Fallout 1. Chapter 1

_This fic is rated M for a reason. It gets a tad smutty. I've written a couple more chapters so who knows where this'll end up. Anyway, this is a Harkness/Butch fic inspired by RustyPaperClip's story Trouble (fanfiction(.)net/s/6231462/1/Trouble). _

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

'Come on chief, I got somethin' to show ya.'

There was that distinctive DeLoria smirk; the tunnel snake's lips curved upwards, a tongue flicking out across a rosy lower lip. He was the very definition of 'confident'. The tilt of his head. How his eyes narrowed just a little; some foreign emotion filtering across them, dark lashes framing his deep, blue eyes. Hands dug into the pockets of his leather jacket. And that mouth. That snake tongue.

But Harkness could tell he was nervous. His head titled just a little too high (_02.08%_) trying not to alert Harkness of the sweat that dotted his brow. And his hands in his pockets kept shifting; rubbing fingers together; sweaty palms. His eyes flickered between Harkness and the door anxiously, as if wondering if he would follow. But that smirk. Nervous or not, that smirk was all Butch.

'Sure.' He choked out, unaware that he'd been holding his breath.

Butch laced his fingers into Harkness's hand and suddenly he was being dragged along through the rusty corridors of Rivet City, down, past the Muddy Rudder, down into the dank belly of the ship. Had it been anyone else, Harkness probably would've put up a fight. No way would he voluntarily traipse about in half darkness while being led who knows where. But he didn't fight it. He didn't even think of fighting it. Because he was barely aware of anything, too focused on the warmth of Butch's hand in his. _89.5º F _... _89.4º F … 89.6º F …_ He'd been staring at it the whole way down and wondering why he couldn't comprehend the feeling that surged through him like heat.

Neither of them spoke as they wandered through the empty hallways and the ship groaned louder than usual as if to make up for the pressing silence. They must've been getting close to the broken off bow of the ship, where the wind rushed around the steel columns and the ship creaked as it struggled to keep itself together. But it was warm here. Butch's hand in his. Holding it tightly.

Suddenly they stopped. Harkness, so caught up in thinking about Butch's hand, bumped right into the back of him. Butch let out a low grunt but didn't turn around or say anything more and Harkness wouldn't have apologised even if he did. Butch's hand slipped from Harkness's to press the switch on the door in front of them. Butch moved inside and Harkness followed, the door shutting with a soft 'hiss' and 'click' behind them.

Inside, Butch shrugged off his leather jacket and slung it over the back of a chair. There was a small bed in the corner and a desk that was littered with scraps of paper and whiskey bottles, both empty and full (but _73.5%_ empty). This must be where Butch went when he wasn't causing trouble or hanging around in his room at the Weatherly Hotel. Harkness stood awkwardly in the middle of the room trying not to stare at his hand and its fading warmth. _89.2º F... 89.1º F..._

Butch had taken a seat on the edge of the bed and was staring at him expectantly, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. After a moment, he coughed and Harkness snapped to attention.

'So what was it you wanted to show me?' Harkness followed Butch's hands with his eyes as they fiddled with the zipper on his vault suit and then slowly, _slowly_ dragged it down, revealing more of his white undershirt underneath.

Butch ignored Harkness's question, leisurely stripping the suit off down to his waist, working his arms out of the sleeves. There was a moment's pause and then the undershirt was peeled off too, Butch yanking it off over his head and throwing it in the general direction of the chair which held his jacket. He grinned. Cocky.

Harkness's mouth went dry. He stared; heat flashing up inside him again. He stared at the broad, tanned, shoulders. Stared at the paler chest; faded tan lines framing his upper arms and neck. The taut expanse of muscle. The faint freckles that dusted his skin. The dark mahogany of his nipples. Another burst of heat sparked in him. Butch leaned back on the bed, arms stretched out behind him, stomach on display now, no longer hidden behind the vault suit that was bunched up around his waist, a hint of dark hair spread down from his navel. A flash of uncertainty suddenly passed Butch's face but was gone as quickly as it came.

Harkness swallowed hard. He suddenly felt very overdressed.

'C'mere chief.' Butch glanced at him, smirk tugging at the corners of his lips again, allowing a glint of white teeth, confident although a bead of sweat ran down his cheek and his arms seemed to be shaking where they held his lean form upright.

It took Harkness a moment (_04.7 seconds_) before he moved towards the other man, cautiously taking a seat down beside him on the bed, mattress squeaking under his weight. He turned to him, trying to keep his gaze level. Keeping his hands to himself. Folded in his lap. Trying not to think about all that skin. All that warmth.

'What was it you...' The words died in his throat.

A hand breached his cheek, sliding knuckles across his jaw. A thumb touched the corner of his mouth and his system stuttered. Sent it reeling. Struggled with the information. All the variables to consider. The pads of Butch's fingers were now gently stroking his neck as he inched closer, inhaling him. His eyes. Blue, staring intently. Uncertain. His lips parted, wet, pink and plush. He flicked his gaze down, and then up again. Yearning. Leaned in a fraction more. Fingers trembled on Harkness's neck.

Without thinking, Harkness closed the breath of distance between them, exhaling shakily as he grazed his palms against Butch's neck, drawing him in, his mouth pressing into the one offered up to him. Harkness kissed him. Kissed him as if it was all he had wanted to do ever since he had laid eyes on the Tunnel Snake. Kissed him hard. His tongue touching those lips, parting them. Deepening their kiss. Butch's lips pliant under his. Kissing back. Warmth flooded him, made his skin prickle. And all sound was drowned out save for the low, almost inaudible sound of Butch's frantic pulse humming beneath his fingers and the slight hitch of his breath.

'Harkness, we need you downstairs.' The transceiver clipped to his belt crackled to life. 'A brawl's broken out in the Muddy Rudder and Sister's about to glass someone.' In the background, he could hear shouting and the sound of glass being smashed, presumably over someone's head. 'Said he won't listen to anyone but you. Who knows why.'

Butch tensed under his hand, lingering a moment. Then the heat was gone and Butch was dragging up his vault suit, tying the sleeves around his waist and pulling his shirt back on while Harkness sat dizzily on the bed and stared at his back, wondering why he suddenly felt so cold.

'Harkness?' The female voice persisted.

He fumbled with his belt, clicking a button on the device and speaking into it. 'Right. Be there in a second.' But he made no motion to move. He clicked the device off and exhaled deeply. 'Uh, listen... Just now...'

What the hell had that been? Butch had caught him off guard. It was a mistake. He must be malfunctioning. Must've been. Crossed wires somewhere. _Butch DeLoria?_ If he desired human companionship so desperately there were much better alternatives. Or more _sane_ alternatives, anyway. Like Vera Weatherly, or Angela, or if he was so inclined, Seagrave-fucking-Holmes. Anyone was surely better than the twenty-one year old barber from Vault 101 who had more audacity than he had common sense. And speaking of which, where the hell had this all come from? Harkness touched his lips, brows creasing. Was this some sort of trick? ...Why the hell had he kissed him back? Had he been drugged?

Pulling his jacket on, Butch cut him a glance over his shoulder, watching. A smile touched his lips but didn't quite reach his eyes. 'I'll see ya round, Chief.'

—

_Oh God oh God oh God._

Butch slammed the door shut behind him. No, not the door, slammed his palm against the switch. The door closed softly. A quiet hiss in the heavy drone of silence. Fuck. It didn't matter. Butch was too impatient for it. Quick. Fuck. _Quick_. He had to... _Fuck_.

Butch was panting, pulling open the front of his vault suit and fighting to pull his underwear down. Couldn't do it fast enough. _Fuck_. He hissed when his dick sprang free, throbbing and flushed, pre-come dribbling down its length. Didn't even make it to the bed before he had wrapped a fist around the thick length and began to pump it. _Fuck._ It wasn't enough. He needed more. He couldn't stand it. It was so hot. He was burning up. He fell forwards, pants around his ankles, rutting against the mattress, desperate for friction. Still had his leather jacket on. Fuck it. Didn't matter. One hand on the edge of the bed, bracing himself. He thrust his hips into his grip, crying out, hand straining around it.

Harkness had... Fuck. He'd kissed him, hadn't he? Oh God, he didn't think he'd really do it. He had wanted him to but he really didn't think he'd actually do it. But he was so... so... A hot flash of pleasure washed over him as he remembered those lips on his, the hand on his neck, pulling him in, the rough scrape of Harkness's stubble against his skin, that tongue in his mouth. Butch let out a low gasp, eyes squeezed tightly shut, running his thumb across the head of his cock and smearing pre-come across it. He was so hard. He couldn't help himself. Couldn't stop his hands because Harkness had kissed him. Oh fuck, he'd really fucking kissed him.

God, he needed to calm down. His heart was pounding a mile a minute. He didn't know what had come over him but whatever it was, he couldn't stop it.

Maybe Harkness would wanna fuck him too. Bend him over like this; Butch shuddered as he ran a shaky palm over the curve of his bare ass. And fuck him. Another jolt of pleasure shot through him as he slid his fingers down the cleft of his ass, no, as Harkness slid his fingers down. These were Harkness's hands. Yes. His fingers. Slowly pressing inside of him, pushing against that hot ring of muscle. And he was arched over him, murmuring in his ear, telling Butch how badly he wanted him. Wanted to fuck him. Wanted to have him. All of him.

_Yes, oh God, yes._

Butch's hand on his dick was frantic, his sweaty forehead pressed into the mattress, quaking legs arched himself back and forwards into his hand, into the friction of both his fist and fingers. He let out a shaky sigh, trying to relax himself long enough to slip a finger past the tight muscle, trying to control the wild bucking of his hips. Impatiently, he sunk his middle finger in, flesh relenting against his force, breath hitching as his knuckle nudged against his asshole. And it burned with pain yes, but Butch couldn't stop himself. Couldn't stop himself from twisting his finger in himself. He wanted it too much. Needed it. And the ache dispersed as his need grew, fleeting under the heat of pleasure. He moaned. Ground his ass down against his hand. Thought about Harkness. Harkness opening him up like this. White hot shocks of pleasure shot up the back of his thighs like electricity.

'Oh, fuck. Come on Chief. Come on. Fuck me. Just fucking fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.' Butch gasped into the mattress, bucking back into his fingers, pushing his index finger against the open hole and working it inside of him. And when it finally, slid inside, wedged next to the first, it tore lightning up his spine.

Oh and it burned. Differently, now. Blinding heat flashing before his eyes, twisting a knot in the pit of his stomach. But he wanted it. Wanted it so badly. Even though his arms ached with the feverish pace of his fist around his cock, and strained with the motion of his fingers driving in and out of his ass. All he could do was push himself backwards, spread his legs and groan. He couldn't stop, even if he wanted to.

And it was Harkness now. Harkness's cock inside of him. Harkness who thrusted into him, sparking heat in him like it was fire. And he was alight. He was burning. Burning as Harkness took him and fucked him. And he couldn't stop now. Didn't matter that his hands were shaking with effort. Didn't matter that his thighs trembled with exhaustion. Because he was so close, he was right there, almost there, there, t_here,_ on the fringe of it and Harkness was tearing it from him. And Butch keened; another twist of his fist around his leaking cock and he was lost to it. He thrust. Forwards. Then backwards. Fingers curling inside himself. And Harkness was _there_ and suddenly he was coming, _yes, oh God_ coming, _yesyesfuck_ coming and then all he saw was white.

When Butch could finally draw the strength to lift himself off the bed, he grunted with the exertion. Sluggishly, he dragged himself onto the mattress, kicking the come soaked sheet off on the floor (but not before wiping his hands on it) and rolled onto his back with his arms crossed behind his head. He lay there for a while, quietly satisfied, the cool air touching his bare skin from the waist down.

And he was tired, yes, but he was also restless. As he stared up at the grey, metal ceiling of his small room in Rivet City, he still thought of Harkness. In fact, he'd been thinking about him all week. Now he imagined he was here next to him, Harkness running his hands over his skin and kissing his temples. He could even touch his hair too if he wanted. Ain't no one else that could do that. And he'd be talking to him. 'Bout whatever. Didn't even matter so long as it was the chief.

_Shit_. Butch choked back a sharp breath. When the hell did he become such a flit, anyway? This wasn't like him at all. Didn't even _like_ men. So why was he getting so worked up over the fuckin' chief for? That guy was a stiff. Butch exhaled deeply. He needed to calm the hell down.

But he couldn't. And it didn't matter anyway, because he had already decided that he was gonna go see him. He pushed himself up off the bed and made his way to the door. See him and kiss him and then maybe drag him back downstairs and convince him to fuck him. A sudden rush of cold air made him stop, however. He looked down and flushed. Right. Pants first. Then the chief.


	2. Chapter 2

_Again, I'd just like to remind everyone – this is inspired by RustyPaperClip's story 'Trouble', and to thank everyone for reading it so far! And thank you especially Lilibombe and Rusty. I can't believe you guys even read this. Anyway, this hasn't been beta-ed so if you spot any errors, please let me know!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

At exactly 0200 hours, Harkness left the Muddy Rudder, cradling raw knuckles, and made his way to the bridge tower.

It had been dark, darker than usual. One of the lights in the bar flickered like a strobe; too fast for anyone to catch save Harkness himself. There was a dull crunch of broken glass under his feet as he'd walked in, the permeating stench of liquor, the roar of shouting. Then a mistaken punch was aimed for him instead of whoever it was that had ducked out of the way.

He'd retaliated quickly, wrapping his fingers around the fist before it could connect and then pressing down, breaking at least two fingers before letting go. A bit drastic, maybe, but he was angry. Angry with them. Angry with Butch. Angry with himself... Mostly himself.

In the background, Sister was screaming something while Flak attempted to shout over the top of him. And he'd shouted too, maybe. For some reason he couldn't remember. There was so much noise. Except Belle, who was calm as ever, looking on silently, both unsurprised and unimpressed, having given up reasoning with either of them four drinks ago. Initially, he'd half expected to see the barber down here, throwing punches with the rest of them but that was of course, ridiculous. Because he'd been downstairs... with him.

Harkness's wires sparked uncomfortably in his chest and he swallowed down the lump in his throat, grinding his teeth in irritation.

And then this time he had shouted. And everything went quiet. He was angry. Fed up. He threatened them. Threatened to throw them all overboard. Let the mirelurks at them. That had ended it pretty quickly. And maybe the fact that he'd previously just broken someone's fingers on a whim. And then squared his fist between Sister's eyes on another whim before finally loosing the plot. Being the chief helped too, generally people didn't argue with you. Well, unless you were a barber with a bad attitude. Never stopped him before.

Harkness took a moment to stop and rest against the railing of the stairs, exhaling deeply and trying to collect himself.

He needed to stop thinking about him. It just seemed that no matter what he did, it all seemed to come back to _him_. Harkness shook his head. Should've had a drink when he was down there. Could've used the distraction. From whatever the fuck was currently happening to him. And why he was so angry, yes, but wanted to see him still.

Speaking of which, Harkness was surprised Butch hadn't been drunk. It normally didn't take much to convince the barber to have a few (although the same could be said for the rest of Rivet City) but despite all his jitteriness, his flushed cheeks and the warmth of his skin, his system hadn't detected even the faintest trace of ethanol on his breath.

_Jesus, Harkness. Listen to yourself. Bet you wouldn't have stuck your tongue down Trinnie's throat to find out the same. Granted, you'd already know._

The heat of his face burned hotter as he remembered those lips against his own, tongue in his mouth, skin under his hands. _89.2º F ... 89.3ºF._

_Fuck. Harkness. Just stop. Stop thinking. Shut it down._

'Yo – '

He was halfway up the stairs to the ship's bridge when he was intercepted by a sharp, sudden tug to his wrist. Instinctively, he swung out, too tightly wound up to stop himself, too immersed in thinking about Butch to act on anything but impulse, driving his elbow into the face of his would-be attacker. Whoever it was immediately crumpled to the floor. Harkness turned around. And swore.

_Out of everyone it just **had** to be you._

In his defence, Butch should've known better than to sneak up on him like that. He'd seen him knock down enough people to know better. He stared at his prone form sprawled across the ground, a dark red bruise starting to spread over his right cheek, deepening in colour around the eye socket. Of course he'd never unintentionally knocked any of them unconscious.

_Shit_.

Harkness inwardly flinched, snapping his fist back by his side but the damage had been done. For a fleeting moment, he actually felt glad he'd hit him, but that feeling dissipated the longer he stared at him. He knelt down beside the barber and hauled him up into his arms. Better get him to his room. No point bothering Doc Preston at this hour, it was a nasty bruise all right, but nothing to get worked up over. Butch was lucky that Harkness was too distracted to pinpoint his punch or he might've done some real damage... like killed him. His insides twisted uncomfortably at the thought.

Once they'd reached Butch's room in the Weatherly, he gently dropped Butch onto the cot. Letting out a short sigh, he sat down beside him on the bed, resting his head in his hands.

In a manner of hours (_3 hours 27 minutes 19 seconds_), his life had gone from sort of messed up to completely fucked up. Who else could be the cause but that Goddamned Barber? His system ached inside him, confusing messages sparking along his circuits. He spared a glance at the still unconscious Butch beside him, dark hair falling out of its once tightly styled coiffure and brushing over his eyes. Harkness licked his dry lips and stared, trying to decipher the strange emotions that filtered through him. He leaned forward, a hand sifting through those locks, pushing them back, running a thumb over the bruised skin beneath his eye socket, trying not to look down at his soft, parted lips.

And then suddenly, the barber stirred, brow furrowing and eyes slowly sliding open. Harkness quickly drew his hand back, pulse racing.

'...DeLoria?'

'Chief?' Butch groaned, starting to sit up while clapping a hand to his forehead. 'Ugh, my fuckin' head.'

Harkness eased him back down with a firm hand to his shoulder, 'Hey, take it easy now... You've had yourself uh, a bit of a bump.'

Butch tentatively touched his swollen face, wincing slightly. 'Geez, you sure did a number on me. I don't think I've ever been hit that hard before – or let anyone hit me that hard, I mean.'

Harkness actually felt a little guilty now, looking at the awful bruise that coloured Butch's face. 'Yeah. Sorry. You surprised me.'

Gradually, Butch pulled himself upright, leaning on the wall, drawing his knees up against his chest.

'_Shit_, man. I wouldn't 'a if I'd known you'd sock me in the damn face.' He fussed over his cheek a moment longer, his face an expression of restrained agitation. Suddenly he turned to Harkness. 'How do I look? Is it bad?'

A short laugh escaped Harkness's throat because he couldn't help it. Butch just looked so damn _serious_. And Harkness was relieved too; relieved to see that Butch was all right and relieved to see that even faced with possible head trauma, Butch was still more concerned with his appearance than his well-being. 'You look a damn sight.'

Butch sucked his upper teeth and ran a hand through his disheveled locks. He stared at the chief, stared at his hands, then stared at his own – nervously. 'Don't suppose you'd wanna stay here then? Take care of the infirm. Or somethin'. You know, whatever.'

Harkness barked out another laugh, heat creeping along his face. Was he serious? No. No. This had to be part of some big joke. There was no way. It was ridiculous. Was it because he was an android? Was that why he was messing with him like this? How did he even find out?

'You just had your head knocked in.' He gazed at Butch's fidgeting hands. Fingers curling in against themselves. Butch's eyes turned downwards. Lashes touching his cheeks. And Harkness wanted to touch. Wanted to touch him. Feel his warmth. _89º 89 F 89 FF 89º F..._ Couldn't understand why. Something was wrong with him. Had to be. 'I should leave you to get some rest.'

'...You sure you don't wanna uh, keep me company?' Those eyes stared up at him and Harkness had to look away because he was afraid they'd burn a hole right through him.

He slowly pulled himself off the cot, shaking his head, being careful not to touch him. Didn't want to give his system a chance to do something stupid. Something like convince him to stay. 'No. I'd better leave. You rest up.'

His system had been doing a lot of illogical things lately.

Calculating judgements wrongly.

Making rash decisions for no reason.

What was this? Why was it...?

He didn't catch the look Butch shot at his back but he could feel it as he retreated from the room. Its irritation. Its embarrassment. Could almost feel the blush that burned the barber's cheeks and ears.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry this took so long! I was super nervous about posting it because I don't know if it even makes sense or not. Haha._

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><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

A week later and Harkness still hadn't seen Butch. Not a glimpse of neat, black hair, pulled back save that one wild curl at the front. Not the faintest echo of his voice, not a single 'hey chief' or 'I'll catch you later', no scratches on a lock that had been picked or lingering warmth on a handrail. Not that he would've known if it had even been his warmth there (except he would've, he would've just known). And not that he had even been looking for him. Good riddance. The Muddy Rudder had never been so quiet.

Still, the Chief of Security couldn't help but wonder where he had gone.

Up on the bridge he leant against the railing, hands gripping the cool metal, wind biting his cheeks. It was cold but he could hardly feel it – his heat was constant, his thermostat did a good job of regulating that (_80.08º F 80 00 F8 88 80 89º 89.5º F)_. Still couldn't get its readings under control though. They'd been all over the place ever since... Butch? No. Couldn't be. Should get that checked out though. Hadn't made the trip to Pinkerton in... well, ever since that initial trip. Hadn't needed to go back.

The wasteland sky stretched over him, some indescribable blue grey; numbers flashing before his eyelids, his system describing it for him in hexadecimals. It was late. (_0137 hrs_). He closed his eyes. Tired. Not physically. Not exactly mentally. (_System at 97% capacity_). At least those routines were operating normally.

The first time he would have ever described Butch's hands as anything other than a nuisance was the first time he had ever seen him cut hair.

It had been early in the morning when Chief Harkness had gone downstairs to patrol the marketplace. The vault-kid had been standing in one of the unused corners of the room, a pair of scissors trapped between his forefinger and thumb as he leant against an old Nuka Cola machine. He looked like some sort of pre-war delinquent; hair greased back, wearing that ridiculous leather jacket with his sleeves rolled up... And Harkness was about to walk over there and ask him what the hell he was doing... Except there had been someone sitting on a stool in front of him and Harkness couldn't recall their face for the life of him because Butch was moving his hands through a tangle of hair, cutting and combing, talented fingers swiftly working through the tresses.

He was... Those hands were enthralling, so quick, so clever. Seemed to reel him in. Like a magnet. So Harkness had stopped. And watched him, watched him for a long while.

And Butch had glanced up when he was done, drawing a comb through the neatly cut curls and grinned, his blue eyes flashing dangerously. 'You like the way I work, do ya chief?'

Harkness felt his face grow warm at the memory and he raised a hand to wipe his brow. Damn Butch. Damn his hands. He had to remember they were those same hands that started fights. That picked locks and took things that didn't belong to them. That were a nuisance, not something to get flustered over.

Still couldn't explain why he reacted the way he did; as if he were human and not an android. Didn't know why he could. These things, his blood, his sweat, they were all synthetic sure, but what he felt – that was still real, wasn't it? Real enough to fool even himself into believing he was human once a long time ago.

Although he'd figured it out after a while, if he was being honest. That he was different, that is. Those other things. Reflexes. Pinpoint accuracy. An abnormal measurement of strength and endurance. A buzzing in the front of his skull that used to give him headaches from time to time. He'd always figured it was some pre-war experimental bullshit. Because he remembered things. Things about the war. His wife. Pretty thing. A bit touched in the head maybe. Remembered her leaving.

Never did he even once entertain the idea that androids were real, much less that _he_ was one of them. But then that vault kid had come around and suddenly everything made a lot more sense. Or rather, made a whole lot less sense, depending on how one looked at it.

Those memories hadn't even been his. None of them. So what was even real? What was his? B(_Don't think it. Don't even finish that sentence, Harkness. Don't you dare._)

And... what was the purpose of his synthetics? Did Pinkerton do that? Or was that why Zimmer had been so eager to get him back? Why make an android who was so human at all? It seemed illogical. His data banks strained with the gaps in information and made his forehead hurt. He needed to stop thinking.

In the distance, a small glow appeared, like the spark of a cigarette, coupled by the dull sound of boots moving along the gangway towards him. Harkness's eyes snapped open as the sound jerked him to attention. He cast a glance in the direction of the light and his chest immediately tightened. The moon caught a glint of silver, a buckle on a jacket, and then half a face, light touching the edges of a cheek and nose. Half a smile was visible.

Artificial breath caught in Harkness's throat. It was him. Couldn't be anyone else. He tensed; felt his wiring go taut beneath his skin, fists clenched the railing as he endeavoured not to look. God, he wanted to punch him; drive his metal fist right through that thick skull of his.

The barber sucked the nib of his cigarette, drawing in a deep breath and exhaling the smoke through his nose. His eyes flickered over to Harkness but didn't quite register him, tilting his gaze skywards instead, hands crammed in his pockets of his leather jacket as he walked towards him. Around his right eye, Harkness observed a violet patch of skin, barely visible, presumably from the black eye he'd given him a number of days prior.

Butch stopped, some feet away from him, took another drag of the cigarette and then flicked it away.

'Yo chief, what's up?'

Harkness stiffened. Butch's tone was so casual it was grating. Some heat flared up inside of him and Harkness fought to keep it down. And couldn't. He swallowed hard instead, trying to unwind some of the tension that knotted his system.

Where have you been? What have you been doing? Why did you go? How the fuck can you be so calm when you've been missing for over a week? Why the hell can't I stop thinking about you and your Goddamn hands? What the fuck have you done to me?

'Didn't realise you were a smoker, DeLoria.' Harkness let out a long sigh, moving back away from the railing and leaning against the ship's metal exterior.

A week. A whole week. Fuck. _Only_ a week. Need to calm down. You don't care where he's been.

Butch laughed, tonguing his lower lip. 'Yeah, you got me. What, you gonna give me detention or some shit? Suppose you are kinda the Overseer of this boat.'

'Right.' Harkness eyed the other man warily as he folded his arms over his armour plated chest. It was difficult not to stare at his mouth and that tongue that sliced across it. He wondered absently if Butch noticed. There was a long, uncomfortable pause before he spoke again. 'So where've you been?'

'Oh, y'know. About.' Butch moved to lean on the wall beside Harkness, arms resting by his sides, fingers moving to brush against Harkness's thighs.

A surge of dizziness and heat overwhelmed his senses at the slight touch. It was hard to think of anything else. The little circles he was drawing into his hip. He let his arms slacken slightly, wondering if he should let them drop, grasp one of those soft hands and relish in its warmth. He felt so lightheaded. Mouth dry. Swallowed. Remembered to breathe. Barely.

A short laugh from beside him cut the tension sharply, like having ice cold water poured over him would have woken him up. He jerked upright, startled, and stared at Butch beside him. It was only when he saw the barber running his hands over a half crumpled packet of marlborough blues did he realise that the barber had just picked his pocket.

'Hypocritical much?' Butch eyed him with a measure of delight and certain impudence, sniggering as he picked two cigarettes from the packet, uninvited, tucked one behind his ear and slid the other between his lips.

And then found the nerve to offer Harkness one. Offer _him_ one. One of his own damn cigarettes!

Despite the unsurprising gesture of tactlessness, Harkness took one, begrudgingly, and wedged it in the corner of his mouth. He frowned.

'Cut the act, DeLoria. Just answer the question. I don't want to find out that your absence is just a coverup for some other trouble you've been causing.' Irritation grazed his tone like a razor scraping across raw skin.

'Me, chief?' Butch asked in a tone of mock surprise. 'You know I'd never.' He grinned around the cigarette, holding the open flame of a match up to light it. He sucked in a breath of smoke as the spark caught and then exhaled through his nose.

Harkness grumbled, 'Yes, you. And you know I know you would.' and then bent down as Butch gestured him closer.

However instead of holding up the half burnt through match, he shook the flame out and tossed it away. Harkness was about to say something when Butch lifted his cigarette to Harkness's, touching the end of it with the glowing, amber end of his own.

'Breathe in.'

And Harkness did as he was told. Despite better judgement. Despite warning lights flashing inside of him. Ignored the twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach. Didn't shift his gaze from Butch. Probably couldn't if he wanted to. Blue eyes locked onto his. Warmth radiating off his skin even in the cold night air. Harkness inhaled slowly. The spark caught, a glow lighting between them.

Harkness drew back, still staring at Butch as he took the first drag and then exhaled it out, smoke drifting out from between his lips. Butch grinned at him, thumbing the end of his cigarette, flicking the ash away. Once. Twice.

And then before Harkness could accurately register what was happening, Butch had leant up and his mouth had found his; their lips crushed together. And then suddenly it didn't matter that all the small details of Butch moving in towards him were lost because _89.5º F_ of heat was surging through him and his system was telling him something that he suddenly couldn't decipher.

One of Harkness's palms was pressed flat against small of Butch's back to drag him up and in while the other cupped Butch's neck and angled him into his mouth. He couldn't think of anything else; that hot mouth under his, _89.5º F_ repeated in his head like a chorus, thrumming under his skin.

There was a low groan as Butch scraped his tongue across Harkness's open mouth. Harkness couldn't tell if it had come from him or Butch, just that his insides felt like molten metal and Butch's hands on his cheeks were quaking so badly that he might've gotten a blip on the Richter scale if Harkness could just focus long enough to get a reading. There was another soft moan as Butch dug his hands under the plates of Harkness's armour, kneading his fingers against his ass, warmth like pinpricks against his skin… and then with a sudden jolt of clarity, Harkness realised that the sounds had come from him.

Butch had done this. Had made him feel like this. And somehow... that was okay.

He groaned again when Butch started pushing him backwards, guiding him hard up against the wall behind him, a knee wedged between his legs. Butch panted against his mouth, fingers threading through Harkness's hair.

'Fuck!' All of a sudden, Butch snapped backwards, his palms striking Harkness's chest plate in an attempt to throw him off. A hand then flew to the back of his neck, rubbing furiously at the skin there. 'You fuckin' burnt me.'

Harkness's eyes slid open, dizzily staring down at Butch, his ruddy lips. Tongue running across them. Still breathing shallowly. It was too hot. His system whirred. Something coiled painfully tight inside of him. He could barely see straight, scan lines and static obscuring his vision, background floating in and out of focus, random integers drifting between the flickering bars.

And Butch was staring at him, looking for something. Blue eyes darting back and forth across his face ...Then drew back, not finding anything he was looking for there.

'Sorry, I didn't notice.' He said distractedly, not really sure if he was actually speaking or simply imagining that he was.

' You really got it in for me, chief... Jesus Christ.' Butch grabbed him by the wrist and Harkness felt his , 'Look at your hand. That's fucked up. You're a fuckin' weirdo chief. Some kinda robot, all right.'

Harkness glanced down, blinking. The skin between the knuckles of his middle and index fingers was singed, coloured red and yellow; the cigarette, nothing more than a glowing stub between them.

'Wha–'

He should have registered the pain. He should have felt it. Should've felt something at least. But even now, staring down at his synthetic skin and the burn marks that spread across it, his pain receptors failed him; his system unable to fathom anything but a measurement of heat that was still pulsing in him.

'Leave it, chief. I'll see ya later.'

What was wrong with him? By the time he looked back up, Butch was nothing more than a shadow and a dot of silver glinting back at Harkness through lines of noise.


End file.

Fallout, Drama, Romance