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.

Chapter Three

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.