Butch DeLoria
It took at least three glances for Ben to process that the stranger sitting in the corner of the Muddy Rudder was Butch. Butch DeLoria, one-time bully and G.O.A.T.-proclaimed hairdresser of Vault 101.
Slumped over his chair with more than two bottles of whiskey sitting on the table. One of them was empty. Whatever Butch was going through, Ben knew it had to be a mixture of culture shock and the sudden loss of all boundaries, both literal and figurative. Vault 101 had been a tightly controlled, tiny prison underground. Out here there was no Overseer, no corridors, no responsibilities.
Like the rest of them, Butch had never been allowed to make his own choices. Of course he was making all the wrong ones now.
Uncertain of the consequences but absolutely certain of the necessity, Ben immediately became determined to remove Butch from the Muddy Rudder and get him outside.
When he slid into the seat beside Butch, he had to snap his fingers to keep the young man's attention. Bleary-eyed, Butch's face lit up with recognition. "Bitch!...I-I mean, Benedict!"
"Ben," Ben whispered harshly, "I go by Ben now."
Being a Benedict, the son of James and Catherine Hawkins, was something of an unnecessary trial in the Wastelands. Specifically because the name elicited either vulgar jokes or unreasonable fury in the local thugs. Ben still wasn't sure why. Maybe because one time in their lives they'd met someone who could actually read, and that person told them they'd read 'Benedict' in a book. Anything that had to do with education or culture tended to enrage illiterates. Even names with three syllables in them.
"Whatever you say, man," Butch replied dismissively.
Eventually, after watching him empty his last bottle, Ben was able to persuade Butch that they were going to start the Tunnel Snakes anew in the Wastelands. A gang the two of them would co-lead. It didn't matter that a gang was too small for the Wastelands, and that Butch had never handled sharing authority well. For some reason Butch was eager to join hands with his former victim.
And for some reason, Ben was trying to save his former tormentor.
Finally they were stepping through the doors of the Muddy Rudder, with Ben having to remind Butch to lift his feet high to avoid the rise in the tanker doorway. "Now Butch, I have a friend travelling with me who's…a big guy. Very imposing. So don't be alarmed when you see him, okay?"
"Whaddya mean? Tunnel Snakes aren't afraid of nothing…dammit!" Butch slurred arrogantly, slamming his hip into the corner of a table and swearing violently all in the same breath.
Waiting for him to recover, Ben hoped Butch was right. While he didn't have much faith in Butch's brains or bravado, the kid had made it pretty far into the Wastelands on his own. All the way from Vault 101 to Rivet City was quite a journey for someone armed only with a switchblade. He had to know what a super mutant was by now. All in all, it made Ben hopeful that Butch wouldn't be disturbed by Fawke's appearance.
At that moment, Fawkes, who hadn't been allowed to set foot inside the bar, turned the corner. His big green head looked at them, eyes hidden by the swollen forehead. The wide, round hole where his lips should have been glistened with teeth and the metal staples framing his face. A friendly growl rumbled in his chest. "Greetings!"
Butch took one look at Fawkes and screamed. It was so piercing that Ben winced and stumbled back as, arms flailing, Butch took off at a blind run, still screaming. The scream was only cut off abruptly as Butch crashed into a wall, knocking himself out cold. He slid to the floor with a boneless thump.
"Was it my smile?" Fawkes asked, honestly trying to improve his 'first impression' skills. As Ben felt Butch for a pulse, Fawkes repeated himself in typical super mutant emphasis…a roar. "WAS IT MY SMILE?"
Ben winced at the second loud sound he'd been subjected to. "Remember, inside voice. Also, no, it wasn't your smile. Now please pick him up and let's get out of here before Security becomes suspicious."
Once outside, Butch picked a good moment to wake up. Just as Fawkes was putting him down, he lurched out of the mutant's arms and hit the ground in a roll that was almost impressive in its addled consistency. Struggling to his knees he staggered towards Ben, ranting and begging him to "Shoot it! Shoot it!"
It took extreme effort and a few extreme threats, but finally Butch was persuaded to sit quietly, several meters away from Fawkes. He was also sober enough to get angry. Ben was standing by him, trying to explain that Fawkes was an intelligent being who'd been handed some unbelievably bad luck.
Butch shook his head, courageous enough to send a timid glare Fawke's way. "What the hell even did that to him? He looks like the Green Goblin on steroids and smells like a pile of radroach shit!"
"That's just inaccurate," Ben replied, frowning, "He smells like human remains dipped in FEV Virus left to fester in direct sunlight for ten years…but being a fresh Vault-Dweller, I suppose radroach shit is the only comparison you have."
Finally, they drifted into uneasy silence. Fawkes grew restless and stalked off to bother the Rivet City Caravan. Thankfully, this particular group had seen him often enough to know not to shoot at him.
Ben sat on the ground, lowering himself to be as unthreatening as possible as he peered carefully up into Butch's face. "You know, Butch…the Tunnel Snake offer still stands. With a super mutant on our side, we're pretty unstoppable." Most of the time.
Curiosity sparked in Butch's eyes. Ben had always envied that aggressive, often foolish enthusiasm. "Yeah, that's true," Butch murmured. "It'd be pretty cool to have a pet monster."
"He's not a monster!" Ben corrected him, trying not to get angry. "If our Vault had been any different we'd be just like him."
Butch paled. Ben thought now was a good time to strike at what was really bothering him. "So…while I was gone, did your Mom ever…ever get sober? Go through therapy?"
As Ben had hoped, white-hot anger chased away every other emotion in the kid's face. Butch's hands clenched into fists. It didn't matter that there was a super mutant close at hand. Always, Ellen DeLoria was her son's only soft spot. "For a so-called goody two-shoes you sure drag my Mom down a lot. You always have. Look, punk, it was tough on her losing Franco. She raised me all by herself and I'm sorry she didn't meet your standards but she sure isn't here to be admired by you! You don't get to judge her, cause your Daddy left you too!"
That was unexpected. That stabbed Ben right in the lungs and he felt the air leave him. For a moment, there was stricken pain and unbridled rage warring in him. When he spoke again, his voice was colder than he meant it to be. "My Dad left me because he was an idiot. Yours left because he didn't care. Your Mom didn't care enough to not drink away your ration coupons. She was never even sober enough to give you a haircut or advice on how not to be an asshole."
Fawkes appeared in the corner of Ben's vision, a green blur. He knew that was the only thing stopping Butch from trying to tear his throat out. Butch was leaning forward, knuckles bulging. Any moment, Ben expected to see the knife darting towards his open eye.
"My. Mom." Butch's voice shook, a harsh whisper of rage, "Did. Her. Best. She never left me. She did the best she could with the shitty hand life dealt her."
"And that's why you're following in her footsteps?" Ben saw the opening and took it.
Butch's entire attitude buckled in surprise. "I…I'm not!"
Ben leaned forward and flicked the black leather lapel of Butch's jacket. It made a wet, slapping sound. Soaked in whiskey. "You know you stuffed a third bottle in your jacket. You stole it like it was bread and you hadn't eaten for a week. It shattered against the wall you ran into. Because you were drunk."
Fawkes' big shadow covered them both, commandeering the moment before Butch could reply. The super mutant gazed studiously at the back of Butch's head, the slicked-down hair. A far cry from his earlier vehemence, Butch was the picture of anxiety, every muscle locked in place.
"Vrutch," Fawkes growled, the absence of lips deforming the name. "You have a problem, and Ben wants to help! He should hate you but he is overcoming his baser nature." Growing passionate, Fawkes completely forgot about 'inside voice'. "You must learn to do the same for me, and ACCEPT ME FOR WHO I AM."
At the roaring decibel, Ben smiled as Butch's eyes widened, petrified.
Oblivious, Fawkes put a heavy green hand on Butch's shoulder. Butch's terror spiked. "In return, I will aid Ben in enforcing this…intervention! This is an intervention for you and your…alcoholism…Vrutch!"
Pleased with his reasonable speech, Fawkes waited for a response. Still burdened by a giant hand that felt like cement and rubber, Butch's eyes pleaded for Ben to help him. Ben shook his head, his meaning obvious. Speak for yourself.
"Thankyou." Was the answer that finally came, a distressed whisper, a squeak.
And that was that. Butch accompanied Ben and Fawkes and Dogmeat (who he was much quicker to make friends with than the super mutant and the Lone Wander, the two actual fellow beings in the group) and, surprisingly, began to flourish as a valuable extra gun. Another defense against the endless terrors of the Wasteland.
Things between Ben and Butch became…affable. Almost new, in a way, as they began discovering things about each other that they never took the time to learn before. They weren't quite friends, but companions was a good way to put it. Allies. People who remembered the same home and the same people and sometimes wondered if they missed it. They never grew as close as Ben's real friends from back home. Jim Wilkins, Chip Taylor. Amata…
But they spent their days pulling each other out of fires and sniping down ghouls before they could fall upon them and tear them to pieces. They wrinkled their noses at the stench of Molerat musk and braved mech-patrolled factories for Stimpaks when the other was dying. They were bound to become…not friends…but maybe a little more than allies.
It was a truly rewarding moment when, one day, Ben came struggling out of a doorless outhouse. He was dragging his splinted leg back to their campsite. A few days earlier a Molerat had darted out of a dark hole in the sewers and sung yellow fangs into his knee. It made life difficult, but he was still alive and that was fine.
As Ben limped up the hill towards camp he heard voices…Fawkes and Butch. With his bad leg already tiring him, he sat down on a stray tire to eavesdrop.
"No listen, man…all I'm saying is, you gotta stop shouting negative crap when we're in combat."
Butch? Ben tilted his head, already desperate to see where this was going.
"You mean my battle cries? They help me focus. THEY DON'T MEAN ANYTHING."
"Ech, inside voice!" Butch sounded pained a moment. "I'm not just talking about the 'Hurry up, I'm hungry!" thing, which makes you sound like a cannibal."
"A cannibal eats its own! Then I am human!" Fawkes interrupted, delighted at apparently winning his and Butch's month-long argument.
"What? No man, you're a nightmare. But that's not the point. The one that's really bad is the 'I kill to feel alive!'. You can't just say that all the time! Just because it isn't true doesn't mean you shouldn't worry about saying it. Cause…it'll never change if you make a habit out of it, right? Like reading a good book or a trashy magazine…when you think something it sticks, even if it's pretend." Nervous shuffling. Dogmeat's whine floated down to Ben. He could just see Dogmeat sensing someone's distress, resting his chin on Butch's knee.
Fawkes was strangely quiet. When Butch spoke again, his voice was dark with worry. "Sometimes… sometimes I hear you tell Ben that you're afraid that parts of you are gonna take over. That you're gonna change like the other mutants and stop being…you. So you shouldn't…shouldn't be saying stuff that you wouldn't really want you to say."
A pin could have dropped in the silence that followed. Ben was tense, worried that Fawkes hadn't properly understood Butch's garbled explanation.
As usual, Butch couldn't rest in the quiet. "Intervention, man! Just like you and Ben do for me when I get that itch, I'm gonna tell you not to do something that could hurt you later."
That was when Fawkes laughed. The rough, rolling sound of it echoed across the dead hills, disturbing a flock of Bloatflies. Ben whipped his pistol out in case they came any nearer. In the meantime, he listened to the continued discussion.
There was a thud…probably Fawkes hitting Butch in the back, a friendly slap that would send Butch to his knees, plowing through the Wasteland dust. A shout of outrage. Fawkes merely laughed again in response. "You're too stupid to see how smart you really are, Vrutch!" the super mutant calmed down finally. His voice grew somber. "And I…I will try not to be too stupid to listen to you when you… intervene."