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Once, in a time long forgotten, people would’ve laughed at how much they cherished this moment. They never did see the beauty in enjoying a moment of rest; hell, he was sure they didn’t even understand how precious those moments were given to them. Of course they didn’t understand— they had it all handed to them on a silver platter. Nothing made them sit at the edge of their chair, ready to leap up if a mole-rat or feral wandered in uninvited. They didn’t surround their neighbourhoods with barbed wire and large fences in order to keep the Deathclaws and Yao Guais out. They had cold drinks, and Mr. Handy’s serving them, and the comfort of safety.
He wished he could have lived in what those old memories fed him info about. To live relaxed like they did—not wasting away standing in midst of a gunfight, or ‘bleeding’ out pressed against a wall to the bellows of mutants. He wished he could sit down and just enjoy the feeling of peace, and not ponder about what next. He longed for better moments than this false sense of security they were living in now. Better moments than this wretched life.
Someday it would happen. Not today.
For the time being, he was content.
If he thought about this a certain way, a scenario like this would’ve caused a few good men in the past to throw their heads back and guffaw. Imagine—a private detective, locked in a leather sofa’s cozy embrace, sending wisps of smoke dancing through the caved-in ceiling, gun resting along his thighs like he expected some murderer to waltz in. Across from him is the mayor of a crack-town, likewise resting quite comfortably with his own pistol between his knees, sending his own drugs’ smoke as a partner to his in that dance upwards. The mayor is high off his ass like usual too, but not enough to damper the conversational silence between them. The other tag-alongs are downstairs, catching their own rest, their own break. Sole was probably feeding Dogmeat. Hell who knew what Danse was up to.
The first sentence between them was from the mayor, and when Hancock talked, it was quite sober considering the circumstances. “Waitin’ for the stars to come up?” The ghoul pointed a scrawny finger upwards, to where the evening sky laid glistening in all its filthy glory. He glanced up slowly, a tad too slow if he took the time to think back, and let the mayor add another slurring sentence to his ears. “Looks to be a good night.”
“If the sky allows it.” He let go of another smoke trail. “To be frank, I’m enjoying everything but the company’s excellent taste in drugs.”
“Why, this is a home recipe.” Hancock winked. “Made it myself.”
“Better pray to God it isn’t your last batch.” The sky’s dirty atmosphere wavered softly under his gaze, and faintly he could make out the tell-tale signs of stars. “You know, after that wound you got today.”
They both took a good glance at the ghoul’s hastily bandaged midsection. It wasn’t bleeding anymore, and he was reluctant to admit that he felt a good deal of relief at that. “Tis, but a scratch.” Hancock waved a hand, took another puff of whatever he had created. “Hardly felt it.”
“You were screaming.” For me, he didn’t add.
“Did not.” The glossy black eyes of the mayor narrowed. If it was from annoyance or humour, he could not tell. “Hardly even slowed us down.”
“Ain’t that a load of ghoul bullshit right there.” He scoffed, and a small part of him was finally relaxing alongside his body in the sofa. “On the contrary, you did manage to lead a group of mutants and ghouls to us with all that blood and screaming.”
“Lies. Was a scratch.” The ghoul stretched on the sofa, then made a face. “Ow. ‘Kay, maybe a scrape.”
“You took a long-ranged shotgun blast to the chest.”
“One wound,” repeated Hancock insistently. “What—Nicky, buddy, it’s like you’re concerned about me or something.”
“Hmph.” Was all he said, and his voice scuffed into that gruff, discarding manner. Something in him told him to get up, wipe that smug look off the ghoul’s face. He didn’t. He let his tongue add another scalding comment instead. “Well, someone has to pretend to.”
It was the wrong thing to say. The drop of the ghouls’ upturned smile was well-concealed, even under the influence. “Thought so.” The ghoul barked out stifled laughter, as if they had just engaged in a meaningful joke, and slunk back in the sofa again. “Nicky, you’re breaking this ol’ ghoul’s heart over here—then again, you carimg me? Bah. I’d eat my own hat if that ever happened.”
“Day might be coming sooner than you think if you’re not careful.” His mouth dropped the words harder than the impact of the bombs.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuck.
Eyes shot wide. The blackness in them was astonished; he could see where the ghoul’s disbelief began, and those confusion-mixed emotions had him shifting uncomfortably in his chair under their sharp gaze. Later, he would ponder, did half-assed conversations back then occur like this on TV? Did they happen over smoke and injuries, drugs and Jet? Was it always this awkward? His cigarette drooped between his teeth; gears and circuits and wires were grinding to a half as old memories hit him like a spinning heel kick, and whatever the hell happened in those old memories with old Nick and Jenny used to feel was now spinning full-force. “I’m...not hallucinating, am I?” cracked the man’s voice, strong with surprise and a sort of earnest eagerness that almost had him leaving the room from whatever embarrassed feeling there was. “’Cuz, I think you just— hell, did Nick Valentine, good ol’ proper Nick, flirt with me?”
“If that’s what you call it.” It sounded too laidback for the pounding of whatever emotion in his chest. Was this real? Was this his? A sudden betrayal of thought dawned on him—was this old Nick, not him? Would he feel like this? He took those negative thoughts and pushed them down. “I’d put it under other words.”
“And, what would that be, exactly?” And there was a side of Hancock he hadn’t experienced for himself yet, but had been beside enough—a sly, multiple-toned voice that held many implications but not enough proof for them to hold true. He briefly wondered if Hancock was always like this during flings or actual romance pursuits.
“Informal negotiation.” He said, voice too calm for his clusterfuck of thoughts.
“Usually those negotiations tend to be a lot closer,” Hancock subtly stated. Oh boy. Oh boy. The old circuits were definitely cruising at a high speed now. He watched the ghoul sit up as if the power of love itself had come in and healed his wounds through the touch of words. It was, frankly, a bit concerning, but he quickly decided that he’d stop the ghoul from killing himself if he attempted walking toward him.
“Isn’t that a shame.” His cigarette burned between his lips. It was practically a stub, anyway. Crushing it between his metal fingers, he smeared it into the ashtray. “To think I thought I had it nailed.”
“Could always teach you a bit more.” And the shit-stoned ghoul was trying to get up now, the idiot. He was up and across the room forcing the ghoul back into the sofa, but of course that was the mayor’s plan. The mayor put a hand up against his chest; if he strained hard enough, he could feel the warmth of it through his trenchcoat. “Teach you a lot, actually.”
“Rest.” He said, swatting the ghoul’s hand away. “You’re injured.”
“And I don’t care.” The ghoul brought his hand back. “Comeon— Nicky.” The words are slurred, staggered even. Jerky, the man rested a shaky hand along the side of a sofa. Everything was too damn focused suddenly, and the synth couldn’t help looking sideways at how the door in the back room is just slightly so ajar, suggesting other things that brought a sudden sense of rush to old circuits. “Don’t leave me hanging.”
“No, Hancock.” He said, but with hesitation. Hancock must had heard it too, because this all-knowing, shit-eating grin spread across his face and the ghoul was dragging his trenchcoat down to join him on the sofa. “Hancock—my God, Hancock, no, they’re downstairs, Jesus, they’ll hear—”
“Makes it more fun,” Hancock said with a laugh, before his mouth was on his and he didn’t get to answer.