There was a pain somewhere, or rather, a centralized pain, surrounded by smaller, more vexing tinges of irritation. His father spoke on something once about such things – he couldn't fully remember where his mind was wandering to with that thought, he doubted that it mattered yet. He couldn't open his eyes. The wanderer knew that he was conscious; there was someone touching him, sleeping. The breathing against his skin tickled him, but he couldn't move out of the way – as if someone was on top of him. There was no presence of weight, however, surprisingly, and despite the fact that his eyes wouldn't open, he knew that if they could he wouldn't want them too. The buzzing in his core was bothering him, his breathing intensifying into little pants, his lips apparently parted, but he didn't know why. Charon had told him once, sometime after he had recruited him, that he slept with his mouth slightly open, as if he couldn't catch enough breath through his nose while he rested. It wouldn't have surprised Dorrien if that were the case, but it was odd none the less.
It was cold in the room – he could tell that the door was at least slightly open, which was bad, as anyone could wander in. He could hear Dogmeat's breathing, but couldn't pinpoint where exactly Charon was. Despite this, he didn't feel nervous. He wasn't sure how he had ended up back in the bed – he could only remember Bigtown, vaguely. At once, his body jerked up, and he gasped, sitting up and glancing around with blurry vision, wetness staining his face. The bed whined at the sudden movement, as if it didn't expect it, but Dorrien didn't bother to notice such a thing. With his free hand, he reached up and touched his cheeks, peering down at the clear liquid that rested against the pad of his finger. He didn't remember crying either.
"Fuck . . ." he muttered to himself, sounding breathless.
Carefully, he lowered himself back down to the bed, staring up at the ceiling, but then feeling that breathing again. He lifted his right arm above his face, checking his status on his pip-boy, the little man's face frowning back at him, but all of his limbs were at a hundred. His eyes wandering over to the side, a pain shooting in his head in response, but he saw a greased wave – a little disgruntled – resting not far beside him. Butch was holding his arm, his head on the bed next to him, but he was sitting on a chair. Dorrien's lips curled into a little grin, but his limps felt weak, and he didn't have the energy to really attempt do any harm to the Tunnel Snake. Actually, he didn't quite have the heart to either. Butch would never admit to staying there because he was worried; he'd be more likely to deflect it with something unrelated that would make the red head pity him, to some extent, but find charm in his personality. Charon wasn't in the room, surprisingly.
With a sigh, Dorrien pressed his free hand to Butch's face, nudging his knuckle against his cheek, urging him awake. He groaned, and swatted at him for a moment and Dorrien, rather weakly grabbed at his hand, sighing irritably.
"Come on, Butch . . ."
"Shut up—" he yawned, "Nosebleed . . ."
Dorrien sighed, his eyes narrowing as he scooted a little closer. Butch stirred a little, and honestly, the wanderer was surprised that Butch hadn't awoken when he jumped up. Thinking over that moment, the red head figured that he had just experienced sleep paralysis, again. A couple of days before the G.O.A.T. James had come into Dorrien's room after hearing muffled moans from his lab. Of course, he wasn't having sex – at that point James had realized that his son wasn't interested in females, but he found him in what appeared to be an unconscious state, sprawled on his bed, his lips parted, and his brows knitted together as the sounds intensified. Pounds of air rested against his chest, or so it seemed, and he only groaned out such sounds to call for help. His father shook him, and Dorrien whimpered at this, hearing James's voice and not being able to respond.
When his eyes finally shot open and he regained use of his body, he clung to his father, sobbing against his chest out of panic. James patted his back, whispering that it was alright. Butch walked past the door and laughed at the display, and of course, Dorrien mustered up the best glare that his could with his vision being blurry from tears. Sleep paralysis was what his father said that he experienced, then he was asked if he was getting enough sleep. Truthfully, Dorrien spent his nights reading and wandering the halls, or stalking Butch and his goons when they weren't looking. God, he had such a nice—
Either way, it had only happened twice in his life.
"Butchie, the radroaches," he whispered, inching his body closer, his lips stretching into a grin, "I don't want them getting you. You gotta get up~"
Butch blinked his eyes open, the wideness of them scaring the ginger for a moment until he sat up quickly, bumping head with the wanderer. The boy whined, letting go of Butch's arm and pouting up at him, but the snake only glared in return, though after a few moments, his visage softened.
"You're awake . . ." he mumbled, staring down at the younger male with enough intensity to make the boy shift back, swallowing down dryness.
"Yeah, I have been for a while . . ." he pushed himself up to sitting, folding his legs in front of him, though Butch faced his side, "why are you staring at me like that?"
"I'm not starin'." He looked away, seeming to regain his composure, then glanced back at the younger male, reaching up to ruffle his hair, lazily rearranging those dingy red strands. "You need a hair cut, Nosebleed."
"My hair is the least of my worries; I need to go—"
"No the hell you don't," Butch grabbed the smaller male by the shoulders, holding him still, despite the fact that he hadn't moved in the first place. "I don't even know what happened out there."
"What are you—" he was cut off again.
"Rotface brought you back and didn't tell me nothin', and I thought you were dying; breathin' all funny and shit." His hands squeezed and Dorrien bit down on his lip, his eyes averting as he tried to remember any of this.
Well, he actually was starting to remember fainting, the bugs crawling—no, but then Charon and—his mind couldn't focus, he shook his head furiously, and Butch made a frustrated little sound, like a grunt, almost.
"Don't shake your head like that," his voice sounded bit softer, and Dorrien forced himself to look back in his direction, before dropping his head in defeat.
"I—uh, I'm not dead." Was the most eloquent thing he could muster, at least until he figured everything out. "Where is Charon now?"
"He said somethin' about buyin' stuff for you. I don't know." Butch finally released the boy's shoulders, and Dorrien shuttered for a moment, wanting something to cuddle with, but Butch obviously wouldn't have been the best option. He would have gotten pushed away, easily.
He glanced to the side, Dogmeat was still resting, and of course the red head wouldn't wake him up over something so trivial. He looked down and sighed, running his fingers through his own hair, and then pouted out his lower lip.
"Fine," succinctly, the wanderer stated.
"Fine what?"
"You can give me a hair cut; just don't cut it shorter than my ears."
Butch chuckled and stood up, holding up a finger in a wait sort of command, then leaving the room, the door closing behind him. Dorrien stood up, wobbling a bit, but managed to make his way to his file cabinet. Opening the second drawer, he pulled out a bottle of purified water, tossing the cap to the side and sipping at the liquid, the burn in his throat bothered him. Sighing, he walked back over to the bed, sitting down; his dog perking his head up not too long after his bottom hit the mattress. Dogmeat panted softly at the sight of the boy then stood, moving the short distance and placing his paws against the boy's hips.
"Hi, Dogmeat . . ." Dorrien rubbed the dog's head, smiling faintly, "you know what happened don't you?"
He wasn't asking for the dog to respond, because of course he wouldn't receive the response that he wanted. He figured, however, that the Med-X had just caused him to faint, and that he did hallucinate a little. His vein did ache, however, and that caused him to assume that Charon had injected him on the way back. He was good at figuring things out, but he was also good at realizing that there was a problem. The dog whimpered, leaning up and licking the wanderer's face, panting sadly, though Dorrien did have to push him away a little just because of his breath.
"Don't worry about it," he mumbled, taking another slow sip at the water, "at least I'm still conscious."
A few moments later, Butch reentered the room, a small bag in his hand. He sat them on the table in the center of the room, and motioned for Dorrien to sit in the chair that the Tunnel Snake had been resting on while he was sleeping, after he had moved in back enough to give him room to work. Dogmeat backpedaled off of the wanderer and Dorrien stood, just to sit in the chair, his back facing Butch.
"You know, you never let me do this in the Vault." Butch mentioned, unzipping the bag – the sound bothered Dorrien, for whatever reason.
"You think I'd let you come near me with scissors, Butch?"
"I wouldn't have hurt ya'." He laughed at his own words, shifting his fingers through Dorrien's hair casually.
Dorrien's eyes closed, his lips curling into a little smile. He could hear the scissors kissing and parting behind him, the idea of a hair cut caused anxiety, but he wasn't sure why. There was a comb then, brushing against his scalp, then he felt the scissors snipping at his hair. It was like that for awhile, Dogmeat watched curiously – silently. The sound of the hair landing on the floor was audible, and it made Dorrien tremble. In an attempt to distract himself, he thought to wash his hair at some point that day, as he hadn't in a while. The comb wandered through his hair again, but caught a knot in his bangs, forcing the young wanderer's eyes open and a small wince to shutter through his form. Butch uttered a chuckle, but stopped, because he still had the scissors in his hand.
"Ow . . ." Dorrien murmured, and watched as Butch's hand took hold of the offending lock of hair, combing through it more gently now.
"Can I take you to wash your hair too? Can you walk?" Butch asked, snipping at the boy's much too long bangs – then brushing them aside with his fingers.
"I can walk—" Dogmeat disagreed, barking and standing up once the words left the boy's lips.
Dorrien could hear Butch laugh, but didn't respond to it. He only watched curiously as the hair was brushed off of his form by a towel, a hand placed on his shoulder to steady the barber. The anxiety had dissipated a while prior, but the red head hadn't felt so comfortable in a while. Honestly, if he wasn't so worried about Butch messing up in response, Dorrien could have gone back to sleep. He was helped to his feet, and Butch walked him from the room, an arm about his back to keep him steady. They walked to the bathroom on the floor – no one was walking through the hallways, surprisingly – and Butch released the shorter male when they made it to a sink. Lowering his head, the dirt, grime, and separated strands of hair were washed down the drain, only part of Dorrien's mind worried about the radiation.
When he managed to find his bed again after the walk back, Dorrien was laying down again, his head propped up by his Tunnel Snakes jacket, and his eyes half lidded. His hair wasn't too much shorter, but some of his loose curls were gone and had been demoted into waves instead. It didn't look bad, but Dorrien knew that it wouldn't be long until it grew back. Butch was in his chair again, petting Dogmeat's head. The silence was deafening.
"Are you gonna tell me what happened now?" Butch mumbled, and a bit of frustration in his voice now.
"No." Dorrien sighed, turning over onto his side, a pout playing on his lips. "At least . . . not for awhile."
It was starting to come back to him, slowly, but enough. Butch couldn't know for awhile. Sure, Butch had done some horrible things while in the Vault, but nothing like this. It was too much pressure on his shoulders, and Dorrien didn't know where else to turn. Excuses were meaningless, either way. Sitting himself up with shaky arms, he stood again, catching himself on the chair the Snake was sitting up.
"Walk me outside, please. I need air."
His veins were burning, his breathing harsh, but he managed to silence himself enough – and the air definitely wasn't helping. He rested his arms against the railing on the deck, his eyes on the water, watching the way it sloshed against the base of the boat. It was calming, to an extent, but he wished it helped more. Butch was beside him, eyes also on the water – a lit cigarette in his mouth. The smell was intoxicating enough to ease Dorrien away from the thought of injection, but now he just wanted to smoke. He would never ask Butch for a cigarette though – that was too desperate. His eyes wandered over to his Vault mate, narrowing for a moment before he emitted a weary sigh.
"What have you been doing since . . . you know." He asked, brushing a hand through his still wet hair.
"When you left it was crazy. We dealt with the radroaches enough, but the Overseer—you saw. The Tunnel Snakes partially broke up, and then everything went to hell."
"Are you saying everything went to hell because the Tunnel Snakes broke up?" Dorrien smiled at this, missing this. Butch was always so—so accidentally adorable.
"Of course I am!" Butch exclaimed, turning to Dorrien and grinning.
"Right, right," Dorrien shook his head, reaching over and flicking at the twirl of hair that rested against Butch's forehead.
"I thought you were dead." Butch's voice went down to something serious, frightening the young wanderer. "Twice."
"What are you talking about?" Dorrien knew very well what he was speaking of, but couldn't think of any other response.
"When you left the Vault, I was convinced that you had died out there – then I saw rot-face carry you in yesterday. I was worried, and I'm gettin' tired of not gettin' answers."
Dorrien was silent, his brows knitting together as his eyes lowered. Then his head perked back up with something curious, his lips parting and pulling in a faint smile. Butch must have noticed it, as he backed up a little, dropping the cigarette that had been moved to his fingers over the side of the boat.
"You were worried about me?" The wanderer asked, really only wanting to hear it again.
"No, I was worried about where my jacket was . . ." It was a quick response, and Butch had turned away again, leaving Dorrien to pout.
"Asshole."
"How am I the asshole?"
"You—you just are!" Great comeback, Dorrien, just fucking great.
The wanderer's head was hurting; his senses clouding with want again, his blood pumping so fast under his skin. It was making him irritable; usually he would just laugh off Butch's typically quirks and reactions, but he was much to bothered to let it fly this time. He glared, but was much too fired to put up any real fight – not now. Shaking his head, he turned from the other male, sighing to himself. Dorrien heard movement behind him, and when he looked back he was shoved then pushed back against the railing – hard – the metal digging into his back and an annoyed Butch much too close to his face. Dorrien was breathing in the nicotine off of his breath, but couldn't bother himself with it then. Part of him was afraid that Butch planned on pushing him off the boat – who knew how strong the railing really was.
Butch never said anything despite this, just glaring for a moment before he realized and backed off. What could he have said that didn't counter what he had said prior? Dorrien sighed and stepped closer to the Tunnel Snake, hugging him about his shoulders. Butch's back was facing him, so the wanderer wasn't too worried about being pushed off.
"I'm glad you're not dead, you know. I've lost someone already – I'd hate you forever if you died." Dorrien's eyes lowered, feeling Butch stiffen in his arms.
"Who?" Butch asked, quietly.
"My dad was killed in front of me by the Enclave. It was not too long before I came back to the Vault. Everything happened so fast, Butch . . . I never got a chance to—" He was quite then, letting go of Butch and backing up and biting down on his lip.
Don't cry, please. He begged himself inwardly, a tremble flowing through him as his eyes began to water, his teeth digging indentions into his lower lip. Arms folded around him, and his head fell to rest on a shoulder. When the tears started, they wouldn't stop. He sobbed for a while, until they were sitting, having been forced down to the floor when Dorrien's legs gave out on him. Butch was quiet; patting his hand over the red head's back, not knowing what to say to help him, and not knowing if he should talk if he had the option. He was never much of an emotional person in this sense – the guys in the vault ever had much need for such a thing – but Dorrien had always been different. Butch always used to tease him for his feminine side – the blunt and unabashed-ness of it. It just added in to his stereotype. The crying simmered down after a while, but Dorrien didn't move, he just rested against the snake, breathing evenly.
"Hey, Nosebleed," Butch spoke soft, with being so close to his ear.
"Yeah?" Dorrien's voice was shaky, he was worried about looking at Butch – he had shown too much fragility.
"You know, since that ghoul couldn't protect you, maybe you need a better body guard."
Dorrien chuckled, staring idly at the ground behind Butch, feeling his heartbeat against his chest. It was calming – and the withdrawal that had been looming over him during his episode had subsided.
"Asshole." Dorrien mumbled, but smiled this time.
"What now?" Butch didn't understand, but didn't bother to get too angry over it.
"We'll be heading out tomorrow; you might want to get rest when we get back inside . . . but please, lets stay out here for a while longer."