#john hancock.

[freesided]

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗  @missghou1  to  hancock,  via  a dialogue prompt:  " believing something does not make it true. "

❛ mmm, maybe not. but doubtin' hope is where things start to get dangerous when it's all people like us've got left. ❜  

smoke swirls in the muddy light overhead, as the ember lit on the other end of hancock's cigarette smolders. a mottled hand stretches towards the chipped ashtray (shaped like a nuka-cola bottle truck, hancock notes with muted amusement), and his thumb twitches over the filter, flicking the ash with finality. like he's punctuating his point with it.  

❛ believin' at least gives you the guts to do something about it. ❜ 

[freesided]

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ @fablelike's  nora  said  to  hancock,  via  a  dialogue  prompt: " I'm just saying you look nice. "

in the years since the radiation took to his skin like rot to tatos, hancock never did think himself capable of it. blushing, that is. the flesh too mottled, the tissue too warped. it could still burn in the sun, and it could still turn black with frost bitten decay. pain still nibbled at the surface, but it was just that: a nibbling. the ghost of feeling. 

now, as nora utters the closest thing to a compliment he'd heard in a decade-plus, the good mayor's face warms beneath the folded brim of a worn tricorn hat and even cracks with a smile. 

❛ if it means i've earned a sweet talkin' to from you, i guess i should clean up more often. ❜

[freesided]

tag dump.

[fereldentrashbag]

Ugly Mug - Hancock and Sole Survivor

“You sure you wanna be stuck with this ugly mug?” 

He’s joking when he says it. It’s punctuated with a smile. And he hopes she doesn’t see how his fingers torture the dirty tails of his red coat. Her silence prints his knuckles white, and the longer she watches him, the harder he wants to laugh. It was joke, doesn’t she see? It was just a joke. Don’t take it seriously. Don’t think about it. He thinks it would better for her if she left him behind. She’s got a sharp, good head. Not fogged up with chems or whatever else she can get her hands on. Better for her. Not for him. He hasn’t wanted to be so clear in all his life. He hasn’t remembered so many days in a row since before leaving the city. And she’s in every one of them. A focus point. Like he’s waking up bleary after a trip, doesn’t know where he is until he sees her lying there, hearing the soft-whispered sound of her sleep. Except the only drug he’s touched for weeks is the gentle heat of her cheek against his palm.

He feels lines drawing across his heart, mapping the ways it will shatter when she leaves, counting how many pieces he’ll have left. And it’s drawing tight, creaking as it’s pulled apart.

A breath. He didn’t realise he has forgotten to breathe. But there is that drug again. Palm on cheek, but this time the hand is hers and the cheek is his. He thinks that he should stop breathing again, but it’s not like that. It’s not hard. It’s so easy, she makes it all so easy. Especially breathing.

“You are a gift.” She says to him, and her breath fans across his face, “And I am blessed to have you.” She takes his hand and holds it to her heart, before her lips rest against his own.

 He knows, whatever else happens in their future, he knows he will keep this. One day she will be gone, and that’s just a fact. She will be gone and he will have to go on without her. But he has her for all her time left. She smiles at him, and he knows she’s not looking at the shrunken, leathery skin, or the colourful, hazed past. But at him, and all that he is. And he has this. The feeling of her. Loving him.