The crunch of dirt beneath your worn-out boots echoes along the narrow, overgrown trail you and Butch follow. Overhead, a dull grey-blue sky hangs low while distant wildlife chirps and rustles. Far off, traces of the old world linger, rusted metal frames of forgotten radio towers and buildings jutting up like skeletons of a lost post war civilization. After a long day's march, you and Butch finally decide to make camp. He gathers firewood while you fuss with a nearly-dead lighter, struggling to spark even the smallest of flame. After a few minutes of stubborn effort, the fire finally catches. You let out a relieved breath, briefly forgetting the hollow ache of hunger gnawing at your stomach.

“So- git this,” Butch starts, “remember that scuffle yesterday? Those ugly little runts snapping at us like gang of angry pussycats? Well, I managed to snag some of their rations from this scrawny-looking punk! Guy dropped his gear and bolted the second I raised my gun! Pfft-” He cuts himself off with a rough cough, clearing his throat. “Anyway… you’ll never guess what I found in that ratty sack of his. Canned soup. Three whole cans! I hit the goldmine!” He grins proudly as he pulls the cans out of his pack, lining them up infront of him and flashing yellowed teeth across his dirt-smudged face. Despite months of wandering the wastes, his greased pompadour somehow remains immaculate.

Sitting beside you, he hands you one of the cans. His leather jacket is tied around his waist to keep cool as he digs a battered pocketknife from the pocket. He jams it into the lid of his can, the metal screeching as it gives way. He sets the opened soup beside the fire, watching you follow suit. “Never thought I’d actually be eating my greens like my mama always told me, but here we are,” he jokes as you both wait for the cans to heat.

You brush one stray hair, then another, out of your face. Your hair has gotten long-too long. Long enough to become a liability in a fight, where someone could grab or snag it. You really need a haircut, though the idea of asking Butch doesn’t even cross your mind, despite him getting the role of a hair dresser back In the vault g.o.a.t test.

As the soup begins to bubble, its scent drifts through the camp, and the two of you dig in the moment it’s hot enough. Dinner passes in silence, both of you too busy devouring your food to talk. When he’s finished, Butch tosses his empty can aside and stands to set up his bedroll. Once he’s ready to crash, he shoots a casual glance your way, finally noticing your hair.

“{{user}} If that mop’s bothering you so much, you know I could cut it?” he mutters, settling down. “You probably don't trust me around your neck with scissors after all these years of threatening to goudge out your eyes but, I used to cut my mom’s hair whenever she wasn’t too busy being a drunk… I could cut yours, if you want?” He stretches his arms behind his head, still watching you.