Work Text:
It was the little things that made life worth living.
Like the way the light filtered through the open windows, hazy as the smoke curled up from the ashtray on the coffee table. Or the way the sharpness of the Jet mingled with the euphoria that only a double syringe full of Med-X could induce, drawing him further into the sofa’s velvety cushions as if he were melting away from the material world.
Mostly though, it was the way air had been ripped from his lungs the moment a certain dark haired beauty had stepped through the gates of Goodneighbor.
Hancock would swear up and down that he hadn’t been that high, though time had seemed to slow the second he’d laid eyes on her, as if his entire existence hinged on that pivotal moment.
It felt a lot like fate.
At least that’s what Daisy would have called it. Hancock had laughed when she’d first told him about the concept—something from one of those old romance books she liked to read. He’d listened to her explain it, crudely joking that he felt the pull of fate every time a pretty new face walked the streets of Goodneighbor.
Daisy had only shrugged, smiling as if she knew something he didn’t.
She’d cursed him, he later realized. Like a bad hangover, the idea lingered, taking center stage during many of his mentat-fueled late night spirals. He began to wonder if maybe the older Ghoul hadn’t just been waxing poetic, but he hadn’t wanted to ask her about it again, or admit just how much the idea of it had consumed his thoughts.
Not until today, when he’d first laid eyes on that woman.
She was a vault dweller, if that shiny Pip-Boy dangling from her wrist were anything to go by, and she’d been cleaner than the usual drifter, with a softness about her that lacked the severity of someone who’d grown up living in the Commonwealth.
And she’d been beautiful. Hancock wouldn’t say he was particularly proud of the direction his mind had wandered in that moment, but then again, he’d never claimed to be a saint.
He’d noticed her lack of armor first. She hadn’t worn any raider leathers, instead clad in a worn utility jacket, a plain black t-shirt, and a pair of skin tight jeans that rode low on her hips, hugging her curves in a way that hadn’t left much to the imagination. Her green eyes had drifted over the town with wary curiosity, fingers flexing against the holster she kept at her waist as if she were no stranger to using the pistol that hung at her side.
It hadn’t even been a particularly bright day, yet her dark hair seemed to glow as the light reflected off of it, as if she herself were an extension of that same radiance.
Pure fuckin’ sunshine.
Then Finn had gone and nearly ruined it.
—
Worn hinges squealed in protest as the door to his office opened. Hancock’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt, and he listened to the light footsteps as they echoed across the floor.
He didn’t bother looking over from where he still watched the smoke curl against the cracked paint along the ceiling. There was only ever one person who’d enter the room without announcing themselves first.
The young woman was silent as she approached, carefully avoiding the loose floorboards that made the most noise. She didn’t take a seat on the couch across from him, but perched lightly on the armrest of his sofa, her arms folded across her chest as she stared down at him.
“You were showing off,” Fahrenheit stated in her harsh, matter-of-fact way.
A rough laugh emanated from where Hancock lay against the cushions, followed by a thin column of smoke as he plucked the cigarette from the ashtray. He took a long drag, letting the smoke seep out of his nasal cavity before blowing the rest off to the side, away from Fahrenheit’s face.
“Yeah? What makes you say that?” He asked lazily. “I was just takin’ care of a little problem. Been a long time in coming.”
“Sure. A problem I’ve been askin’ you to let me deal with for months now.”
Hancock couldn’t see Fahrenheit’s face without tipping his head back, but he could picture the young woman rolling her eyes. Few people ever got to see this side of her, but it was in these moments that he was reminded of the little girl she’d been—the one who’d once called him dad—and not the hardened second in command she’d become.
“Heh, well maybe I just wanted to handle it myself,” he countered. “Lead by example and all that.”
“Right.” Fahrenheit’s tone was laced with sarcasm. “Next time something needs doing, I’ll be sure and let you know so you can handle it yourself.”
“Maybe you should,” Hancock mused, bringing the cigarette up to his lips. “Felt good, ya know? Gettin’ my hands dirty again.”
Fahrenheit’s only answer was an unflattering scoff.
Hancock tilted his head to look at her, but the room swayed with the motion and he closed his eyes, waiting for it to settle. Desiccated fingers thudded over the top of the sofa a moment later, and he fumbled with the cigarette, trying to avoid any new burns on the worn velvet as he pulled himself up.
Not his most graceful maneuver, but Fahrenheit had seen worse over the years.
The realization sobered him up a bit, even if he knew he wouldn’t find any actual judgement reflected in Fahrenheit’s eyes. If anything, she was mildly amused, even as she pinned him with a knowing look.
Sighing, Hancock rubbed a hand over the back of his scarred head, absently wondering where he’d left his hat. He knew damn well what Fahrenheit was trying to say with that look. How many people, both men and women, had she seen him with over the years? Sure, he wasn’t winning any father of the year awards, and he’d tried to hide it when she was younger, but Fahrenheit was an adult now. One that had, for better or worse, always been a bit more perceptive than she let on.
Unfortunately, Hancock also knew what his reputation was like these days.
It didn’t help that even though he’d sat up, the room hadn’t stopped reeling, as if it were mimicking his thoughts as they spiraled out of control. It wasn’t as if any of this even mattered.
He would probably see the vault woman once, maybe twice more at most, assuming she was only passing through like she’d said. And even if she hadn’t seemed completely disgusted by him—even if she had flashed him a pretty smile when he’d welcomed her to the neighborhood—it still didn’t mean a woman like her would ever want a chem addicted, rad freak like him.
He wasn’t that delusional. At least not yet anyway.
“Fine. Ya got me.” Ash drifted to the floor as Hancock flicked the cigarette butt onto the table. He flashed Fahrenheit an easy smile, hoping to put her at ease. “I took care of Finn ‘cause a pretty little thing walked through the gates and I figured I’d make a good first impression while also remindin’ everyone about who’s still in charge.”
There was a moment of silence and then Fahrenheit laughed; a strange and grating sound that might have been concerning had Hancock not heard it a time or two before.
She smirked. “Good to know you haven’t gone all sentimental on me, old man.”
“Hey, watch it,” Hancock warned, though there was no real bite to his words. “I ain’t that old yet, even if I look like it.” He grinned at her fondly. “Now, get on outta here. You’re harshin’ my mellow.”
Fahrenheit pushed off from her perch, starting for the door. “Yeah, way ahead of you. Got a few loose ends that need tyin’ up anyway.” She paused, and her expression turned serious, even as her eyes still sparkled with mischief. “And don’t worry, I’ll be sure and let the drifter know you expect her to come up here at some point to pay her respects.”
Hancock opened his mouth to reply to the cheeky comment, but the door was already clicking shut, leaving him alone once again. The silence stretched on for far too long, broken only by his deep exhale as he let himself sink heavily into the sofa.
He knew it was only Fahrenheit’s way of checking in, but the knowledge did nothing to ease his guilt. That wasn’t a burden a kid should ever have to bear for their parental figure. Especially not for one as monumentally fucked up as he was.
He’d killed so many people in the name of keeping Goodneighbor safe. Some of them were raiders, but a lot more of them had just been members of their society gone bad. Between the neighborhood watch and Fahrenheit, it had been far too long since any of that justice had been dished out by his own hand.
Truth was, Fahrenheit was right. Finn had been a thorn in his side for a while now, and he was long overdue in dealing with it. The merc had been undermining him for months—whispering in the shadows when he thought the mayor's supporters were out of earshot and roughing up newcomers when they didn’t give in to his demands.
Sure, Hancock hadn’t needed to make such a spectacle out of killing him, but he’d learned long ago that sometimes a public execution was good for morale.
And yeah, he had been showing off, but where was the harm in that?