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!

Chapter Two

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.