stop it. His mouth snaps shut immediately. Right. The ghoul. Shit. His eyes flick sideways toward the door. Charon is still there, leaning against the wall like some kind of giant, miserable statue. Watching. Not saying anything. And somehow that’s worse.

He’s gotta pick this stupid thing up. Fast. Before Charon finally answers the question of whether ghouls can laugh.

Butch drops fast, wraps both arms around the tote, and lifts with a strangled grunt. His stomach tightens. His back locks. His fingers claw into the fabric as he forces out one ugly step, then another. Then someone plucks the bag right out of his grip. Butch’s breath punches out of him as he looks up. Charon.

“Damn it…” he hisses under his breath.

The bag sits in Charon’s grip like it’s empty. His long arms wrap around it, making it painfully obvious how dense he is. The movement pulls at the lean muscle in his arms and shoulders. Not bulky. Better than that. Solid. Efficient. The kind of build that makes lifting look easy. Butch’s eyes drift from the steady rise of his chest to the line of his jaw. Then he catches Charon’s eyes.

Shit.

He’s staring.

“Yeah.” Butch crosses his arms and stares hard at the opposite wall. “About time. I was wonderin’ when you’d figure it out. I mean, I was basically settin’ you up for that.”

“Naturally.” The word comes flat. A low huff follows. “My apologies.”

Charon turns and starts walking. A pit opens in Butch’s gut. The bastard doesn’t even stop to ask where they’re going. Doesn’t check. Doesn’t hesitate. Just knows. Like he’s always got a handle on things.

The walk through Megaton is a private kind of humiliation. A cord coils tighter and tighter around Butch’s guts with every step as he trails behind Charon. Stuck staring at the broad expanse of the ghoul’s back. One long wall of a man moving steadily ahead of him.

Heat crawls into his face when he realizes how close he’s gotten. Practically stepping on Charon’s heels.

They wind their way down toward the edge of Megaton’s crater, where a maze of pipes snakes out from the town. Rust coats every inch of them. The metal looks so brittle Butch figures one good kick could turn the whole setup into scrap.

The moment Charon goes down on one knee, Butch’s brain blue-screens. Some dumb caveman pry of his brain starts shouting and his mouth moves before his brain catches it.

“H-Hey! The hell’re you—what’re you doin’, proposing?” he blurts, ears burning before he even realizes what came outta his mouth.

God, he’s a fuckin’ idiot.

Charon just looks up at him, deadpan. And those weird-ass eyes, the whites buried beneath layers of cloudy tissue don’t give away a single thought behind them.

The ghoul doesn’t say a word. Just keeps staring back at Butch before reaching into the bag beside him, pulling out some complicated-looking tool, and dropping his attention down to the busted pipe. Like Butch isn’t worth answering.

Heat creeps under Butch’s skin until his ears are damn near burning off. He laughs to cover it, but the sound’s as convincing as a rat pretending it didn’t just get kicked.

“Ha… I was just messin’ with you, man.” He drops to a squat beside Charon, rubbing his hands together. “C’mon. Obviously… Right?”

Charon doesn’t acknowledge it. Just answers by putting the wrench to work.

“Right…” Butch’s hand creeps to the back of his neck.

They settle into something quiet again as time goes by. But then again, when don’t they? Usually it’s Butch’s job is to fill the silence with his voice, cool, unique comments, all that. Right now, though, he can’t work up the nerve. He just presses his lips together, resting his chin against his knees.

And then there’s Charon. Every now and then he lets out one of those low, gravelly grunts only a ghoul can make. Like his voice got dragged over rusted bike chains. His long, broad arms jerk with each turn of the wrench under the hot sun. Butch catches himself eyeing the exposed muscle flex under weathered skin, then follows the movement down to Charon’s hands.

Christ, they’re huge.

They swallow the wrench whole—bigger than Butch’s hands’ll ever be. He flexes his own fingers without thinking, turnin’ them over in his lap. Wonders, just for a second, what Charon’s hands would feel like.

Butch scowls at himself.

Then Charon stands.

So damn sudden it startles the hell outta him. Butch jolts back into reality, tumbling backward and loses his balance right onto his ass.

“Shit—!“ he yelps as he starts skidding down the steep slope of the ground.

But he stops. Solid hands catch him. One braced against his chest, the other at his back. Butch blinks up, wide-eyed at Charon, who’s barely even bent over from his tall height. Like catching a grown man before he eats dirt doesn’t take any effort at all.

Charon reaches down, offering a hand. Butch takes it without thinking.

The skin drags against his own, rougher than he imagined. Thick with calluses. Warm from the sun. Not soft, not papery or falling apart like you’d expect from somebody who’s technically rotting.

Butch’s throat bobs.

…The hell’s up with him today?

“Will you be doing the job you were hired for?” Charon rumbles. “Or should I be relieved this is the worst you have to offer?”

“Ah…”

Butch swallows hard as Charon pulls him upright.

“Yeah, well…” He frowns like that was his play all along. “You could at least tell me what you’re doin’ to fix it. So I can compare with your… uh… wasteland-ass technique.”

Charon gestures over to another part of the pipe, it stretches off like a vein through Megaton’s dry skin.

“We are not repairing the break,” he says. “We are removing it.” He nods toward a pile of pipe parts by the tool bag. “One of those sections is close enough in length. We must clean the threads, fit the replacement, and hope the last owner did not ruin the couplings.”

Butch’s eyes drift from the metal to Charon’s hand. The wrench looks as small there as Butch’s own hand had.

“Uh-huh… got it.”

Charon growls low enough to rumble bones. “Butch.”

That gets his attention. Butch’s stomach flips like a super mutant just punted the damn thing across the wasteland.

“Y-yeah?”

“This pipework has survived a century at least. We’re going to replace parts of it.” Charon squints at the flustered look on Butch’s face, “…Just continue to follow me.”

For once, Butch swallows his pride and just trails after him. Gives it an honest shot, too. Tries listening to Charon.

Problem is, this shit’s complicated. Doesn’t matter that everything’s held together with what looks like busted cans, or that it’s a hundred-year-old pile of junk. Charon opens his mouth and somehow makes every damn thing sound harder than it oughta be.

Doesn’t help that Charon’s voice keeps scraping right by his ear as he tries to follow along. Butch actually has to squeeze his eyes shut.

And that’s when it happens.

His XXX tighten. Just for a second, but they do. It’s not like Butch means for them to. It just happens… like when he’s scared.

Or…

Something else.

His head jerks away from the dust-covered work as his jeans tug tight. Christ—he can’t stop it. Butch slaps a hand over his face as Charon turns over to do whatever with the bag. Muttering curses under his breath, Butch pinches and palms the growing XXX in his pants.

The jeans stretch enough to make him panic.

Butch takes a slow breath and he eases himself behind Charon, practically hiding behind the guy. His fingers knot into the denim over his thighs.

…

He’s got a hard-on for Charon.

It’s not like… it’s not like it’s actually for the ghoul, right?

His XXX flexes in his jeans in protest. Making Butch’s face crumple.

…Alright, maybe it is.

Maybe he’s just gotta adapt. Think fast, figure this shit out. Or accept that some busted little part of his brain’s gone completely off the rails.

Why, though?

It ain’t like Butch wants to pop his ass up underneath a huge guy like Charon. Get stretched out in ways that make his eyes blast in white sparks, gets him speaking in tongues. He, and most sorry bastards, aren’t built for a beating like that.

As Charon straightens up for a drink from his flask, water, whiskey, who the hell knows, Butch lets himself look. Really look.

His eyes roam over the size of Charon. Up that long back. Broad shoulders. Built like he could wrestle somebody for his lunch. Butch’s mouth works absently, tongue pressing against the points of his teeth while his brain wanders where it really shouldn’t.

Could he even get Charon on his back? Guy’d be like climbing a pack Brahmin.

…Christ.

Wouldn’t that be all kinds of fucked up? For Butch to look at. His gaze climbs back up to Charon’s jaw. Scarred, ugly looking, technically. Different from the smooth shave on Butch’s face.

Still… maybe there’s something kinda rugged about it. Maybe a guy as cool as Butch just has cool taste.

Yeah.

That ain’t so bad.

“Our work is complete.” Charon sighs through his nose as he starts stuffing each tool back into the bag. “The leak is sealed… it should suffice.”

“We’re done?” Butch blurts.

Charon answers with a grunt. Maybe a nod.

Honestly, Butch’s already moving too fast to tell. He tears down the steep path into the bowl below, boots skidding through the sand. Every other step threatens to send him flat on his face.

He doesn’t look back.

The climb back up to Walter’s shack is a blur of faces. Random settlers Butch can’t stand to even look at, but he does anyway, anxiety twisting in his gut. How many of them think he’s… with Charon?

Shit. Maybe they always have. Maybe they could tell before he could.

He tugs at the front of his shirt. The thing’s always fit a little too snug. Maybe him being into dude’s what drew him to it.

Before Butch knows it, Walter’s opening the door to the water shack. The old man looks ready to collapse from how tired he is. Even Butch accidentally flashing him doesn’t earn more than a slow blink.

“O-oh, hah…” Butch shoves his shirt back into place. “Uh…”

Walter just stares at him like a bloat fly just hovering in the doorframe. He sniffs.

“I did the job,” Butch says, a lot quieter this time.

Walter grunts. Just enough life passes through him for a nod.

“You did, huh? Alright. C’mon. Got your payment.”

Butch shuffles after him, feet dragging over the floor. At least his pants’re looser now. Not stretched out by life-questioning hard-on. About the only good thing that’s happened today.

“Y’know, I heard a thing or two about you, son…” Walter says.

The words stop Butch cold.

Those big water machines beside him churn away, loud enough to rattle his ribs. Their drone settles in his gut like a lump of lead.

Butch knows it’s dread.

“…Y’did?” He manages.

It’s not smut yet, just hijinks for now. But boy is it fun to try and keep things entertaining.

The prompt was, Everyone in Megaton thinks Butch and Charon are married.

—

It happens at the buttcrack of dawn, when Butch’s collecting his daily bowl of slop from the Brass Lantern.

“Look at ’im and that ghoul. Takes a brave man to marry a hired gun.”

It happens when Butch comes dragging himself back through Megaton’s gates, dusty, annoyed, and ready to be left alone.

“I got questions, and frankly, I don’t want answers.”

Butch’s eye starts twitching when it happens at Moriarty’s. He buries his face in his hands the second he hears it from the next stool over.

“That can’t be healthy. Bet the kid can’t even sit on a toilet bowl once the ghoul’s through with him.”

Butch jerks around in his seat, nearly knocking himself off the stool.

“Cut that shit out, man! It ain’t even like that!”

Warm beer sloshes over the neck of his bottle as he points it wildly around the bar.

“Me and Charon ain’t together!”

He breathes out hard and looks around.

Nobody says anything. Nobody has to. Every face in the room is wearing the same exhausted expression.

Butch throws his hands up.

“For Christ’s sake—I’m not gay! I’m not! Alright?!”

Everybody glances over at him for a second like he’s some kind of bloatfly larva writhing around in the dirt. Like he’s just another guy making an ass of himself in public.

Then they go right back to their drinks.

Being brushed off by an entire crowd hits worse than the rumor. It lands somewhere ugly in his gut. Butch forces himself back onto the stool, shoulders curled inward, lips ghosting over the bottle as he debates taking another warm, miserable sip.

“It’s like nobody in this damn town hears the words comin’ outta my mouth,” Butch rants under his breath, cracking his knuckles one by one. “I’m sayin’ them. Real words. Out loud!”

He pops his fingers near his mouth, jaw tight.

“And somehow everybody’s hearin’ whatever the hell they want.”

He doesn’t even glance at Charon beside him, even though he’s technically talking to him. He doesn’t have to.

Butch knows what the bastard’s doing. Brooding. Just sitting there in that corpse-still way of his, eyes fixed on some distant point only he can see. Even folded over the bar, the ghoul towers over him.

Like an undead lamppost with a gun.

It gives Butch chills, but Charon’s the only guy who has to listen. That’s the whole problem. Nosebleed gave Butch the stupid contract, and now the ghoul’s always here.

Always quiet.

Waiting for a reason to move.

Until he opens his mouth and makes Butch feel like an idiot in six words or less.

“I have survived worse than gossip.” Charon rumbles before taking a long drink after that, like he’s just delivered some profound piece of wisdom.

“That—“

God, Butch hates trying to explain this. He takes a long pull from his beer before dropping the bottle onto the bar.

“Where I come from, it’s a big goddamn deal, alright? he says. “In the Vault, people remembered every stupid thing you did for years. One rumor, and that’s it. That’s who you are now.”

He jabs a thumb to his chest.

“I’m still Butch DeLoria, man. Tough guy. Tunnel Snake. All that. Not…”

Butch’s eyes drift up Charon despite himself.

He’s all sturdy armor and broad shoulders, with flesh that looks like it's been losing an argument with time for the past hundred years.

“…Not Butch DeLoria, guy who… ran off n’ married a seven-foot ghoul.”

Butch awkwardly fiddles with his bottle before sneaking another glance at Charon.

Big mistake.

Charon’s already looking at him. Those beady little eyes lock onto him immediately. Sharp and unblinking.

Butch fumbles so hard he nearly drops his beer, “Shit—“ he hisses, “What? What’re you lookin’ at me like that for?”

“I do not share your concern.” Charon’s voice scrapes in, low and rough. “You are allowing strangers to occupy your thoughts. You’re bored. Find something useful to do.”

“Me? Bored and lonely?” Butch’s voice breaks at the insult.

Charon pauses with the flask at his lips. “I said bored. Not lonely.”

“Yeah? Well… this place is a shit hole.” Butch gestures wide with his bottle. “And I got plenty goin’ on besides listenin’ to a bunch of idiots run their mouths.”

Butch digs out a few caps and drops them onto the counter hard enough to make them jump.

“Or you,” he mutters, glaring at Charon.

Screw this. Butch shoves away from the bar and starts walking. Maybe if he moves fast enough, Charon won’t—

The ghoul stands.

His height stretches out so tall that every damn person in Moriarty’s glances over. It’s impossible not to. The guy looms over Butch like a blown out building. He can feel an embarrassed groan crawl up his throat.

Fantastic.

That’s definitely not helping the gossip.

He knows what he’s gotta do. Prove Charon wrong. He’d prove everybody else wrong too, but that’s the problem. The guy’s stuck to him like Butch’s own personal shadow, impossible to shake.

Butch pushes out of Moriarty’s with a hard shove to the door.

“Hey. Take a hint, stretch,” he snaps over his shoulder. “And take a hike.”

Charon grunts as he lumbers behind Butch anyway. “Take it up with my employer.”

“Take it up with my employer…” Butch mutters in a gravelly imitation. “God, you sound like a damn robot.”

He stomps up Megaton’s rusted platform paths, boots clanging against the metal. Dust whips through his hair, ruining it as his patience wears thinner with every step.

At the top of the ramp is a tin-can excuse for a water plant. A joke compared to the purifier Butch had back in the Vault. He shoulders on through the door, eyes locking on the old man in the mechanic suit.

“Hey, old timer.” Butch hooks a thumb at himself, raising his voice. “Heard you were lookin’ for a hand. Figured I’d volunteer before somebody less qualified wandered in.”

“Hm?” The old man finally looks up from his work. “Guess I was... Could use another pair of hands. Long as they’re careful hands.” He gestures vaguely at the water plant. “Got enough leaks ‘round here already.”

Butch doesn’t see the big deal. Old Stanley used to crawl around the Vault fixing busted junk all the time, and he was ancient. Walter looks cut from the same tired cloth. If those two old geezers could make machinery behave, Butch figures he can fake it long enough to get paid. He’s got young blood.

“Please.” Butch scoffs. “I practically kept Vault 101 runnin’ by myself. You’re gettin’ a highly trained professional here.” He lies through his teeth, shrugging. “Couple of rusty pipes ain’t exactly gonna scare me.”

“Mmh…”

In a few shambling steps, Walter wanders off and starts hurling tools into a tote bag. Not normal tools, either. Massive metal monstrosities that look better suited for breaking bones than fixing pipes. Every clang adds another pound until the old man dumps the thing beside Butch and wanders off like he hasn’t just handed him a portable death sentence.

(More to come!)

If you like how I write Butch, you might wanna check out this ongoing fic that posts weekly:

Ghoul prosthetics -> Figure Drawing event!

Toeing the fine line between minimal attire and cosplay. That’s the name of the game :-)

So I’ve got a billion and one x Readers of a bunch of different dynamics.

—

“I want seven pounds of cement. Assuming that’s enough to bury a mutant hound alive.” The girl stops to cup her chin, eyes narrowed. “How fast does cement dry? Just around the ankles.”

Since Hancock took on pack brahmin duty, he’s seen plenty of kooks. Nothing he hadn’t already stumbled across on some long-forgotten bender through the Commonwealth. A woman, sure, but too young to be mixed up in this kind of weird shit.

Still, he plays into it.

“Figure it’ll move around some. Might make the whole buryin’-it-alive thing tricky,” he says, shifting his toothpick

The girl—or, hell, the woman—takes that in like divine guidance.

“So you’re saying I need to incapacitate it.” She smacks her fist into her palm. “Knock it unconscious.” Her fist grinds into her hand as she thinks, then a finger pops up. “And then I can get to work.”

Weird. Just weird.

But not boring, and Hancock’s always had a soft spot for not boring. She’s got that same manic shine as the freaks who build their whole lives around pre-war comic books.

Except this sounds less like dress-up and more like raider arts and crafts.

He laughs under his breath, settling in as he fishes a flask of water from the pack.

“Damn. What’d these things do to piss you off?” Hancock asks as he smirks. “Or have you always been this ambitious with your animal cruelty?”

“Oh—no. I’d never be purposelessly cruel.”

She waves her hands so frantically, her glasses nearly slide off her face. She pushes them up and begins with, judging by that breath, a long winded explanation.”

—

Not sure if the OG concept was better composed than the final product? Think I’m gonna redo it.

What d’you think?

It’s for this fanfic I’ve been workin’ on with an OC and Butch DeLoria, alternative POV.

The tags are scary but I swear it’s fun at times. Especially for Butch’s parts, so far, lol.