Here is a work in progress for a fic. since I can find literally nothing with Hancock and shotgunning, I’m stepping up. If you have found fics with Hancock and shotgunning, please for the love of god send them to me.
Also please note that I haven’t done any drugs or a shotgun and I'm only working with the materials I can find and use. But those materials aren't drugs
(feedback is welcome!)
---------------
"It's just... I've never tried chems.”
“Would you like to? Obviously, there must’ve been some curiosity if you actually took me up on my offer.”
You mulled it over in your head, thinking hard on what you were about to do. Before the war, before all this, you would’ve probably said hell no and never had approached Mayor Hancock at all. But it wasn't before the war. After being frozen for over 200 years, you outta try something new.
“Sure, I’ll give it a go.” The mayor chuckled and pulled a red inhaler out of the pocket of his frock. He tipped it to you and you stared at it, confused. You knew how to take an inhaler, but if asthma medication was now a drug, you wondered what else changed over 200 years.
“What, never seen Jet before?” you shook your head and blinked at the object.
“I’ve seen inhalers and I know how to use them, but I just... dont know if something’s changed about how to take them.” Now it was Hancock’s turn to be confused. He glanced down at the object and then back to you. Something dangerous tugged on the corner of his lips.
“Do you... want me to show you?” You shivered at the drop in his voice and your mind went silent. All you could muster was a nod as you searched his dark eyes.
"Open," he commanded, and instantly your lips parted. He didn’t break eye contact as he brought the Jet to his lips and inhaled deeply. He took a step forward and put his hand on your jaw, bringing his face closer to yours. You felt your breath hitch in your throat. He was so close. So close you could almost kiss him. His lips brushed yours and he slowly exhaled into your mouth. You inhaled the smoke as deeply as your lungs could bear and held it for just a moment before exhaling. Hancock breathed in the smoke and pursed his lips to the side, blowing it out. "That a good one?" He rasped, his gravelly voice doing wonders to your body. You mustered a nod and glanced to the inhaler still in his rough hand. He followed your gaze and locked eyes with you again. "Wanna 'nother hit?" You nodded again. A smirk danced on his lips. "A nod ain't gonna do it, sister. You want some'a the goods, you're gonna have to tell me just what you want. You're gonna have to earn it."
You swallowed as a rush of heat flooded your body and rose to your face. "May I please have another hit... sir?" The last word came out as a whisper. His smirk grew wider.
"Sir, huh? Never pegged you for that type, but it’s a welcome discovery." He took the inhaler to his lips and huffed. If you could get on your knees you would. Something overwhelmed you- the urge to submit completely to the Ghoul in front of you. He pulled your face to his with the hand still on your jaw. Slowly- almost painfully so- he exhaled into your mouth, his lips pressed ever-so-slightly to yours. You took in his breath with a want that almost consumed you, getting lost in the black sea of Hancock's eyes. You held the vapour in your lungs and looked at Hancock's still parted lips, despite the fact that he stopped transferring the drug to you. If he could detect copious amounts of radiation by smell, surely he could tell just how much your body ached for him.
He pulled away from you slowly. You suppressed a whine and he cocked a grin. "If you want any more, you're gonna have to earn it. Show me that you can take a hit yourself and we can talk more. Although," He chuckled as his hand slid down your jaw and dropped to his side, "I wouldn’t mind giving you some lessons." With a wink, he turned on his heel and walked back into the State House, leaving you standing in the alleyway, dumbfounded. Slowly, you made your way out of the ally and towards the Hotel Rexford, where Nick stood with his arms crossed. Once he caught your figure in the corner of his eye, he practically leapt from his spot on the brick wall and over to you.
"Hey, where were you? I've been looking all over for you!" He looked into your eyes and worry coated his features. "Hey, you alright there, doll? You look a little... out of it." He placed a hand on your shoulder and looked around, suspicious. He looked back to you, yellow eyes glowing with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. "Did you go out drinking or anything? Did anybody do anything to you?"
You blinked at him, suddenly aware that he was actually speaking to you. You saw his lips moving and heard words come from his mouth, but just now your brain caught up with you and processed the past minuet's events. "No, I'm alright Nicky. Nothing happened." At least nothing I didn’t want to happen, you thought. He looked at you, disbelieving. He stared at you for a while, almost like he was... scanning you? After he blinked, his featured softened and he removed his hand from your shoulder. "Alright, doll. It's pretty late. Whaddya say we get some shut-eye, huh? Come on, I already got two rooms booked for a night." You nodded and followed him to the entrance and looked up to the balcony where Mayor Hancock gave his speech that earned yourself some Jet and found the man himself standing there again, staring down at you with that damn smirk spread across his face.
My second little ficlet! This one's Hancock. @simpleenthusiast Constructive criticism is welcomed. --- Hancock is a man out of time. He's a man with suave confidence and self-deprecating humor. It's no wonder, because of what hes been through, that he jokes the way he does. He's been looked down upon, criticised, shot at, and kicked out of cities, all because of the physical effects of radiation. Does he miss his past? His life with 'smooth skin'? At times might have begged to whoever was up above to just 'let him be normal' but he should have known better. Life doesn't work that way. Life doesn't go in reverse. Life does, however, supply you with coping methods. Hancock's coping method? That was Sole. There are days that he wished he could peel off his skin. He doesn't feel that way when Sole looks at him. Sole looks at him like he's the most beautiful thing they've ever seen, like the night sky is in his eyes, his eyes reminiscent of the void... Sole grabs his chin and glides their thumb over Hancock's cheek, the dry craters of skin resting on his cheekbones, and for a moment, at least, he's alive. Really alive.
RIm in love with your fics! ♡♡ me some Hancock x SS. Hehe. Anyway, I have no idea if ya asks are open. Buuuut I'd like to request a drabble of the SS coming back from a long term solo mission and is ghoulafied. :3
Thanks! Hancock x SS is my weakness too <3
I’m working on three different Hancock fics right now, but as long as you don’t mind it being short, I’ll try to get your drabble request put out by Friday! :)
“That’s a nice tux,” Fahrenheit said with a sly grin, leaning against the doorway to Hancock's bedroom.
“Eat my ass, it's Christmas,” Hancock replied without looking away from the mirror.
She grinned wider. “Also a big date night.”
“Not a date.”
“No? You let just anyone wear your coat then?”
“Shut up.”
“And get dressed up for them?”
“Fuck off, Fahr.”
“And take them out and offer to pay and—”
“I'm not in the fucking mood for this shit,” Hancock growled.
Fahrenheit went silent, and he closed his eyes and breathed in deep. He hadn't taken a hit of Jet since he'd attacked Danse in the workshop, and he'd weaned himself off the Med-X too. Wouldn't be caught dead with Psycho after anything that happened either, and Buffout was also just a little too close for comfort. The one thing he hadn't quit was the Mentats, ironically. The little tablets sabotaged and reformed with cocaine was what had fucked him up so badly, so if he was going to try to quit any chem, Hancock knew it should be them. But he just might eat his shotgun if he had to give up his 'tats on top of everything else.
“You need another one?” Fahrenheit asked after a moment.
She checked and approved all his tins of Mentats now and kept an eye on how many he took too. She'd been doubtful when he asked her to help him get clean, but she couldn't argue that being drugged into thinking he'd gone feral wasn't a damn good reason for wanting to kick the chems.
Hancock sighed. “Yeah.”
Being sober wasn't as bad as being feral, but it was close. And after doing so many chems for so long, one Mentat was like giving a man dying of thirst one drop of water. He didn't want to be irritable and snappish at Scout tonight though, especially not on their da—
It wasn't a date.
Fahrenheit tossed him a new tin and watched as he took out a single 'tat. Hancock sucked on the little tablet hard and had to throw the tin back to his bodyguard. He didn't trust himself not to pop a few more when she wasn't looking, if not purely out of habit more than any conscious decision. It had been maybe two weeks total, and he already looked back on the days of eating Mentats like candy with aching nostalgia.
“Cut it out with this nervous bullshit,” Fahrenheit said. “I literally heard Scout say 'I love you, John' when they slept next to you while you were sick. They held your puke bucket for you.”
“Doesn't mean anything,” Hancock muttered, turning back to analyze himself in the mirror. “They say I love you to all their friends.”
Fahrenheit let out a long frustrated groan that sounded eerily like an angry brahmin. “You people and your fucking romance. They tell you they love you. They kiss you on the face in public. They let you live in their house and tell you how much their dead husband would have liked you and ask you to help them find their son. They. Love. You. What fucking difference does it make if it's platonic or romantic?”
“I've tried to explain romantic love to you five different times now,” Hancock replied, fiddling with his tie again. “If I couldn't make it clear when I was high, I'm sure as fuck not going to explain it any better sober.”
“Are you worried about the sex?” Fahrenheit asked, not even pausing as she suddenly changed the subject. “Scout said they've only been sexually attracted to Nate, and that was after they fell in love with him.”
Hancock used the angle of the mirror to glare at her without turning around. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
She shrugged. “Hey, that sounds like it's based off of love and personality, not looks. Those are the two out of three that you've got, so quit fucking worrying about it.”
Hancock undid his tie and focused on figuring out how to tie it right so he wouldn't have to make eye contact with her. “What if Scout falls in love with someone tall and muscular and pretty and then they want to fuck him?”
Fahrenheit rolled her eyes. “Scout isn't going to fall in love with the trash can baby.”
“They compare Danse to Nate all the time.”
“Yeah, the parts of Nate they didn't like,” Fahrenheit scoffed. “Being too judgmental, blindly respecting authority, and kinkshaming.”
“Pretty sure they're joking about that last one.”
“Pretty sure they're not.”
Hancock gave an exasperated huff and admitted defeat to his tie. The suit he'd dug out of his closet fit perfectly, but he'd never bothered with ties before. Just his blatant disregard for authority and social norms surfacing there. Not much he could do about his lack—or lack of it—but he still wore the cap Scout knit him beneath his tricorn hat, and he always thought that gave him a dashing, roguish air.
“The whole town has a running bet on when Scout's going to marry you,” Fahrenheit remarked casually in the silence.
Hancock finally turned around to look at her. “Since when? And how do you know I won't be marrying Scout?”
Fahrenheit snorted. “Because I've bent you over your own desk and spanked you.”
“Kinks don't correlate to overall dominance in a relationship,” Hancock said. “And I seem to remember fucking you up against every wall and alleyway in this town. Remember the list?”
Fahrenheit tilted her head to the side and thought about it. “Did we ever check off the front gates?”
“Nah,” Hancock said with a wistful sigh. “We missed that one.”
“Then that's my wedding gift to you and Scout,” Fahrenheit said. “The one surface in Goodneighbor that you two can christen.”
“This isn't a date and we're not getting married,” Hancock replied, but he grinned when he said it. The Mentat and the banter had eased his shit mood, even if his nerves were still going strong.
“Right,” Fahrenheit said wryly. “Want me to get you your spare coat?”
Hancock glanced back at the mirror. He'd done all he could for himself.
“Sure.”
***
Scout lounged on one of the many couches in the Old State House, not minding the way the Neighborhood Watch guards snuck quick glances at them. The Sole had done one hell of a job terrifying the poor guards the last time they were there, as word about how they starved a man for three days, then cut off his own leg and fed it to him quickly made its way around the small town. Despite the flashy nature and short length of the sparkly red dress they wore, none of the guards dared openly leer at them. If the Sole didn't have their balls for it, Hancock would. Scout was even wearing his coat tonight, a clear mark of ownership. Although, whether that showed he owned the Sole or they owned him was a matter of hot debate, argued only in the quietest of furtive whispers.
“Matt?” Scout called.
The ghoul ambled over, licking his nearly-gone lips nervously. “Yeah?”
“Could you go upstairs and ask how much longer—”
“No need for that, love,” Hancock announced, appearing at the top of the winding stairs. “I wouldn't keep a gorgeous thing like you waiting.”
Scout watched him come down the stairs, their eyes going wide. They hadn't expected him to have a backup coat, a long black leather duster that looked just as impressive as the coat currently sitting on their shoulders. Crap, it was totally unfair that he looked sexy in two coats. And was that a suit beneath it? The Sole stood when Hancock made it to the bottom of the stairs, and they didn't bothering trying to be subtle about the way their gaze swept him up and down. That was a suit beneath the duster, and the fitting drew attention to the narrow V of his slender hips.
Scout dragged their eyes back up to his face and grinned. “My, you clean up nice, Mister Mayor.”
“Lies and flattery, but with a mouth like yours, I suppose you can use it however you want.” Hancock said with a wink.
They gave a dramatic sigh. “And here I thought if I used it to talk you into giving me your coat, I could be the hot one tonight. But then you come down here looking like that, dashing my hopes.”
Hancock tried to play it cool, but that turned out to be a lot harder to do sober. “Well now you're just telling lies. I could put you up next to anyone in the Commonwealth and you'd still be the hot one.”
“And you're saying all the flattery,” Scout retorted, still smiling wide.
“I'm about to puke,” Fahrenheit said, coming down the stairs to join them. “Stop flirting and let's go already.”
“You know what, Fahr? Take the night off,” Hancock told her. “My Christmas gift to you.”
“Great. I hear the mayor's spotting everyone a free drink at the Third Rail. I think I'll head over there,” Fahrenheit said, completely deadpan. “Let's go.”
“Wait, who walks in the middle?” Scout asked. “Are we your two side studs or are you two mine?”
“Obviously, the two of you are my arm candy,” Hancock said.
Scout and Fahrenheit glanced at him, then very deliberately looked back at each other.
“Anyway,” Fahrenheit said.
“Does anyone here still respect that I'm the fucking mayor?” Hancock complained loudly.
“So he's feeling like himself again?” the Sole asked. “Doing good?”
“Sam old pain in my ass,” Fahrenheit replied.
Hancock scoffed and walked away. Fuck those two if he was going to stand around listening to them talk about him like he wasn't even there. He wasn't invalid, he'd just been sick—going through withdrawals because of his own damn chem habit that had nearly destroyed everything, the weak link Danse said he was, the one most easily manipulated with a few bad Mentats and—
“If you two wanna talk shit, I'm gonna take a smoke break,” he called back as he left.
He didn't make it far before Scout caught him with a hand on his shoulder. Hancock let them turn him around easily. He'd promised himself he wouldn't get snappy at Scout just because he was struggling to stay sober, but then he couldn't handle a bit of banter he would've rolled with when he was high. Fuck, the last thing he wanted was to become that one guy who turned into an asshole when he got clean and everyone agreed they liked him better when he was high and no one wanted—
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Don't worry, we're both on edge right now,” Scout said. “But hey.”
Hancock looked up, and Scout pointed at the doorframe above their heads. His eyes followed up further to see mistletoe dangling over the two of them. Scout reached out and cupped his cheek, angling his face down to look at them before surging forward to kiss him. The kiss was light, barely more than a two second press of their lips against his, but it felt like the high he'd been jonesing for.
“So are you going to pay for all my drinks?” Scout murmured when they drew back, grinning at him again. “Mister Mayor?”
“That'll get you one,” Hancock replied, voice even huskier than usual.
Scout drew back and gasped in mock offense. “Fahr, did you hear that? This is highway robbery!”
The bodyguard just rolled her eyes and herded them out the door. “Move your asses, you're both disgusting.”
***
***
I really wanted to have one of those "the female love interest dresses up nice for once and appears at the top of the stairs in all her beauty, and her date is so slack-jawed impressed" but in reverse, because Hancock is beautiful and deserves to be appreciated. It also just isn't a Christmas fic without at least one "we're not in love or anything but we just so happened to end up under this mistletoes, whoops guess now we ~have~ to kiss, I don't make the Christmas rules" fluffy kiss.
And yeah, I totally headcanon Fahrenheit as aromantic (and also as a transwoman, but I don't think that'll come up in this fic) who tries so hard to take care of her stupid-in-love babies but it's like herding cats.
The next chapter will be the song prompt chapter, btw :)
Scout hands out Christmas presents to the good citizens of Goodneighbor, and they ask Hancock out on a date!
***
“There,” Scout said, stepping back to admire how the cap fit on Hancock. “Still rocking the sexy pirate look, but now much more practical.”
“Scout,” Kleo called. “Your canine is sniffing me again.
Scout turned away from Hancock and jogged over to pull Dogmeat away from the small business owner. “Sorry. She likes your voice. I do too. Both sultry and murderous.”
“Thank you,” Kleo said. “I like your business.”
“I got you something too,” Scout told her. “Hold on a second. Daisy, could you babysit Dog for just a second.”
Dogmeat eagerly obeyed, trotting over for a petting session while Scout retrieved their pack from inside Daisy's store. Scout could certainly hold their own, but it didn't hurt to deter thieves that no one dared to mess around in Daisy's shop either, and everyone certainly got the message that you didn't fuck with a friend of Hancock. For Kleo, Scout pulled out a small ceramic dildo and handed it over to the puzzled robot.
“I have no need of this,” Kleo said.
“It opens up right here.” Scout showed Kleo how the dildo separated at the ballsack, revealing a small knife that was normally hidden inside the shaft. “So if anyone gives you crap, you can shank a dick with a dick.”
Kleo's red eye considered the knife-dildo more carefully. “I take it back. This is a lovely little weapon. I'll think of you whenever I kill people with it.”
Fahrenheit came over and admired the knife-dildo too. “Think you can get that replicated in titanium?”
“I know a human who makes blades. I could likely special order a piece similar to this from them,” Kleo replied. “For the right price.”
Fahrenheit nodded. “I just got a raise, so I'll buy.”
“I got something for you too, Fahr,” Scout said, taking a pair of steel-toed boots that took up most of the room in their pack.
Fahrenheit took the boots and looked them over. “These do something special too?”
“Yep!” Scout cheerfully answered. “Click your heels together to hit a button that'll pop a knife out of the toes.”
Fahrenheit knocked the heels together and a short blade slid out of the toe of each boot. Kleo made a deeply approving humming noise, and Daisy stopped petting Dogmeat to come over and get a look too.
“I can't wait to kick someone in the dick with these,” Fahrenheit said.
Scout sighed wistfully. “I hope I'm around to see it.”
Kleo nodded. “Yes. I'll give you a discount on that weapon import if you let me examine the mechanism in those for reproduction.”
“You start selling those, and I'll order a pair,” Daisy said.
Hancock drew their attention by clearing his throat. “Do I need to be worried here?”
“Yes,” the three women and Scout replied unanimously.
“Christ,” Hancock muttered, taking another drag off his cigarette. “Fucking women … and feminine people.”
Scout snorted. “You just barely saved that.”
“I'm still not convinced he did,” Daisy said.
Fahrenheit tilted her head to the side. “You got something you want to say about women?”
Kleo just whirred threateningly and twirled the knife-dildo around.
“Yeah,” Hancock said. “You scare the shit out of me.”
That appeased the women and Scout, who suddenly gasped and turned to Daisy.
“I can't believe I almost forgot,” they said. “This isn't a weapon or anything, but I searched around a little and found something for you.” Scout took a book out of their pack and handed it over to Daisy. “Since you wanted me to return the second book to the library, I figured you might need the third, and I just so happened to find it at the Old Corner Book—”
Daisy cut Scout off with a hug, smooshing the book between the two of them. She didn't say anything, but she didn't have to. After a long moment, she pulled back and accepted the book, blinking hard against some dust that had gotten in her eyes.
“Thank you,” she rasped. “I've been waiting over two hundred years to find out how this stupid trilogy ends. But here I am without anything for you.”
Scout smiled and shook their head. “No, you don't have to worry about that.”
“I got it, Daisy,” Hancock said, swaggering over and throwing an arm around Scout, dropping his cigarette in the snow so the smell didn't bother them. “You deserve Christmas shit too. Whaddya want?”
“I don't—”
“C'mon,” he cajoled. “I'm the mayor here. I can get you whatever you want, gorgeous.”
Scout leaned closer to bury their laughter into the shoulder of his coat. “Oh my god,” they gasped when they came back up for air. “Please tell me you don't actually use lines like that.” Their eyes widened and they looked over at Fahrenheit. “Fahr, tell me they don't work!”
She shrugged. “More often then he deserves.”
Scout's mouth dropped open in disbelief. “He sounds like the intro to a bad porno. John Hancock, mayor of Goodneighbor and good times!”
“The only man I'm interested in is my Fat Man,” Kleo announced. “I'm going to go polish it now so I don't have to listen to this.”
Scout didn't seem to be offended by that at all. “Bye, Kleo. Merry Christmas!”
“So,” Hancock drawled in their ear as the robot left. “Have you been dreaming of a white Christmas?”
Scout nearly collapsed against him in a fit of giggles. “Y-you're the worst. You … oh my god. Daisy, reprimand him.”
“If scolding worked on that boy, he would've asked you out a long time ago,” Daisy said with a grin. “You two have a Merry Christmas.”
She beat a quick retreat before Hancock could glare another hole in her face. He wasn't asking out anyone. He just offered to take Scout anywhere they wanted and pay for it, that's all. But instead of teasing him or making some sort of polite, oh no we're not friends like ~that~ remark, Scout turned to him with a wide smile.
“That's a great idea,” they said.
Hancock blinked back at them. “It is? I uh … I thought you wanted to set out to see Nick.”
Scout's bright mood dimmed, melting down to something much more serious. “He's just checking something out right now. There's actually not any reason for me to go see him until he gets something—if he gets something—and he told me to stop hovering and enjoy Christmas with you.”
“If you want to stick around and celebrate, that's what we'll do,” Hancock told them. “If there's one thing Goodneighbor is good at, it's throwing a party.”
“Yeah.” Scout stepped a little closer, turning fully into his embrace. “I just need something to keep me busy. Stay positive. If Nick's lead pulls through, and I find—I want Shaun to meet happy, trying-to-be-a-better-person Scout, not murderous, feed-a-man-his-own-leg Scout.”
Hancock nodded and squeezed their shoulders in support. Scout looked up at him, snow clinging to their lashes.
“Did I ever tell you thank you for that?” they asked softly.
Hancock could only shake his head no.
“I don't regret doing it,” they continued, “and I enjoyed every second of it. But you were right. That wasn't a path I should've started down again, especially if I might find Shaun soon. So thank you, for trying to keep me good.”
“Any time,” Hancock murmured.
Scout took a deep breath, deliberately changing their attitude into a more cheerful one. “So. Since you're already paying for drinks at the Third Rail, why don't you take me out too? I want to make sure karaoke never dies.”
A loud laugh came from inside Daisy's shop, revealing that she was still shamelessly eavesdropping. Fahrenheit didn't know what karaoke was, but she didn't have to eavesdrop at all. Hancock forgot about how much of his personal life she actually saw, leaning silently against a wall until she just blended into the background. Her attitude of complete indifference, mixed with a tinge of boredom, helped her fade away quickly.
“Sure thing, gorgeous,” Hancock said, more aware than ever that he still had his arms around Scout like they really were lovers. “Anything you want.”
That turned out to be a promise he shouldn't have made, as Scout's eyes lit up with a genuine blend of mirth and mischief.
“Let me wear your coat for the night,” they said.
“You'd take the coat right off my back?” Hancock asked in mock indignation.
Scout laughed. “Shut up, you've literally tried to burn it for me before. I just want it for the night because I'm going to wear that sparkly red dress, and it's—”
Hancock immediately stepped back and began struggling out of his coat. He'd seen glimpses of that glorified scrap of fabric before and if it meant getting to see Scout actually wear it, he'd burn his coat in the town square and toss his hat in too. Hell, he'd swan dive onto the pyre himself. Not like it'd make any difference with his face.
“—too cold to wear without a coat,” Scout finished, smirking as they watched Hancock fumble with the buttons. “You know I don't actually need it until tonight? How about you escort me back to the House so I can get cleaned up first.”
Hancock stopped fighting his coat and held out his arm for Scout to take instead. “Sounds good, sunshine. Say, did I ever give you a tour.”
Scout smiled and linked their arm through his. “Nope. I killed three warehouses full of people for you, briefly got into roleplay, and broke into your strongroom, but no tour.”
“Did I mention I have a running shower with hot water?”
Hancock woke up to an empty mattress for the first time in a couple of days. Scout had been sleeping with him each night, claiming that they got cold and needed a snuggle buddy, that he needed someone to watch him in case he started puking again, that they'd been really worried about him and wanted to stay close, please Hancock? And then the big eyes and the pleading smoothskin face and Hancock caved each time like an old mine shaft. Fahrenheit smirked at him each time he couldn't say no to Scout. She thought it was hilarious, the dirty traitor.
But he should have expected Scout to bail sooner or later. There were only so many times they could wake up and see his face first thing in the morning before they decided to find new sleeping arrangements. He couldn't really blame them. If he had to wake up and look at himself first thing, he'd—well. That's how he got this way in the first place, by being willing to do anything not to recognize the man in the mirror anymore.
“Quit fucking moping.”
A rolled up Boston Bugle landed on his face, almost putting out one of his eyes. Hancock batted it off and flopped over onto his side so he wouldn't have to make eye contact with Fahrenheit and her exasperated you're-such-a-dumb-asshole expression.
“Your little datemate just went down to the kitchen,” she told him. “They probably wanted breakfast or something. Stop being such a goddamn drama queen.”
Hancock sat up and glared at her. “That's drama mayor to you.”
Fahrenheit pointed at the door. “Go. You're even harder to look at when you're sad.”
“I take back anything I said about a raise,” he grumbled.
“I already took the caps from your accounts,” Fahrenheit replied. “If you want them now, you'll have to fight Kleo for them.”
Hancock stood up, and his vision went black for a moment. Turns out spending three days on a stimulent-depressant bender from hell and then the next three puking his stomach lining out took a lot more out of him than he thought. And he did it all sober. Well, semi-sober, but a little bit of Med-X never hurt anyone. Compared to how much he was usually on, he was practically pure as snow at the moment. Fahrenheit frowned when she noticed him wobble for a second, and she started to stand up, but Hancock waved her down. They didn't ever need to repeat or speak of her carrying him bridal style. Ever.
“I'm fine,” he said, grabbing his coat and shrugging it on. “I need to get up and actually do something anyway. Laying around ain't nearly as fun sober.”
Fahrenheit considered him for another moment, but then she nodded and went back to cleaning her nails with her knife. Hancock grabbed his hat on the way out and made it all the way down the first flight of stairs before one of the Watch spotted him. Paul? Or Greg? Shit, he could remember faces, even ghoul faces, but he couldn't remember names worth a damn.
“Hey, you actually are alive,” Paul-Greg said. “Matt owes me twenty caps. I knew Fahrenheit wouldn't ever make a play like that.”
Hancock snorted. “The concern for your mayor is touching.”
Paul-Gred shrugged. “You wouldn't die on us. You're too—hey, Matt! C'mere, you owe me twenty caps. Told you Mayor Hancock would be fine.”
Another Neighborhood Watch ghoul hurried over, a grin stretching his scarred skin. “Well I'll be fucked by a deathclaw. You pulled through.”
“Haven't met a high I haven't rode through yet,” Hancock said.
The two Watch guards laughed, and he leaned against the banister, hoping it looked casual and not like standing up for a whole three minutes had exhausted him.
“What the fuck were you on, man?” Paul-Greg asked. “We heard you went on a three day bender.”
“Yeah, and you were still fucked up when you came here to crash,” Matt added. “I've never seen someone come off a high that hard.”
Paul-Greg nodded. “Did you really have to get sober just to come down from it?”
Hancock waited for the rush of questions to end. So that's what had been making the rumor rounds. Not too far from the truth, actually. Best to brush off that whole “the mayor thought he went feral business” with a good story about a bad trip anyhow.
“Found myself a stash of some pre-war drugs and took 'em just to see what would happen,” Hancock said, then he grinned and shrugged. “That happened.”
“Shit,” Paul-Greg whispered in awe.
“There any left?” Matt asked.
Hancock shook his head. “Nah. You know I'm not the type to keep good stuff to myself, but it turns out that pre-war shit is a fucking doozy. I thought there was only enough for me, but I coulda passed that shit out to the whole town and gotten us all fucked up.”
Matt sighed. “Damn.”
“Yeah, you must've taken enough for a whole town,” Paul-Greg said. “That cute French doll was talking about your heart fucking stopping or something.”
“Yeah, that could have happened,” Hancock said in a no-big-deal voice. “But you know me. I can handle my shit.”
Paul-Greg gave a whistle of admiration as another set of footsteps sounded on the stairs. Hancock glanced over to see Scout coming up, holding a plate with a towel over it. Matt sniffed the air and eyed the plate with interest. Whatever kind of meat that was, it smelled damn good.
“Hey, you make something?” Matt asked.
“This isn't for you,” Scout told him.
Hancock grinned at them. “Aw, sunshine, for me? You shouldn't have.”
“I didn't,” Scout said. “But um, Preston is around here somewhere and he knows how to cook if you're hungry.”
Hancock frowned. “Then who's that for?”
“You know how I said Fahrenheit was handling the Travis problem?” Scout asked, waiting for him to nod before they continued. “He's being held in one of those warehouses I cleaned out for you.”
Paul-Greg managed to lift one of the corners of the towel before Scout batted his hand away, and he took a step back with a yelp when he saw what it was.
“Is that a fucking leg?” he demanded.
Hancock turned to look back at Scout, who shrugged unapologetically.
“He hasn't had anything else to eat for a couple of days now,” they said. “Fahr and I have a twenty cap bet going on how many of his limbs I can feed him.”
The three men went silent, Paul-Greg and Matt looking nervously between the Sole and Hancock. Yeah, he put the hurting on the ones who needed it, but that was some pretty fucked up shit Scout just said, and he wasn't sure if that's the sort of thing he wanted brought into Goodneighbor. And from what Scout had told him about their past life in the mafia, he also doubted if them getting back into the swing of torturing people would be good for them, either.
“Listen, he started this in my settlement, and he was only able to make trouble now because I didn't do a good enough job keeping an eye on him,” Scout said. “He's my responsibility, and this is how I'm handling it.”
“And what about doing better and what Nate would have wanted?” Hancock asked quietly.
Scout gave him a tight smile. “This is the doing better option. He hurt … my friend. The old me would have fed him pieces of his various family members.”
“Shit,” Paul-Greg muttered, then gulped hard and shut up when that drew Scout and Hancock's attention. The two Watch guards didn't know what friend Scout was talking about, and Hancock decided it'd be better to have this conversation with Scout a bit more privately.
“I'm back, I'm fine, go see if Fahrenheit needs anything,” he told them.
They both hurried off immediately, Matt casting one last glance back at the plate and shuddering before he left. Hancock turned back to Scout, who had a stubborn set to their jaw.
“This is fucked up and you know it,” he said.
“He's the one who started the psychological mind games when he made you think you were feral,” Scout hissed. “Fahrenheit had to listen to you beg her to kill you. I had to tell Cait to get rid of a body, and she still doesn't have a good explanation for that. If anyone else had found out and gotten to you first, they might have killed you and you would have let them.”
Hancock tried to interrupt his Sole's tirade, but they talked right over him.
“He hurt you, and I'm gonna feed him his own fucking limbs, John,” Scout said.
Hancock stared at them, but he could tell they weren't going to back down. He didn't have much to argue against them anyway. He knew they wanted to give Cait a second chance like they got, not order her to hide a body without any explanation. And Fahrenheit … shit. She didn't exactly wear her heart on her sleeve, but he knew she cared about him and seeing him like that had to hurt. Travis hadn't just fucked with him, the asshole had fucked with his family and Scout's both.
“You feed him that piece of leg and then put a bullet in his head,” Hancock countered.
Scout eyed him back just as hard, but this wasn't something they could get out of by batting their (long, gorgeous—shit, not the point) eyelashes, and they knew it.
“Fine,” Scout said. “I'll come back when it's done. Do you need me to do any—”
Hancock interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I'm fine. Christ, I was sick for a few days, I ain't dying.”
Scout's eyes narrowed. “You're my best friend and your life matters and I'm feeding you soup when I get back.”
“You're gonna give me a kink with all this soup feeding,” Hancock said.
“I think you mean complex?”
“Yeah, that too.”
Scout snorted and broke out into a grin before leaning forward and kissing Hancock lightly on the lips. He didn't have a chance to react, and he stayed stunned into silence when they pulled back.
“Don't push yourself or anything while I'm gone,” they told him. “Curie analyzed the rest of your chems, and they're all good, but maybe take it easy.”
Hancock blinked and forced himself to say something back. “All right.”
“I'll be back soon, love you, bye!”
Scout flounced out the door like they were off to go on a Sunday stroll, not feed a man part of his own leg. Also like they hadn't just kissed him and said they loved him. Hancock shook his head to clear his thoughts. He'd heard them say I love you to their other friends lots of times. Preston, Nick, Deacon, Piper, even Cait once, although she'd turned bright red and threatened to knock them the fuck out if they kept up that sappy bullshit. And of course they told Dogmeat they loved her all the time. So they didn't mean it like that.
“You gonna stand there all day like you just creamed your trousers?” Fahrenheit called, leaning over the railing on the second floor to look down at him.
Hancock flipped her off automatically before he finally shook himself out of his daze. He was way too sober for this shit, and it was definitely time for his next shot of Med-X. Maybe if he took a short nap too, Fahrenheit would let him back into his office and he could start catching up on his mayoral duties.
Maybe if he threw himself hard enough into that, he'd stop feeling Scout's lips pressed against his.
***
I think I'm actually going to end this here. The next fic I add to this series will also be multiple chapters and take place about two weeks after this, where Scout and Hancock are finally forced to confess their feelings. So that will wrap this whole thing up super nicely, and I can't wait to get started on it!
Scout’s investigations start to uncover what's really going on behind Hancock's feral episodes ...
***
“What do you have, Nick?”
The radio crackled for a moment before the synth's voice came through. “I scanned the bite marks on the vic, just to confirm they didn't come from an animal. But it got me thinking.”
Scout bounced their knee up and down. “Yeah?”
“Curie insisted on giving everyone a physical when she first got here, including Hancock. I can transmit the bite marks to you, and she can download them when she gets there.”
Scout added tapping their pen to the impatient movement of their leg. “So?”
“She still has the data of Hancock's physical, including his dental records. Used to be a big thing back—”
“I know,” they interrupted. “Dental records, pre-war, I was there. You think she can compare the two and prove it wasn't Hancock?”
Static came in for another long moment before Nick spoke. “She can give you a confirmation.”
“That it wasn't Hancock.”
“… right.”
Scout gritted their teeth against making a noise that would have bordered on a snarl. Fahrenheit was the only other person who believed Hancock hadn't gone feral. Even Nick clearly wasn't convinced. So what if Hancock had been acting increasingly aggressive up until he attacked Danse? So what if Dogmeat had tracked Hancock's scent from Sanctuary to a dead body in the woods that had been half eaten? So what if Hancock had showed up at Goodneighbor with blood under his nails, raving that he'd killed a woman? Just because literally all of the evidence pointed to a conclusion didn't mean it was true.
Scout sighed and let their head thunk forward onto Hancock's desk. At least they were in Goodneighbor with him now. “With him” meaning sleeping in his office while he stayed locked up in a boarded up supply closet, alternating between screaming bloody murder and puking his guts out. But he was nearby and still alive, which was something.
Maybe he had gone feral. If so, Scout would do what needed to be done. But they were going to make goddamn sure that's what was going on before they did.
***
The next three days passed in a blur of puking and shaking for Hancock. The effects—and therefore nasty side effects—of chems might be muted ghouls, but he was coming off of more years than he could remember of continuously being high. He was pissing and sweating and puking out enough chems and toxins to OD a smoothskin by smell alone.
And through it all, he kept hearing Scout's voice, feeling soft hands lift his head up for a drink of water, a warm body staying next to his … but that couldn't be possible because his brain was rotting away and he was going feral. Scout wasn't really there. It was just a hallucination.
***
Scout paced next to the dirty mattress on the floor that Hancock lay on. They'd put him on regular treatments of Addictol to help with the withdrawal, but puking for three days straight had strained his stomach muscles so much that he'd been in constant pain, unable to even hold down water. Curie said the vomiting was caused by anxiety as much as, if not more so, than the withdrawal symptoms, but he hadn't been coherent enough to either understand or believe Scout when they told him they were there and everything would be fine. Eventually they'd caved and given him a small dose of Med-X, the vial and amount pre-approved by Curie, just so he could rest.
Curie beeped, and her eye stalk moved away from Hancock's head.
“Well?” Scout immediately demanded. “How's his brain?”
“All of his gray matter remains intact and appears to be unaffected by any radiation,” Curie said.
Scout sat down hard on the wooden floor next to Hancock's mattress. He was so out of it, he didn't stir, even when they reached out and gripped his hand. They had been right. He wasn't feral. They'd tried to explain to their other companions that ghouls wouldn't just randomly turn feral. Either the initial radiation burned through parts of their brain or it didn't and they gained enough rad resistance for that to never be a possible issue again. Maybe some of the really old, pre-war ghouls went insane, but that was from living for far longer than people were meant to, watching the whole world die and change in front of them.
“However,” Curie continued, and Scout's heart nearly stopped. “His symptoms shouldn't be this bad. Even considering the severity of his previous chem abuse, ghouls have a much higher tolerance and are almost completely unable to get addicted—physically speaking, of course. Psychologically, anything can become a crutch, which can—”
“Do you think his behavior could have been caused by whatever is also causing this reaction?” Scout asked.
“It's possible,” Curie said. “I think examining what he had been taking would provide the most insight into his condition. At this point, I believe the most likely scenario is that he accidentally consumed a particularly bad batch of chems, but they would have had to have been regularly ingested to produce these results.”
Scout looked up at Fahrenheit. “Check his coat and tell Nick to check his stash at Sanctuary.”
“He was in your settlement for two weeks,” Fahrenheit replied. “Whoever did this to him was living there or nearby.”
“Oh!” Curie bobbed up in the air anxiously. “You think his chems were deliberately tampered with?”
“Dogmeat found two more scents near the body,” Scout said. “And Nick spotted footprints too, sunk deep enough in the mud to suggest whoever left them was carrying something heavy. Someone could have killed that woman and planted him near her body, especially if they loaded up his chems to knock him out beforehand.”
“You gonna deal with them?” Fahrenheit asked.
“I will,” Scout answered, voice hard. “But I'm staying here until Hancock wakes up. I sent Preston with Dogmeat to track down those scents. Nick is already checking things out in Sanctuary.”
Fahrenheit stared at them for a long moment, and the Sole figured she was going to yell at them for not going out and avenging Hancock themself. But then she nodded.
“Fine,” she said. “He was in a pretty bad place when he got here. You might have to talk him down from doing anything stupid when he wakes up. Don't let him near glass or shoelaces.”
Scout gave her a nod back, even as their heart broke a little over that kind of advice being necessary. “I'll watch over him.”
“Is there anything more I can do to aid Monsieur Hancock?” Curie asked as the bodyguard left the room.
“If you could keep us stocked up with water and analyze any chems Fahrenheit finds in his coat, that would be great,” Scout said.
“I will come in to provide one ounce of mutfruit juice for him to drink every hour,” Curie said.
Scout frowned. “That doesn't sound like enough. Doesn't he need lots of fluids to stay hydrated?”
“Too much will make him puke again,” Curie replied. “He should only consume what he will be able to keep down. We'll have to work him back up to intaking larger amounts of fluid, and then food, gradually. I do hope no one intentionally tried to hurt le maire.”
Scout squeezed Hancock's hand in their own. “If someone did, I'll handle it.”
***
Hancock stopped throwing up a day later, but only because he entered a sleep so deep that Scout asked Curie three times if he hadn't went into a coma, to which she kindly explained each time that his body simply needed to rest after such a traumatic experience. Eventually the robot told Scout that she couldn't concentrate on analyzing the one remaining Mentat Fahrenheit had found wedged in the back of Hancock's tin if Scout kept asking her questions. They retreated back to Hancock's bedside after that, rubbing his head and smoothing over the scarred ridges of his face when he twitched and groaned from nightmares.
Curie delivered her news first. Both the remaining Mentat and the empty Jet inhaler Nick found in the workshop showed signs of being tampered with. The Mentat was partly some kind of powdered form of Psycho, most likely made by crushing up a regular Mentat, mixing it with the powder, and then reforming the Mentat into its normal tablet shape. Curie described the possible mental effects as restlessness, aggression, and paranoia with physical side effects of increased blood pressure, higher energy, and muscle twitches.
Scout almost had to use Hancock's bucket to throw up. Nick was the only other person who could remember, to recognize what that was. Pre-war drugs, before all the plants died or mutated from radiation and chems got popular.
“Please breathe with me,” Curie told Scout, making exaggerated whirring noises to imitate breathing. “Exhale one, two, three … inhale one, two, three … exhale one, two, three.”
Scout forced themself to breathe the way she wanted and waved her off after a minute. “I'm fine. What they used, it sounds like a pre-war drug I know. Called it cocaine, basically powdered Psycho like you said.”
“Are you … familiar with its side effects?” Curie asked slowly.
“Yeah.”
Scout didn't elaborate beyond that, but Curie pushed for more.
“Would it account for the increased aggression like I theorized?”
Scout gritted their teeth. “Yes. When you—it makes you focused. Nice if you want to rearrange all your furniture six inches to the left five different times in an hour, but if you go into it mad, it'll—fuck.”
Curie flinched back away from the Sole, as much as the robot could. She was aware some of the other companions had dirty mouths, but she'd never heard Scout say such a filthy word.
Scout took a deep breath and continued. “It's a stimulant. Nick said the whole tin was empty, but I'd heard Hancock shaking it earlier that day. It had to have at least five or six still in it, and there was a vial of Med-X on the bed, plus the Jet in the workshop, and—”
“Breathe, Scout,” Curie reminded them. “It's inhale one, two, three and exhale one, two three. Inhale one, two three. Exhale one, two, three.”
“Cocaine is a stimulant and Jet and Med-X are both a depressant,” Scout mumbled, still hunched over with their head between their knees next to Hancock's mattress as he slept.
“Yes, it is quite a miracle that le bon maire is still alive,” Curie said.
Scout made a whimpering noise and the robot realized perhaps that wasn't as encouraging as she thought it sounded.
“And his heart hasn't stopped the whole time he's been under observation!” she added. “Monsieur Hancock is very strong.”
Scout didn't want to think about Hancock needing to be strong, pushing himself to walk through the wastes and ruins all the way down to Goodneighbor, unarmed and coming down from a nasty high. Why hadn't he come to them? Did he think they'd just shoot him and be done with it, no questions asked?
“Robot,” Fahrenheit said, stepping into the room. “Go down to the kitchen and fix Scout something to eat.”
“Oui, of course.”
“Her name is Curie,” Scout said looking up.
Fahrenheit ignored that. “Preston caught up with the two men. One died in the fight, but he has the other. I'm heading out to go pick him up.”
Scout let go of Hancock's hand to clutch at the sheets instead. The man who had done this to their best friend. They wanted to march out and drag that man back themself, but for once, a stronger emotion than vengeance held them back. Fahrenheit was loyal and cared for Hancock deeply, but she wasn't the most emotionally comforting person. Hancock would need someone to explain what happened when he woke up, someone to tell him he wasn't feral, he was still a person, his life still mattered. Scout exhaled slowly and lifted their head to make eye contact with the bodyguard.
“I'll watch over Hancock here,” they said. “When you bring that man back, do me a favor and stick him in a very small room. Lock the door. And wait three days. Give him water, but no food.”
Fahrenheit raised an eyebrow. “Just gonna starve him? Figured you'd get more creative than that.”
Scout smiled back at her. “I am. Cut off his leg on the third day, below the knee. Send someone to get me. I'll cook it, serve it to him, and see if I can get him to eat himself, one piece at at time. Twenty caps says he will.”
“This going to be an ongoing thing with the rest of his limbs?” Fahrenheit asked.
“Yep.”
“Twenty caps says he'll bite the first time, but wimp out on the second leg,” Fahrenheit countered.
Scout shook their head. “Nah. What he did was cowardly and twisted. Man like that will do anything to survive.”
Fahrenheit leaned against the doorframe. “But will he know it's his own leg?”
“Oh yeah,” Scout said. “I won't disguise it or anything. I want him to know exactly what he's eating, and I want it to actually be a really good meal. I bet Daisy has some seasoning she'll let me use. I want that starving part of him to enjoy eating his own leg.”
Fahrenheit appraised the Sole for a moment. “Fucking sick. Consider it done.”
She left the room and Scout crawled onto the mattress with Hancock, spooning his sleeping body from behind. He twitched again, but his muscles relaxed when they wrapped their arms around him and pulled him close, one hand on his chest right over his heart to feel it beating. Just to make sure.
“Not going to let anyone hurt you, honey,” Scout whispered to him, placing a light kiss on top of his head. “You're mine.”
So @nick-valentine-fanclub got an anon submission prompt of Hancock thinking he’s gone feral and running away (with the SS bringing him back of course) and they tagged me in it! I’ve also seen a few other people in the Hancock tag wishing to be inflicted with this pain and suffering, so here’s the first part of (maybe) five chapters, my masochistic little sinnamon rolls!
***
Hancock took another Mentat, the fifth in an hour. He'd been restless all week, actually hoping some settlement would get raided so he'd have an excuse to go fuck someone up. Maybe it had been a slow week. Maybe Scout had been spending it helping Danse make modifications to his power armor. Maybe the two were grinning wide after a tricky bit finally worked and Scout was teaching Danse how to high five. Hancock fumbled in his coat pocket for an inhaler of Jet. He normally kept that little habit for behind closed doors, but fuck if he didn't need to get high right now after seeing the shy, blushing looks Danse kept sending Scout.
He flicked the cap off the inhaler and brought it up to his mouth as Scout ducked behind the power armor frame to work on something else, still not noticing his presence. Danse cocked his head like a goddamn drug dog though and looked up to see Hancock leaning against the workstation on the other side of the room. Hancock didn't even bother to hide his animosity, making direct eye contact as he took a deep inhale. Danse's eyes narrowed in fury and he stalked over to the ghoul, whose whole body lit up with the drug and the chance to move, to hit, to fight.
“That contraband will not be tolerated in my workshop,” Danse hissed, keeping his voice low so as not to draw Scout's attention.
Hancock tossed the inhaler aside with deliberate carelessness and exhaled the Jet smoke back out in Danse's face. Fuck him and that “my workshop” bullshit. Everyone in this neighborhood died and made Scout God of all the property here, not him.
“You only get high because you know you're inadequate,” Danse said through gritted teeth, then straightened up from towering over the shorter man. “I'm leaving now because Scout actually needs me.”
Hancock heard something snap in his mind, the sound he imagined Danse's neck would make when he broke it.
He kicked the other man in the kneecap without any preamble. Danse staggered down, not quite falling but definitely stumbling. Hancock took advantage of that, knocking his feet out from under him. The soldier had quicker reflexes than Hancock expected from someone locked up in power armor all the time and managed to grab the ghoul on his way down. They both landed on their sides, and the fall jarred Danse's knee. He was used to continuing through pain, but Hancock was faster than any human could be and lunged on top of Danse before the soldier could recover.
Hancock punched Danse hard, once, twice—the soldier hit him in the ribs but he couldn't even feel it—a third time and a forth—someone was shouting and there was blood smeared across Danse's pretty boy fucking face—fifth and—the crack of a gunshot but no pain—
“John, stop!”
The use of his real first name made Hancock pause for only a split second, but it was long enough for Danse to knock him off. His face throbbed, scrambled back to his feet, blood in his eyes but blood on the other man too, get the knife and there'd be even more—
Someone caught him from behind in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his chest before Hancock could draw the weapon. His hands clawed uselessly at the metal arms locked in place around him. The person holding him said something, trying to tell him to calm down, but the only voice that registered in his head was Scout's.
“You just thought what?” they demanded.
That question didn't seem like it was directed at him, but the feeling that he deserved to be shouted at started to creep inside his thoughts. Who else was here? He couldn't see. Everything was red. Was it there blood in his eyes or had his entire vision gone red? He blinked several times and the workshop finally came into focus. Scout, yelling at a settler with a gun in his hand. Must have been the one who shot at him. Bad aim.
“There was this ghoul attacking that guy, and I thought …” the settler tried to defend himself.
“His name is Hancock,” Scout snapped. “Get out. I'll handle this.”
The settler cast one more fearful look toward the synth barely restraining the angry ghoul before hurrying away. Hancock sagged in Nick's arms. Scout never let anyone refer to him as “the ghoul.” They always insisted that he had a name, even the very first time they'd run into the Brotherhood at that old police station, with Scout throwing themself between him and the barrel of Danse's gun.
“Realized you've fucked up yet?” Nick murmured.
Hancock didn't have a sarcastic reply. He was aware of Danse leaning back against the far wall, but he couldn't look directly at the smoothskin without the rage thrumming back through his body. The Jet had slowed down the entirety of their brawl, but now reality was kicking back in hard.
Scout turned to glare between the two men. “What was that?”
“He was getting high in my workshop and when I confronted him about it, he attacked me,” Danse immediately narced.
“If you got a fucking deed to this property, I'd love to see it,” Hancock sneered back.
“All right stop,” Scout said. They swiped a handset radio off the workstation and pushed down on the button. “Curie, please come to the workshop. Danse has some injuries that need to be looked at, over.”
“Oui,” the radio replied, then, “Oh, yes. Over. I almost forgot, over … over.”
Scout sighed and put the radio back down, crossing their arms. “Danse, you're going to stay here and think about what you said because I'm absolutely certain you said some condescending crap to provoke this.”
Danse started to protest, but Scout ignored him and turned to Hancock next.
“And you,” they said. “are now banned from the workshop because I also totally believe that you did start the fight and Danse needs the workshop to make repairs to his power armor. You can just hang out somewhere else.”
Hancock felt bitterness flood through his like the chem had a few minutes ago. Scout's default location in Sanctuary was almost always the workshop, and it had to be passed through to get to their room. All they'd basically done was make their own little club room for themself and Danse, no Hancocks allowed.
“Fine,” he bit out. “Let go, Nick.”
“You sure—”
“I ain't allowed in here anymore, didn't you hear?” Hancock said, his voice a deeper growl than usual. “So unless you wanna walk me to the door like this, let go.”
Nick's processors whirred for a moment as he seriously considered actually doing just that.
“Let him go, Nick,” Scout said with another sigh.
The synth unlocked his arms, and Hancock jerked out of the embrace, tugging on the lapels of his coat to make it sit right again. Scout fixed him with a worried look and stepped toward him like they might say something, but Hancock brushed past them on his way out. They grabbed his arm, and for a split second, the anger was back, pulsing through him like a second heartbeat. Horror followed quick on its heels though, crashing over Hancock at the realization that, no matter how briefly, he had wanted to hurt Scout.
Hancock jerked his arm away. “I'm fine.”
He quickened his stride as he walked away, heading straight for the house he'd claimed as his own directly across the street from the workshop, letting the front door slam behind him. If he looked through the living room window, he could still see into the workshop, and he had a sick feeling that's what he would be reduced to—watching the person he loved talk to and hang out with some beautiful, beefy smoothskin while he spied on them like some kind of creep. Military, moral, abso-fucking-lutely mundane, Danse was everything Scout had said Nate was like. Of course they would like him better and be impressed by his power armor and fall in lo—
The dresser smashed into the floor, and Hancock stood blinking down at it, not even conscious of having thrown it. He dug back into his coat with shaking hands that made the Mentat tin rattle as he lifted it to his mouth and tilted the aluminum back, swallowing all the little tablets still left inside. Med-X was next, thankfully stored in the nightstand next to the bed and not the dresser. He slid the needle into his arm with practiced ease, pressed the plunger all the way down, and fell onto the bed. His fingers clutched at the bedsheets, then slowly loosed as the chem pumped through him, taking everything away.
***
His head still pounded when he woke up. How hard had Danse hit him? Hancock sat up with a groan, freezing when the hand propping himself up touched dirt and grass. Where the fuck had he woken up at this time? He looked around, vision still blurry and his surroundings not registering as anything but meaningless blobs of color. He squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds before blinking them back open again, the scene in front of him swimming into focus.
Dead person. Covered in blood, neck twisted at an unnatural angle, laying right next to him. Hancock lurched up to his feet, scanning the forest for the threat. He started to reach back behind him for the knife he always kept tucked away, but the movement caught his eye. Blood. There was blood on his hands. His head hurt, but he didn't feel like he'd been shot or stabbed anywhere.
Hancock looked back down at the body. Claw marks all over the poor woman, but too small to be an animal, more like—his eyes darted back to his hands again. He swallowed hard and tasted blood. Waking up in strange places wasn't unusual for him, and tasting blood when he did hadn't raised too many alarms since Danse had walloped him pretty hard in the face. But when he raised the back of his hand to his chin, there was more blood there. Dripping from his hands and chin, dead woman torn apart at his feet, what happened—can't remember—the anger pounding in him, so much anger—what happened—how did he get here can't remember anything what the fuck happened?
The settler, the one who had shot at him. He'd seen Danse and him fighting and had made the assumption that Hancock had been another feral ghoul, somehow broken into Sanctuary and attacking people, and Scout had been so mad at that settler, it wasn't fair to assume that, they'd insisted he had a name—
Hancock fell to his hands and knees and retched. This was what going feral felt like.
