Tate had thrown the pulse charge from Burke into the sea and exchanged that space in his pack with a piece of his own brain, extracted and bottled up. It was weird to think that little fleshy thing was him, some part of him. It didn't look fucked up, even though he was pretty sure that he was fucked up.

The trip back to the Capital was lazy and slow. He bided his time playing on his pipboy and examining his too-long roots in a cracked mirror in his cabin. In a manic moment he had chopped off a bunch of his hair, and with the weeks he had been gone, it was only half-blonde, half-black. He didn't know if Butch would even be around to fix it.

Of all the colossal ways Tate had fucked up since the vault, this was probably the worst, yeah, worse than Paradise Falls for sure. Worse than watching those kids die in Big Town because he wasn't good enough. Worse than getting Charon killed. No fucking contest. But it was Butch's fault too with those pretty, sick words that he just had to say again. And again. And again. Couldn't just let them be.

Water lapped at the side of the boat and Tate thought about throwing his brain chunk over the side too.

It had been what, two years since he left the vault? Something like that. Nineteen when he left and nearly 22 now. Still a dumbass kid though. The Brotherhood still on his case and trading one slave for another. He walked from the docks to Megaton and contemplated his sins.

"Stop, Tate, please. Why won't you just love me? Why am I never enough?"

Butch had never understood, half the time he did these things for them. He fucked Charon and he fucked A3-21 so he didn't get scared. They were balms for the basement at Springvale, that burn that would fester seemingly for a lifetime. Obedient toys that did as he said right down to the letter. Butch didn't know what a threat he posed, with his own will and desires. Butch was dangerous, the android was safe, Charon had been safe.

Stop.

Please.

He didn't know what to anticipated when he opened the door to the Megaton house, bought and paid for with Tate's body and an accidental corpse.

Wadsworth hummed in the kitchen, but didn't greet him anymore. Butch had changed that setting because it drove them both nuts. Tate dropped his pack on the floor and toed off his boots, not bothering with the laces.

Soft groans, masculine, feminine, came from upstairs. The sound of the mattress squeaking against the bed frame. Stunned, Tate grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down on the couch. Drank his beer and listened to "Butch, Butch!" and started at the mute, deactivated A3-21 in the corner looking back at him with glass eyes.

He was messed up.

Minutes later they were done and Butch came down the stairs, sweaty and shirtless and totally gorgeous, like always.

"I didn't hear you come in." He only stopped for a moment before continuing on to the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of water. Drinking in silence Tate clawed for a response, where was his silver tongue now?

"Didn't want to disturb you."

The woman descended next, fully dressed but a bit rumpled in her RobCo jumpsuit. Shoulda looked rumpled, Butch was good at what he did. They had a lot of practice.

"Hey Moira, how's it going?"

"Oh! Tate, you're back."

Tate couldn't will himself to be mad at Moira. Wasn't her fault. Wasn't anything, Butch was as available as Tate was as far as the world was concerned. She took the bottle of water from Butch's hands and drank.

"You'll come see me later, right? I'd love to hear about your trip, what the rest of the Eastern Seaboard is like. Would be great in my next book."

"Course, you can count on it."

She waved goodbye to them both and trot out the door, cheerful as ever.

Butch hadn't said a damn thing. Just lit up a cigarette and leaned against the wall, only a hair more responsive than the droid.

"Butch."

"No, Tate, no."

Tate slid away from the backrest of the couch, his knees bumping into the coffee table as his posture shifted. His eyes cocked towards the ceiling.

"Want you to take me upstairs. Want you to fuck me in the bed you just fucked her in, rub my face in it. Want you to tell me I'm not as good as a tight pussy, because I'm too used up." He started with those fucking ugly tears again, running down his face and out below his frames. "Want you to pin me down and rape me and cum in my ass. Want you to say I'm worthless."

"No, Tate." Butch grabbed his jacket on the way out to cover his torso, but didn't take anything else with him.

So, Tate turned on A3-21 and instructed him to do those things instead.

The sheets smelled like Butch but then the real thing climbed in too. Smelled strongly of cigarettes. One of his arms wrapped around Tate's waist and pulled him back towards his chest. Tiny, frivolous kisses littered the back of his neck, hot little punctuations.

"Didn't think you were coming back." Tate ran his fingers along the bones of Butch's hand, knuckles that were covered in scars like his own.

"I shouldn't have."

Maybe Tate should have finally done something inexcusable, drive Butch away forever. But if he hadn't found what that thing was by accident yet, like hell he would discover it by thinking too much.

Butch's hands traced patterns on Tate's abdomen, circles and helixes. Their breathing was evenly matched. Now that he was awake, Tate could hear the radio on downstairs, probably the droid looking for a way to pass the hours of blankness he was reduced to. Tate knew he was responsible for that too.

"We gotta figure this out, Tate."

"Why we gotta talk at all?" Tate twisted around in Butch's arms so he was facing the other man. Even in the darkness, Butch's eyes shone. Tate knew his just receded into the darkness.

"Can't solve everything with sex."

"We can try though."

Their mouths found each other, or rather, had always been there. Waiting. Through everything.

Butch pulled back, gripping Tate's chin between two fingers and his thumb.

"Why do you always fuck other people? Tell me, because I don't get it."

"You do too, Amata, Vera, Moira." As if listing Butch's trespasses would absolve Tate from guilt.

"Cause you reject me. Over and over again. Every fucking time. Leave me in the vault, activate the purifier, run off to fuck knows where for eight weeks without me." Butch's voice was angry, but something else too. Something primal and possessive.

"Tate, you've kept your fuck toys in my fucking face for the last two years. Parading that shit in front of me like you're proud of it."

"They do the things you won't do."

"You're a liar."

"Yeah, a real shithead."

"Why'd you even take me from the vault then?"

Why had he? Because he was selfish. He wanted Butch so bad even though he had Charon waiting for him at the door. Found out that Butch and Amata were gonna have a baby and took him anyway. Sure, he hadn't been thinking straight at the time, his Pop had just died and everyone was crawling up his ass, but that wasn't an excuse.

"Because I'm not me without you."

Butch laughed bitterly.

"I don't deserve your love though."

That was the crux of the problem, wasn't it.

"Isn't about deserving, Nosebleed."

But it was, it was about the trauma of a life Tate hadn't chosen. Butch hadn't chosen it either and maybe in that way Tate was just like his Pop. They hadn't discussed Butch leaving the vault, Tate just called him, assumed he would follow. His Pop expected him to stay in the vault, maybe find a nice boy and settle the fuck down. But then in the Wastes, it was all about running. At some point he'd have to stop blaming his Pop, but that didn't have to be today.

"I have something to show you."

Yeah, it was time, not for forgiveness but maybe for this. Tate crawled out of Butch's arms and went for his pack, pulling out the notes he had taken off of the mercs, folded up as small as he could make them. Little, spiteful paper footballs. Didn't have all of them, but some of the early ones and at least one of the later. His fingers shook as he handed them over. Butch turned on his pipboy light to illuminate the words.

"What are these?"

"That first week I was out...this guy, real fucker, wanted me to detonate that bomb outside. I said no, then he asked me to spread my legs and I said yes." Times like this, Tate wished he had taken up smoking. Would've given him something to do with his mouth and his hands. "Sent me these letters after. Dozens of copies."

"This is your solution? Telling me what a hot piece of ass you are and how the whole fucking Wasteland wants you on your back? Cause Nosebleed, I know."

Tate scowled, but Butch didn't even seem to notice.

"I thought I'd get something out of it, like a trade, you know? Place to stay, some caps, something. Didn't get anything but dick though."

Butch did have the comfort of tobacco, so when he was done with the notes he reached over to the end table and lit up. "Now you are literally telling me you tried to be a whore, and just ended up a slut. And you know I ain't judging you for that, Tate. If it bothered me that much I wouldn't be here now."

"Then what fucking bothers you?"

"That I love you. That you don't love me."

Tate's mouth went dry. Why did Butch always have to say those pretty, sick words. Over and over since the purifier.

"Love just seems so," Tate snickered, "happy."

Butch didn't speak after that. Just pulled Tate back into bed, held him like some domestic bullshit that seemed more and like what they were supposed to be doing as they got older and older. Didn't scare either of them so much anymore. Laying together and doing nothing.

In the morning, Butch was gone. A3-21 was still listening to the radio and flipping through old magazines. Maybe catching up on what he had missed in the weeks he had been deactivated. Butch didn't much care for the droid, probably turned him off as soon as Tate left. Didn't want to take him in the first place. Butch thought they should either leave him be or destroy the unit altogether. After what he had done to Tate, the latter option was definitely the preferred one.

"Where'd Butch go?" Tate poured himself a box of Sugar Bombs.

"Didn't say." A3-21's voice still sounded like Harkness, but without all of the intonation there. There was no synthesized memories to fill in the blanks of experience and emotion. Still, sounded real enough.

When he was finished with breakfast, Tate decided to make good on his promise to visit Moira. Butch would be back when it suited him. They'd fought worse than this plenty of times. Fights with broken noses and broken bones. It was a miracle they both still had their eyes intact because while they were excellent fighters, they were downright dirty with each other. Hair pulling, biting, spitting, all that shit that ended up turning Tate on. Like a fucking lightswitch.

For whatever reason, at eighteen during a particularly nasty encounter, blood streaming from his nose and Butch with a eye already turning purple, Tate decided to suck on Butch's neck, and Butch just rolled with it. Well, Tate knew why he did it. Butch was gorgeous as all fuck, that's why he did it. What Tate didn't get was why with that dam broken Butch started palming his erection through his jumpsuit and went to kissing right back.

Moira greeted Tate with a smile and a wave and said she'd be right with him once she finished packing up a box that was going to Crazy Wolfgang the next time he came through town. While she worked, Tate played with the dials of a broken toaster, depressing the spring and watching it bounce back up.

Moira fixed her hair a little when she was done and slid back behind the counter, plopping herself down on the stool. Leaning forward, she grilled Tate on his trip. She started with the practical, what salvage options looked like, the feasibility of making the trip on different types of craft, what enemies one should expect to encounter. It wasn't until she was on her third Nuka-cola and Tate was on his fourth that she started asking the romantic questions. About the sunsets and the way the air smelled. If plants grew green and if so, how tall. Tate already knew that she dreamed about flowers, something that she had only seen in pre-War picture books.

When curiosity got the best of Tate and Moira's had been satiated, he asked a selfish question, one he didn't really want an answer to.

"So, you and Butch, how long has that been going on?" He pretended that her face was Amata's and that he was asking about someone other than Butch. Except Amata had Butch too. Damn.

"You gotta look out for your best friend, right?" She winked at Tate and smiled coyly. "Don't worry, I'm not leading him on. He knows it's just for fun."

Tate sometimes forgot how old everyone was. Moira was probably ten years older than him and Butch. Of course she would think that Butch was the innocent, potentially naive party in the matter. He probably was.

Moira rinsed out the Nuka bottles with the smallest bit of purified water so they wouldn't attract flies and stacked them in the corner. "You're welcome so stay for lunch, if you'd like?"

Tate refused her offer with a promise to come another day with some of the tradeables he had acquired out at Point Lookout. Moira locked the door behind him so her lunch break would be undisturbed.

Instead of taking the straightforward path back to the house, Tate swung between Megaton's elevated levels, using the railings to boost him up. Some were more stable than others and one day one of them was bound to give under his weight. As long as today wasn't that day he didn't much care. Simms tolerated his antics only because it was one of Tate's less meddlesome activities.

Butch still hadn't come home. A3-21 was repairing The pistol that Tate seldom used and the laser rifle Butch had gotten from the Brotherhood.

Laid up on the couch, Tate decided his best means of occupying his time was talking to the droid. But good old A3-21 wasn't much of a talker with his personality uninstalled, so Tate settled on having the droid read from The Sorrows of Young Werther until he fell asleep.

Butch wasn't back in the evening. Or the next day, or the next. Tate ended up turning off A3-21 because he got sick of staring at his sad face. He draped a blanket over the unit like he was just a drunk napping in the corner. Wadsworth could make his meals just as well as the more sophisticated android.

When Butch was still not home by dinner of the fifth night, Tate turned the android back on. He didn't know much about robots, that was really more Butch's thing. But A3-21 was sophisticated enough that Tate just had to bark commands and the droid could practically program himself. He was a lot like Charon in that way, but a lot not like Charon because Charon actually expressed his sour opinions while undertaking whatever task he had been assigned.

"Hey, A? Do you want to be that asshole Harkness again?"

"I can't want anything, Tate."

With Butch gone, Tate stopped messing with things like dishes and ate handfuls of Sugar Bombs straight out of the box.

"Do you remember being Harkness?" Tate chewed and talked at the same time, since robots had no shits to give about his behavior.

"No, well. A bit." It was the first time Tate could remember A3-21 expressing uncertainty about something.

"If I instructed you to forget a conversation, would you?"

"Yes."

"Cool." Tate washed down his cereal with Nuka-cola and wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve. He didn't tell the droid anything important, but told him to forget it all anyway.

When Butch finally came home he smelled of gunpowder and his mouth tasted like smoke and beer. Tate wanted to climb inside his body and live there forever if it would be like this. Even though Butch never liked it, Tate grabbed onto his hair with both hands. Because Tate fucking loved that shit, forcing their mouths together and their tongues having no where else to go but into each other.

"Too long," Butch growled in between nipping at Tate's neck, running his lips over his Adam's apple and down to his sternum. Butch's lips were always soft, unlike anyone else's. He had these tubes of hardened oil that he never shared with anyone, except when it got on Tate this way. It would linger on his skin in slightly sticky, waxy patches.

Tate had gone to bed in just his underwear but even that felt too constricting as his body reacted. Since Butch had been gone he hadn't touched himself, or had the droid touch him. Hadn't felt like it. But now five days of inattention were making themselves known. When Butch's hands found the elastic of his boxers, Tate lifted his hips off the bed so they could be pulled off. Butch had apparently come to bed naked, knowing full well where they would end up.

"Sit on my lap, Tate." Words were so much sweeter when they sounded like commands. After years of accidental heroism, Tate just didn't want to be responsible. Not in this way, at least.

Butch rocked back onto his heels, his legs folded underneath him, that perfect cock jutting out, waiting for Tate to come to him. They'd done it like this before. Tate had only ever done it this way with Butch. Done it lots of ways with Butch. Done it lots of ways with other people too. But this was for them.

Even in the low light, Tate could see how swollen Butch's waxed lips had become.

Tate reached into the bedside drawer for the lube and applied it liberally to Butch's erection. He smirked a little when Butch hissed; in his enthusiasm Tate hadn't spent the time to warm it in his palm.

"Tell me you want me, Butch."

"Fuck, Nosebleed," Butch threw his head back as Tate carefully stroked him. Too much and it would be over too quick. "Wanna show you how much I love you. And if this is the only way, I'll do it."

Tate felt his cheeks warm, but that didn't mean he was blushing. Surprising though, that there was any blood left to rush to his cheeks. Made his stomach tight, too.

"Don't say that."

"It's true."

Instead of pushing the issue further, Tate released Butch from his grip and climbed on top of him instead. It was a delicate process of positioning, curling his legs around Butch's torso and lining up his cock with his entrance. Butch wrapped his arms around Tate's back to prevent him from falling backwards as much as holding him close. It was a bit of both, really. Like this Tate could only thrust shallowly and Butch would have to make up the rest. Always did though.

This position reversed their heights, with Tate's head just above Butch's. Tate pressed his nose into Butch's hair and Butch continued pressing his lips to Tate's neck. Tate's arms wrapped around Butch's shoulders because it felt like that was the right place for them to be.

Butch sucked right at his clavicle until it was sure to leave a purple bruise. Maybe tomorrow they would beat each other until they were bruised too, the two sets of marks indistinguishable from each other.

If he wanted to, Butch could bring Tate off very quickly this way, biting and thrusting and touching his cock. Tate knew full well that Butch knew all the right buttons to press, but he didn't. No, the fucker liked drawing it out until Tate was a panting, shivering, desperate mess. It was the kind of fuck that only became possible through knowing each other in a profoundly perverse sort of way. Idly, Tate considered the prospect that it wasn't perverse at all. That maybe in books when people talked about making love, this was what that was. Maybe it didn't have to be so damn happy. Maybe it could be quiet, needy, desperate, and messed up.

Only when he started clawing at Butch's back, shaking in his arms, moaning against the crown of his head, did everything shift. A little change of angle and Butch's voice in his ear was all it took. "You're mine, Tate."

It was so wildly possessive and primal that Tate nearly believed it. He came between their bodies, mostly on himself but it would rub off on Butch eventually. That word repeated over and over, spinning them both out of control as Tate twitched and spasmed. "Mine, mine, mine."

Punctuated with hips and bites and moans.

When Butch came it was with an uncharacteristic whine, higher than the pitch of his voice. Tate hadn't fully regained composure but felt Butch coating his insides and locking them together. Butch panted and rubbed Tate's back in lazy strokes. Tilting his head down, Tate caught Butch's lips. The waxiness was long gone, all over Tate's body for sure.

Butch lowered Tate so his back hit the mattress and worked to untangle them from each other. In the process, he brought the inside of Tate's ankle to his lips and kissed it, before lowering it onto the bed.

"I'll be back, want a bottle of water?" Butch sat on the edge of the bed, looking out towards the landing. They hadn't even bothered to close the door. No one else was there except for the robots.

"Yeah." Tate stared up at the metal ceiling. It would be nice to be alone, even if it was only for a minute.

The soft sounds of Butch speaking to Wadsworth floated up the stairs.

This was an impasse they had reached before, maybe a half dozen times since the purifier. Since Butch had to mumble something about loving Tate, like it was some big, world changing deal. Tate wouldn't say it back and Butch would mope. In retaliation Tate would fuck the droid because Charon was dead and that was his fucking fault too. Sometimes Butch left, but rarely for more than a few hours. He'd come home and they'd fuck and Tate would feel almost like it was okay. It was okay that Tate loved Butch too because even though he was messed up, chewed up, and spit out, Butch didn't give a fuck about that.

It was because they had repeated this cycle of small, incremental changes that Tate decided to say something. Something that thus far he had only told Amata, and maybe only then for selfish reasons. And Amata had thrown him away, exiled from the vault. But he had thrown her away too, exiling her from a surface she would never know. If Tate had ever been as selfish as Madison Li had told him he was, he would have blamed it on Butch.

Butch tossed the bottle at him and a damp rag too. Tate wiped down his stomach before sitting up and starting on the water.

Lots of little things led up to this confession. Like Butch knowing to bring a bottle of water, or that five days was just on the edge of too much, or that he'd never be mad at Moira. So no, this wasn't a big thing, just a cumulative one.

"I've said it before. Just never to you."

"What are you talking about?"

"I told Amata, back in the vault."

"Please, I'm too tired, speak like a normal person." Butch took the water bottle from Tate's hands.

"I've said I love you before, to Amata, back in the vault."

Butch laughed. "Yeah well, everyone knew you loved Amata. You were obsessed with her. That's also how I knew you were gay as hell. If you weren't, you would've married that girl at sixteen."

That hadn't been what Tate meant. Though he also meant that. As a child he had freely given his love to Amata, though always platonic. Just wasn't wired that way, he assumed. Got all the soft, mushy feelings when he looked at her, but not the hard, sharp pangs of arousal. Never bothered him much.

"No, I mean," it suddenly struck Tate that this was an awful way to explain things to Butch. "The Wasteland, it changes people. It changed me and changed you. Hell, Amata is still home and it's even changed her, I'm sure of it. So what if, it changes you, and you don't want me."

"Dunno what you're talking about. You've always been a dickhead, Nosebleed."

The water bottle ran dry and Butch tossed it out of the room and over the railing. One of the robots would pick it up and dispose of it properly.

"I can't control you. And it scares the shit out of me."

"Yeah? Tough." Butch wrapped his arm around Tate's shoulders and pulled him close. Tate's bicep pressed against Butch's side. "But don't be scared. You might decide you don't want me one day too."

"I'm pretty sure that's not going away. I pretty much hit puberty and wanted to fuck your brains out."

Butch shrugged. "So I ugh, blossomed a little later than you, fuck that sounds gay. But really, you're the one going around and wanting other people. Letting other people fuck you. I'm not the one doing that. And don't start with that fucking list, okay?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Tate scowled.

"Tate," Butch's voice went quiet in the semi-darkness. "What am I to you?"

"My best friend," he hesitated. "When I just think about you in my head, you're my best friend and my boyfriend. Though I do a shitty job of it."

"You do alright, other than when you cheat on me." Tate could tell that Butch was itching for a cigarette. He smoked in bed all the time, so he wasn't sure what was stopping him.

"A3-21 isn't even a person. He's just like...the world's most advanced dildo or something."

"And Charon?"

"Same. He didn't even like it. I think the guy fucking hated me. The point is, they don't have a choice. They can't leave me. They're safe. You, you scare the shit out of me sometimes. Cause you might leave me for some pretty blonde in leather armor."

"Tate, you're my pretty blond in leather armor."

"Oh, shut the fuck up."

Butch was smiling, that was a start. "Though not so blond at the moment. Suppose I'll fix that in the morning." He ruffled Tate's hair with one hand.

"Where were you?"

"I saw some ghouls about some real estate." Well, that was evasive. "I found that guy, Burke, from those letters you got. At Tenpenny Tower. I killed him. The ghouls killed everyone inside the tower. I guess they sort of deserved it, but I killed Burke."

"Why?" Tate wasn't too concerned that Butch had killed someone in a generic sense. They killed people all the time. Sometimes for survival, sometimes by accident, sometimes because it seemed like the right thing to do and they didn't fully consider the consequences.

"Dunno, only that I got it in my head that you'd want that. Avenge you or some shit. You feel avenged?"

"Well, he was an asshole." It was as close to a thanks as Tate could get under the circumstances.

"I don't wanna be your boyfriend."

That hit Tate like a ton of bricks. He probably fucking deserved it though. But he also knew, right on the surface of his desires, that he wouldn't stop wanting Butch. Even if they wouldn't be together, he'd still give himself over at every opportunity. He'd track Butch across the Wasteland and jump down his pants at every turn. Hold a gun to his head while he rode Butch's fucking perfect cock if he had to. He'd say a bunch of desperate things to make Butch take him back, because, in the end, it wasn't really just about sex. And that was the tricky part.

"I see..."

"Wanna be your husband."

Butch really was a fucking masochist.

When Tate didn't respond, they just fell asleep like the whole thing never happened. Tate half-believed Butch would be gone again in the morning.

He wasn't though. They woke and showered and ate shitty irradiated food. Butch fixed Tate's hack job on his hair best he could and Tate suggested they go scaving after just for the sake of having something to do. He supposed Butch had plenty of combat recently, but he hadn't. Still, Butch was quick to agree and they decided on leaving the droid behind.

Halfway to nowhere in particular they were stopped by a Brotherhood patrol that recognized them. How even the peons knew Tate's shaded face was a mystery. The two of them together weren't particularly identifiable. Just two guys with leather armor and some conventional weaponry. Butch's laser rifle was a little odd, but it was never the brunet they singled out.

Tate said no to them because he always did. He'd say no a billion times over. The Enclave weren't any of his fucking business anymore. Never really were his business.

They stopped in little out of the way spots, alcoves and nooks where inexperienced travelers thought they could rest up for the night and instead found themselves dead in the morning. What was still left was junk that would be difficult to sell at a good price if the seller wasn't Tate. He could turn used pencils into profit if it suited him.

Half the time they held hands and the other half they had their weapons drawn. It was a good balance, all things considered. They talked about Point Lookout as if it hadn't been just an excuse for Tate to run away.

"Well, I'm just glad you made it home, eventually."

"Home?" Tate snickered. "We can't go home, Butch. Amata won't let us."

It struck Tate then that all the cumulative things were awfully terrifying and liberating. Like that he had run for his life at 19 even though was much more inclined to stay and fight. He had finished his Pop's work at 20 even though he had never become a scientist. He lost a piece of his brain at 21 and was still standing next to his best friend, watching the sun go down through the radioactive haze of a world that should have been dead. But it was brutally, beautifully, alive.

"Last night. When I was talking about Amata. You didn't understand me."

"What about Amata now?" Butch always hated it when Tate got all indirect with his speech.

"I love you, Butch."

Butch's hand tensed in his, but he said nothing. He let Tate talk, because he was Butch and he knew better.

"Back in the vault, after I killed the Overseer, before we left together, I told Amata that I loved you back then. That's why I had to take you," saying it out loud like this was confirmation of the fact he wasn't a good person, he was incapable of being good. While he held his best friend's hand, he left his best friend behind. "She said okay, that's fine. She'd find someone else who could be Overseer, she was still so young anyway, and we'd all go up together. The three of us," he couldn't keep his voice from cracking.

"But you made me promise to keep her in the vault. So I told her 'no, just me and Butch are going, you're staying.' And you hadn't told me anything about how you two were gonna have a baby. And she was so angry with me. Angry and sad. I had just murdered her dad. And my Pop was dead too and I was gonna run off and leave her behind again. But I was taking her baby's father with me too this time because I was a selfish cunt. But you know Amata, she didn't say it like that. She just looked angry and a little sad and told me she was gonna have your baby. Then I understood why you made me promise. It's the same reason my Pop took me down there, why your ancestors waited for their number to be called for their place down in the vault. It's supposed to be safe. It is safe."

The sun was receding; they were running out of time.

"If I could take it all back and go home, I would, Butch."

"I wouldn't."

"Yeah you would, you idiot. Don't act tough," Tate smiled, despite everything. "If we never left the vault one of us would have married her by now and we'd all be fucking happy."

"Maybe. She would have preferred you as a husband, though."

"It would be such a scandal," Tate laughed. "Could you imagine? Me hitched to Amata and a little blue-eyed baby. Everyone would know."

"Sick, you'd get off on that shit, wouldn't you?"

"The allure if fucking a straight guy? Watching him fuck my wife then fuck me? Yeah, of course." Tate gripped the lapel of Butch's jacket with his free hand.

"I ain't straight, Nosebleed." Butch unclasped their hands and went for his pack of cigarettes. Tate stepped back. The end of the cigarette glowed red in the dusk.

"Well, you aren't gay either."

Butch shrugged, "Never said I was."

"I miss her. I miss her so fucking much. More than home, more than my Pop. I think I miss her because she's still there and she wants nothing to do with me. She hates me."

"You know that girl can't hate you, don't be an idiot."

"It'll never be right, without her."

"Is this why I'm never enough for you? Because I sure as shit would prefer for you to have some sort of impotent obsession with Moira or Nova than for you to keep fucking the android."

"No, that's...something else. That's the control thing."

"You sure do have a lot of problems."

They would have to move soon. Wasn't safe out in the open after the sun went down.

"And you don't mind?"

"Nah, never did. Never will. We're not like that, you and me." Butch put out his cigarette under his boot and reached for Tate, pulling him close and swinging one arm over his shoulders. Smelled like cigarettes and Tate liked that. He supposed they'd never have that sharp, synthetic smell of the vault clinging to them again. Like those cleaning products that were supposed to smell like lemons, though none of them had ever seen a lemon.

Tate wanted to cry. Wanted to cry for Amata and for the vault that he'd never see again but dreamed of all the time. For the father that he hated but still couldn't save. All the trappings of who he was two years ago, gone. But he came out on the other side, with Butch.

"Don't wanna be your boyfriend, either."

"Good."

Butch's arm tightened around him.