Chapter Text
“Aw, damn.”
The little tin rattles empty in Hancock’s hand. He growls a little to himself, tosses it over his shoulder where it lands who-knows-where in the room, and digs around his pockets before he realizes. All his berry mentats, gone. It’s gonna be a bitch and a half to restock, they cost a pretty cap-shine and it doesn’t help that they’re real tricky to find.
Ah, well, he thinks idly, frowning, before rocking back in his seat, the wooden thing creaking in a way that says it’ll probably be busted before the year is through. He’ll find a way. He’s been cutting down on the jet, anyway, should give him enough caps to spare for another tin or two of flavoured mentats. He just has to hit the Rexford later in the night, is all. If he even heads out tonight.
Turning to his balcony, the sound of Goodneighbour waking up to the sundown is enticing. Lights flickering, the streets coming alive, the pulse of people out under the moonlight the same thrum as the heartbeat in his wrists.
God, he wishes he could be out there instead.
In truth, he knows he doesn’t need the chems. He’s already three ‘tats deep, everything around him already in vivid colour and sound, but the sharp taste of berry-mint clacking around his teeth, multiplying every good sensation, is a great distraction from the glow of his terminal in front of him, numbers on the page that he wouldn’t even know where to start with if it weren’t for the chems boosting his mind. Ever since that whirlwind of a Sole Survivor had crawled out of the vault a year ago and joined up with Team Garvey, the wasteland’s never been the same — the Minutemen not just coming back from the dead but soaring from the grave like a damn phoenix, settlements popping up everywhere and pre-existing ones getting a boost.
He’s happy, of course, that shit’s getting better out there. World can always use less raiders, and a safe Commonwealth is never a bad thing. But more flourishing settlements means more trade routes, which means more representatives coming up to him and negotiating caps. Sure, he’s the mayor, and he’d kill for Goodneighbour again if he had to, gladly lay his life down on the line, but sometimes he wonders how much he’d have to pay to just skip all this bureaucratic deskwork.
Gumdrops replace the mentats in his mouth, hoping that the sugar-sweet radioactive pre-war candy is enough to replicate the feeling of ‘tats under his tongue, and he gets back to work. No sense in whining. Even manages to get halfway down the request put in by Wiseman — Hancock’s all for the all-ghoul settlement, but the prices he’s putting up for tarberries is ridiculous even by Diamond City standards, let alone Goodneighbour — before he gets his prayers answered, and a distraction comes in in the form of Fahrenheit knocking on the door hard enough to rattle, and then swinging it open.
He hears her footsteps long before she even got to the door, though, so he’s less than surprised when she storms in. Swivels around on his chair, takes in the hard set of her eyes, the tenseness of her posture.
Her hand isn’t on her gun, though. He relaxes a little.
“What’s up, F? We got Diamond City goons at our door again?” He asks, lazily. “Tell ‘em to beat it, or put a few slugs in their heads.”
“I’m not stupid, John.” She answers, greasy strands of blonde hair falling over her face, her mouth never twitching up once. “Something else. You’re gonna wanna come out.”
You’re gonna wanna come out. He frowns. Straightens up. Fahrenheit’s good, no-nonsense and no-bullshit. One of the best people he knows, a seasoned fighter, it’s half of why he hired her as his personal bodyguard. If she can’t handle something, it’s something bad. Or at least, something a hard stare and a loaded gun can’t handle.
“Don’t be vague with me, F. What’s goin’ on?” He asks, even though he’s already on his feet, tugging on his red frock coat, his tricorn hat.
Her mouth twists further downwards, her eyes rigid, and Hancock can feel a weave of dread go through his system. Doesn’t help that the ‘tats are making everything come to him in mirror-clear detail — the way she’s tense without reaching for a weapon meaning it’s something that can’t be solved with violence, the way her face spells trouble without any anger, the way she’s already holding the door open for him and her mouth opens and —
“Your guy’s come home.” Is all she says, turning to look away and out the door. “And not as pretty as he did going out.”
Something in his heart freezes.
He’s out the door in seconds. Not quite running but walking fast, only barely registering Fahrenheit shutting the door behind them before she’s following, not half as frantic but taking large steps beside him to keep up the pace. He drops down three steps at a time, can feel the fear dropping like a cold stone to his stomach as he throws open the door, did something happen, holy shit —
The night is cold out in Goodneighbour’s streets, most of the heat down by the city centre where the drifters are gathered because people seek company and warmth in the same spaces, but he can’t really find it in him to care as he steps out on the pavement, breath fogging out in the night. Goodneighbour’s entrance is empty, save for the light of Kleo and Daisy’s shops, and a few guard posts that are — empty. Huh.
“Where’s Lee and Karan?” He asks, looking over the posts where there should be guards. “Thought they were takin’ gate shift tonight.”
Fahrenheit’s frown only hardens, and she just jerks her head over to the gate. “They are.”
As if on right fuckin’ cue — and honestly, he’d applaud any other time, joke about Fahrenheit and her secret dramatics because her timing’s just impeccable — but it’s hard to joke right now, hard to even smile, when the wooden gate slams open and the two guards are there, hobbling in, looking worse for the wear and trailing red behind them like the freedom trail, one of them hunched over in pain.
And the man between them, slung with limp arms over shoulders and barely walking, is enough to make Hancock’s pulse stutter. MacCready.
“Hey, Hancock.” MacCready somehow manages. Looks up and grins, raggedly, weak.
Hancock doesn’t have a goddamn clue how, considering the guy seems barely able to hold his head up, or even stand on his own two feet. And Hancock doesn’t even know how to respond to that — he’s too busy focused on all the blood, so much blood, the mentats in his own showing Hancock in high definition the blood running down MacCready’s face and sticking his hair to his cheeks, one knee completely blown out, what looks like half a fucking stimpak needle broken off and embedded in the arm where the duster sLeeve looks like it was torn right off —
“He got chased by mutants.” Karan says, panting, sweat beading on dark skin even on the cold night, worry on his face clear as day, “We helped him out best we could, boss, but — and Lee, Lee got hit in the ribs — “
( Hancock’s grateful for a few things in his life. Sure, he’s an ugly piece of shit, but he’s respected and he’s got the charisma to make up for the mug he’s got. Sure, he’ll live forever and get to watch all his friends die, but at least he has friends. And yeah, his parents never wanted him and his brother’s a racist dickhead, but if there’s anything he’s learnt while living under a roof held by politics more than familial love —
It’s how to handle situations where shit goes south. )
“Karan, Lee, head into the statehouse, use my room, got better lights there.” He barks out, brows furrowed, as Karan hurriedly nods and directs Lee to the building. As soon as they hobble off, he turns back to Fahrenheit, already at the ready. “F, go get Daisy and tell her to bring every stim and pack of med-x she’s got. Go!”
Fahrenheit doesn’t say another word, doesn’t question or even frown at his raised voice. She just meets his eyes, her anchor in his rocky ocean, just nods and hurries off in quick, steady strides towards the flickering light of Daisy’s discounts, and, ha, won’t he have to get back to balancing out the books when he’s done paying for all this.
Doesn’t matter. Caps don’t matter right now. As soon as she’s halfway out he’s turning straight back towards the statehouse and hurrying in. The Goodneighbour streets are cold behind him, and the door doesn’t even finish shutting when he’s inside and running up the spiral steps to check for the worst of the damages, and ease the anxiety pounding in his heart.
“’m — ffffffffffffuh, ‘m fine, Daize — “
The ghoul raises a wannabe brow, brown wisps of hair falling over her face, looking completely unbought by the words. “Sure you are, sugar. Now hold still so I can make sure you can walk without a limp tomorrow. You’re welcome.”
MacCready gives an unhappy, almost bratty groan, and Hancock can’t stifle the smile twitching up on his face as he watches Daisy get back to work, re-examining the leg, making sure everything’s where it ought to be. Doc Amari’s good with working on head stuff, but not so much with the other squishy bits of human health. Daisy’s about as good as they’ve got here in Goodneighbour to a medic — you don’t live over two hundred years in an irradiated wasteland without learning some basic medical knowhow, even if you’re not the smartest person around. And Daisy’s very, very smart.
More than ever, Hancock’s glad she chose to settle here in Goodneighbour instead of elsewhere. She’s a good friend as is, no-bullshit but not unkind, and as of right now, she’s keeping MacCready alive. He owes her a whole lot of shit after all this is over, and not just from all the stuff he’s asked her to bring over. Next time she brings up clearing a trading route for her, he'll take it. MacCready’s not losing anymore blood, thanks to her, after all. Hell, he wouldn’t even look at the papers to sign them.
And speaking of, Hancock’s more than relieved to see MacCready looking a whole lot better. The ‘tats still in his blood shows him how the guy’s several shades less pale than he was a half hour ago, lying on Hancock’s ratty mayoral red couch, eyes squeezed shut as Daisy feels out his leg tenderly. Daisy got him changed out of the bloodied clothes already and into a cleaner, ratty white sweatshirt and some jeans, but he still looks miserable. The guy won’t be able to walk without aches for another day, and there’s nothing to gain back the blood he’s lost except by waiting, but Hancock’d rather have all that than the other, deader alternative.
Seeing all that blood — Hancock never wants to see MacCready like that. Not now, not ever again.
“He gonna be alright?” He asks, leaning with his elbows on his knees on the other couch, trying to peer over Daisy’s shoulder, tipping his hat back a bit. He’d taken off his coat earlier on.
“So long as he doesn’t cause anymore mutie mayhem, yeah.” Daisy says, finally, dusting her hands, smirking.
“Not like I asked for it.” MacCready grumbles, dazed, still lying flat on the other couch, forearm over his eyes. “Not my fault that mutant hound snuck up on me.”
“The fact a mutie could sneak up on you says a lot.” Hancock pipes up, grinning as MacCready peeks an eye and glares at him. “Think you’re getting rusty, brother.”
“Shut up.” MacCready grunts, and Hancock only laughs when he gets a middle finger in return. God, he’s missed this.
Daisy snorts goodnaturedly between them, packing up her things and adjusting her wig. “If you kids need anything, you know where to find me.”
“Thanks, Daisy.” MacCready calls from his spot on the couch, and Hancock can almost hear the mom tacked on the end of the sentence. The guy gets a pat on the un-busted knee for that, and a rare, kind smile.
“Ain’t a problem, sugar.”
“Yeah, thanks, Daize. Hand Fahrenheit the bill, yeah? She’ll get it to me.” Hancock nods, and Daisy nods back. Once she’s out of the room and disappearing down the steps, he turns back to MacCready, who’s gone back to putting his arm to block out his eyes, in clear discomfort, and Hancock would be feeling pity if he weren’t already feeling so much relief.
Anytime MacCready heads out those gates on a mission, there’s always a chance he won’t come back. At least, this time, he did.
“You seriously got snuck up on by a mutie, man?” Hancock asks, still leaning forward on his knees. Picks up MacCready’s signature cap, lying on the table between them, surrounded by empty shells of jet. It’s rim is crusted a little in dried blood — he frowns a little, and puts it back. He doesn’t need a reminder. “Doesn’t sound like you.”
MacCready scowls, lifts his arm and glares at him, scooting up to sit and wincing in pain. “I was tired, okay? My contract was all the way up in Parkview Apartments, was like a whole day’s hike back, I’m already f — screwed up beforehand because frickin’ raiders outnumbered me, and then right as I turn the corner for Goodneighbour I don’t hear the hound until it’s gnashing at my heels — “
MacCready continues on, half-leaning his head against the back of the couch as he looks at Hancock, relaying his little journey, and he says it all so lightly like it’s been just — just an inconvenience or something, an annoying one, but MacCready can’t see the way Hancock’s hands tighten to fists. Obviously can’t feel the way Hancock does — cold ice encasing his heart, terrified, mildly, because shit, MacCready was out there alone, it’s a long ass hike from Parkview back up to Goodneighbour and a bunch of different raider gangs, mutie camps and Gunner outposts in between, if a mutie could sneak up on one of the best guns here in Goodneighbour, Hancock can’t imagine what sort of damage a Gunner with a solidly placed shot could do —
“ — hey. Hancock? You alright?” MacCready’s voice calls out, and Hancock snaps back. Feels sheepish, hadn’t even realized he was spacing out and staring at the guy. “I’m not dead yet, y’know.”
Blue eyes are looking right at him, blue eyes like long forgotten summer skies, and Hancock pretends it doesn’t send a jolt of something right down to his irradiated little heart, pretends he definitely wouldn’t be blushing even if he were still a smoothskin right now. Just laughs a little, slightly forced, but otherwise fine. “I ain’t blind, sweetheart, can see you just fine.”
The petname sort of just slips right out there — fuck fuck fuck, Hancock wants to grab it from the air and shove it back into his lungs — but he just keeps smiling as casual as he can, and oh, fuck, he’s got to be imagining the way MacCready’s eyes widen, right? It’s gotta be the candles and lamplight that makes MacCready look like he’s flushing a little at that. Can’t be anything else, it ain’t right otherwise — but god, if this ain’t a good look on the guy’s face.
But it’s not like Hancock’s got a crush.
“Yeah, of course you can. You look like you’ve been on ‘tats.” MacCready replies half a second later than he should, grin wide and eyes a little brighter, and Hancock’s pulse flutters. “Like what you see, huh?”
Alright, so he has a little crush.
He promptly swallows his next words though, adamant on not blurting out ‘all the time’, instead going for a casual lean back, channeling a relaxed pose even as his heart beats a little faster at the way MacCready just fucking looks —
“So how’d you get back to Goodneighbour? I’m surprised Fahrenheit didn’t go running out to help you instead of coming to get me.” He asks, loose and easy, calmer than he feels, and he wonders if he imagines MacCready looking at him a little differently. “At least you got within Goodneighbour territory before you decided to get gnawed at by a hound.”
“Again, it surprised me. And your scary ass bodyguard did come out — Lee and Karan spotted me first and went to help me, and then she popped up over the edge of the posts and started giving cover fire.” MacCready explains, shrugging. “Next thing I know I’m slung over their shoulders and being dragged back to Goodneighbour, and Fahrenheit’s disappeared over the post. Probably went to get you or something. What happened to Lee?”
“I owe that woman a damn raise. At least three.” Hancock snorts, and MacCready grins. As it stands, though, Hancock’d just given her his thanks, and she’d nodded in that way that said don’t mention it and headed off. “Lee’s fine, got off with a hell of a lot less than you did, that’s for sure. Bruised a couple of ribs, Daisy said, probably gonna be black and blue a little the next couple a’ days. Gave him and Karan some caps and the night off.”
Fahrenheit’s headed down to the Third Rail for the night, so he’s got Ham out on the posts now guarding for the night instead of Lee and Karan. It’s good enough — both Fahrenheit and Ham are seasoned bodyguards, two of his bests, and he trusts Ham with the gate as much as he trusts Fahrenheit to make sure folks don’t start shit in the underground pub. Doubt anyone will even try, tonight — F’s got an aura that can shut the hardiest raider up just by her standing nearby. Goodneighbour’s in safe hands, tonight.
And so is Goodneighbour’s favourite son.
“Ahhhhhh god — “ MacCready suddenly hisses, makes Hancock’s gaze flicker back up at him and his body immediately straightening up, “Why always the leg — “
He can see MacCready trying to straighten out his leg, the one where the kneecap was blown backwards earlier, and Hancock winces in sympathy. Ain’t ever fun to catch one on a limb, especially if it’s the one you have to use to hold yourself upright. He’d know — he’s gone whole weeks without walking proper thanks to leg injuries before, and he’s not keen on giving it another experiment again.
“Need some med-x, brother?” Hancock offers, already halfway getting up. “Daisy left a few vials here.”
“God, yes.” MacCready hisses out, looking at him pathetically, and Hancock offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile as he picks up a syringe of glowing purple, and closes their distance.
“’nd they were like, you killed ‘im! And I was like, hell no, he stepped on his own damn tripwire, like don’t blame me your raider boss is stupid as hell — “ MacCready tells, dissolving into a dizzy laugh, and Hancock’s grinning right back.
“you tell ‘em, man.” Hancock nods, and MacCready settles back down, a warm weight on Hancock’s lap.
He doesn’t know exactly how it got like this, but it definitely happened pretty soon after he put half a dose of liquid med-x into MacCready’s system. Not enough to get him loopy or too out of it, but enough to numb the pain and make the guy a little dazed, a little spinny. And then he’d sat down on the same couch, settled right down, had popped a couple of regular mint mentats he found at the corner of his table and got back to talking — and somewhere along the way, both of them on the same couch turned into Hancock sitting, leaning back, while MacCready’s pretty much half on his lap, head resting against the armrest and back solid and warm on Hancock’s thighs, lying horizontally across the cushions.
They could stay like this forever, and Hancock’d be the happiest ghoul in the whole damn wastes, he reckons.
Hancock can see everything from here. The mentats in his veins making everything come to sharp reality, light and shadow in clear contrasts, all of MacCready’s features enhanced. He can make out every scar, every strand of hair, the way the light catches on MacCready’s defined cheeks and the long curve of his nose, eyes dazed but as bright as the sun, the way that perfect mouth twitches whenever Hancock gets him to smile, grin, laugh —
MacCready’s gaze flickers back to his, warm and inviting and god, fuck, Hancock’s got it so bad.
“You were workin’?” MacCready notes, half-slurring, eyes turning to look at Hancock’s terminal that’s still on. Whoops. Guess he’ll have to compensate for that electricity use later, there’s no way in hell he’s moving from this position.
“Mayoral duties. Can’t just be struttin’ around lookin’ pretty, you know.” Hancock answers easy, smirking. “Sure could use someone bein’ pretty around here though. Think I could hire you to do deskwork?”
MacCready makes a face at that, and Hancock barks out a laugh. “Hell no, I’d take another hound to the heels. My rifle’s not just for decoration, man, I’m not gonna trade it for some crummy paperwork.”
“Aw, what, me callin’ you pretty wasn’t enough to get you on board?” Hancock teases, pretends it’s not flirty at all, “Got you a pencil skirt and everything.”
“Hey, Fahrenheit’s a looker too. Get her to, to wear it — “ and then MacCready can’t continue, because they’re both hunched over laughing their asses off at the thought of Fahrenheit in a pencil skirt, hard enough that Hancock’s gut hurts.
Oh, but god, he’s missed this.
MacCready’s been getting steady jobs out of Goodneighbour ever since he and the sole survivor had gone out together to take out the Gunners in both Mass Pike and Quincy. Now that the target on MacCready’s back is gone and Gunner presence around the ’Wealth has nosedived as the remaining Gunners try to figure out the next line of leadership now that the big Quincy bosses are down, the guy’s been in and out of Goodneighbour a couple of times a month. And he doesn’t charge cheap either, not anymore, doesn’t have to.
And it’s a good thing. Hancock knows all about MacCready’s need for caps, knows all about the reasons why — there’s a kid somewhere out there in the Capital Wasteland, recently cured and getting better with every cap his father’s sending his way, and that just warms Hancock’s heart so much it hurts — but god, if Hancock doesn’t miss MacCready something fierce.
He hadn’t been lying when he called MacCready Goodneighbour’s favourite son. Maybe he’s not from here, not even from the ’Wealth, but Goodneighbour’s fit the man like a glove since he arrived a year and a half ago, no matter the initial wariness. The guards admire his shooting skills, the drifters respect his work, the folk down in the third rail have grown used to his presence, some of them even eyeing MacCready’s looks. Hell, Daisy’s downright more or less adopted the man as her actual son, even if she doesn’t always show it. Only took a couple of months before MacCready started drinking with the neighbourhood watch and Daisy started giving him actual discounts.
And who can blame any of ‘em? MacCready’s so many things rolled up in one. He’s got a sharp mouth even without the cussing, all rough charm and a boyish laugh that’s downright endearing even to the harshest of Hancock’s watch, with jokes lamer than anything anyone’s ever heard, so bad that they’re good, so bad that it’s easy to forget that MacCready can just as easily shift, just as easily harden back into the merc he is. Can go from cracking a joke to focused, more perceptive than people give him credit for, smart, with a mouth that likes to complain but hands that know infinite patience when it comes to handling his gun. Can switch from a drinking friend to the guy with a fuckoff vicious look in his eye, because you don’t roll with the most dangerous group in the Commonwealth without gaining that. He knows some folks call him a brat — but no one’s stupid enough to want to be in his crosshairs.
It’s no wonder Goodneighbour’s gone and fallen in love with him.
Even less so that Hancock’s gone and fallen in love with him.
He was screwed from the start. MacCready’s all of that, all of that and more. They’ve been friends ever since the guy first rolled into town a year and a half ago, desperate and dangerous, and Hancock saw his skills and offered him a room in exchange for a job done. And then they’d shared a beer, then more, then MacCready had opened up and they started sharing laughs, and fuck, how’s Hancock gonna say no to any of that?
How could he, when MacCready’s smiled at him like that? When they’ve joked around like that, when they’ve huddled up together in this same damn room, surrounded by bottles of whisky and slurring their secrets out to each other? How could he, when MacCready’s got a body like woah and a smile that could power the ‘Wealth, when MacCready’s both dangerous and also kinder than he ever even knows, wary but doggedly loyal to his own? And then Hancock just had to start feel his pulse racing everytime MacCready grinned at him, just had to smile like an idiot everytime MacCready slings a friendly arm around Hancock’s shoulders, just had to go and fall in love with his best friend.
The guy Hancock deserves the least.
Goddamn it.
“How’s mayoral duties anyway?” MacCready pipes up from Hancock’s lap — and god, Hancock can feel this warmth on his thighs forever — airquoting, blue eyes sarcastic. “Got more chems funnelled your way?”
Hancock snorts, flicking MacCready’s forehead, met with a wince. “I wasn’t kidding, asshat. Actually had mayoral shit to do, trading up with Finch Farm. Also, I pay for all my chems, shut your fuckin’ face.”
MacCready rolls his eyes goodnaturedly, letting his hands drop. “Don’t bother trading with ‘em, man. Too many caps per tato. Get someone to get a trade line down to the Abernathy’s — ‘s a longer route but they take better care of their crap, they don’t get shot at by raiders every other week and they charge a lot less. Cut a deal with ‘em and you’ll probably have a few hundred caps extra to pay off your neighbourhood watch.”
Hancock stares.
MacCready squirms, after a beat or two, uncomfortable, neck turning red. “What? I ran with Kai for awhile, I know some Minutemen settlements. Shut up.”
“Shit, man.” Hancock finally says, eyes wide, “Fuck everything I said before. You take my job, I’ll wear the pencil skirt.”
It’s enough to startle a laugh out of MacCready, and Hancock’s face breaks into a grin too, hard enough that his cheeks hurt. MacCready’s face looks fucking perfect when he laughs — and even better, here like this, because it’s always different whenever it’s just the two of them, just him and Hancock together, because it’s more open. More honest, and the way MacCready’s shoulders shake as the guy dissolves into fucking giggles from the med-x makes Hancock’s heart burst warm something fierce.
And then suddenly MacCready’s reaching over, moving to sit up a little, Hancock a little surprised as the guy gets to grabbing Hancock’s tricorn hat, and putting it on clumsily on his own head, mussing his hair a bit in the process. Grins up at Hancock, propped up with his elbow against the armrest, tipping the hat with his free hand.
“You can just call me Mayor MacCready, then.” MacCready says, smirking, cocky as a gun, words rolling off his tongue like honey, the name almost familiar in the way it’s called.
Blue, blue eyes, the sky right there in front of him.
Hancock goes breathless.
The sudden realization comes to both at the exact same second, he thinks; they’re so close. Hancock looking down like this and MacCready propped up and their faces are so close, enough that he can almost see himself in those sky blues, enough that they’re trading air back and forth between them, enough that Hancock doesn’t even need mentats to hear, see, every inhale, the way MacCready’s chest rises and falls, the details of that unfairly gorgeous mouth, enough that Hancock’s sure MacCready can hear the rapidfire thrum of Hancock’s pulse, heart in his throat and constricting, they’re barely inches from each other, if he moves forward, if he just bridges this distance —
I’ve waited so long, never dreamed it would happen, this can't be real —
MacCready beats him to it. Feels MacCready lean forward, closes the gap, and suddenly MacCready’s mouth is on his own, and Hancock’s mind freezes and his heart explodes.
MacCready’s lips are chapped. Dry, but they’re the warmest thing Hancock’s ever felt in his entire fucking life. Close-mouthed but it’s the hottest thing he can remember. Their eyes are closed and MacCready’s trembling, a little, hands seeming to be unsure of where to go and Hancock doesn’t know, doesn’t know any better, he’s frozen and imploding and they’re caught, like this, he’s been dreaming of this moment for so long that he’s never been convinced it’d ever come true, and now that it has he doesn’t know how to react. Stock-still, until he’s been unresponsive too long and MacCready starts pulling away, half-shocked breath finally releasing over Hancock’s skin and — there’s suddenly a shocking emptiness, the ghost of where MacCready’s mouth was —
And Hancock’s mind just suddenly shouts, goes no, no, no, and then he’s moving forward without even thinking, chasing the traces of sensation MacCready’s left behind, and then he’s recapturing MacCready’s mouth with his own and —
You, this, fuck, I want you, and there are fireworks behind his eyes, fireworks in the way MacCready’s mouth is back, setting everything in him alight, his heartbeat racing in his ears, making him feel like he’s glowing, and Hancock can’t. Think. Of anything else beyond this, beyond any of this, and his hands start to move, curling into the back fabric of MacCready’s sweatshirt, and kiss deepens, MacCready growing more confident now that he knows Hancock’s responding, and then MacCready’s tongue slips into Hancock’s mouth and his mind just shorts out.
The hat’s fallen somewhere but Hancock can’t give a shit, too busy with his mouth on MacCready’s, mouths moving like waves, breaths gasped between every heated searing kiss, tongues slick and warm and MacCready sits up better, essentially straddling him, and Hancock can’t think of a single better thing in this entire goddamned world. Kissing MacCready is something else altogether, push and pull, mouths moving against each other, and then Hancock bites onto MacCready’s lower lip and pulls on it and MacCready’s low, choked moan reverberates through Hancock’s lungs — makes his heart beat so fucking fast he could be dying and he wouldn’t know, and he wouldn’t mind, twisting them around so MacCready’s back to lying against the arm rest and Hancock’s on top of him, moaning right back as MacCready goes back in, passionate, deep, and when MacCready sucks gently on the tip of Hancock’s tongue he’s half sure his lungs are gone, lost to liquid fire and affection curling hot in his ribcage.
You, you, I want you, been wanting you for so long, sweetheart, god, but they’re so close, pressed against each other, making out like it’s their last second, trading air like it’s all they’ll need to stay alive, breathing heavy and hot. Chests pressed so tight together Hancock’s sure their thrumming heartbeats are synchronizing, pounding in his ears, rushing and roaring, threatening to shatter his eardrums and make his capillaries explode and implode, every searing kiss threatening to tear him apart. MacCready’s hands are fisted in the fabric of his shirt, at the small of his back, and he’s got a hand cupping MacCready’s head and guiding it forward, breathless, panting, both of them, kissing heated, like they’re drowning, like a starving man at a banquet, like nothing else fucking matters, rocking together, and then suddenly MacCready’s hips move, grinding a little against Hancock’s leg, and the world stops.
Hancock, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?
He pulls away, and — it’s the worst thing he’s ever felt, this is the worst decision he’s ever made in his life — he’s breathing shakily out as his system’s already craving for more. Withdrawal setting in, arms trembling holding himself up. Something in his chest aching something fierce as MacCready’s eyes open up again, slow, like the way a cat blinks at you when it likes you, lips kissed red and swollen and glistening wet, fucking gorgeous, slightly parted, brows furrowed as he dazedly breathes out heavy, “Hancock, what — “
And that sound. It makes shivers shoot down his spine, right down to where the arousal's pooling in his belly. MacCready’s voice utterly fucking wrecked like that, saying his name — Hancock’s suddenly, painfully aware of just how hard he is, right now. How hard MacCready is, against his leg, throbbing, and looking at MacCready’s eyes he almost loses it, his restraint almost snaps completely, the raw desire in there, and.
It’d be so fucking easy, to get right back into it, he knows. To meet MacCready’s mouth again and suck on his tongue until MacCready’s shaking, grind together until they’re both making noises that all of Goodneighbour would hear, until he makes MacCready say his name like that, over and over, make him scream it out as Hancock drives into wet heat like it’s only always been in his dreams that leave his mattresses stained — or even the other way around, himself on top and riding those skilled fingers, watching those gorgeous forearms flex, the shift of muscles in MacCready’s wrists as he works Hancock open for him, until they both come apart, and —
This is getting out of control, this is enough, enough, stop it —
“We can’t be doin’ this.” He manages, almost bows his head when he hears how wrecked his own voice is, and god, MacCready’s gonna be the death of him —
“Wh — shit, sorry, was I — “ MacCready says, eyes going soft in a way that makes Hancock’s chest hurt so hard he can feel it down to his wrists, apologetic in a way that makes Hancock want to take back his words, go back on himself and just resume whatever they were doing, or just kiss him, slow and soft and sweet and loving like he’s wanted to do all this time, “We don’t, uh, we don’t have to, if you don’t want to — “
“I want to,” Hancock says, pained, god do I want to, for so long, laughing even though none of this is fucking funny, “But we can’t. Trust me, you don’t — heh, you don’t want someone like me.”
And then it’s just like watching a door slam shut. MacCready’s gaze hardens so fast Hancock gets whiplash, double taking as MacCready’s kissed-red mouth suddenly turns to a vicious, angry scowl, brows furrowed. Going from open to guarded in .5 seconds flat, and whatever mood they had was sure as shit gone now, leaving Hancock suddenly feeling like someone’s left the windows open and there’s wind chilling his bones.
“What.” MacCready growls, that dangerous look in his eye radiating fuck off vibes that Hancock’s only ever seen the guy point at stupid fucks who try to pick a fight with him because he’s scrawny, “What are you saying.”
Hancock offers a weak smile. Rises, sits back on his haunches, wishes he still had hair to rake his fingers through — and god, MacCready’s hair is almost sex-mussed, fuck — and laughs, but it’s stained with self loathing.
“Sayin’ you probably shouldn’t be doing this with a ghoul like me. Can’t go makin’ regrets like that now.” Hancock offers, grinning like plastic, cheerier than he feels and probably sounding like it, “I’m your best friend, and what kinda best friend would I be, letting you do something stupid like that? C’mon, man. You’d just get scared in the morning, waking up to a mug like this.”
You’re just gonna regret this in the morning, being with me. Not just my face that’s gonna drive you away. I’ve been running, no good cowardly piece of shit, and you deserve so much better. I’m just gonna be a mistake.
You don’t want me. I’ve never done anything right my whole life.
“Are you kidding me.” MacCready says, then, voice so low Hancock can barely hear. And then — “Are you fucking kidding me!”
Hancock’s eyes widen, “What — “ and then he feels hands shoving him back, rough and pointed and he falls on his bony ass to the floor, wincing in pain, but looking up in time to see MacCready get up, cold fury in those piercing blue eyes, pissed as all get out and gathering his stuff. That look on him, that betrayal — it feels like a fucking gutpunch, and Hancock’s almost frozen, watching MacCready start hobbling, limping over to the door, pausing at the frame and half-turning back to Hancock, the look on his eyes sharp enough to fucking kill.
“You don’t get to decide what I want, Hancock.” MacCready spits, before turning right back around.
“Wait,” he manages, “Where’re you goin’, your leg — “
“I’m going to Daisy’s.” MacCready answers, clipped. Doesn’t even look back. “If you come looking for me and you say stupid shit like that again, I’ll fucking shoot you.”
And then he’s gone. Out the door, and Hancock just stares at the place he’d left behind. The room’s suddenly empty, emptier than it ever felt before, and a coldness settles in his veins as the candles flicker, and he feels like a fucking shitheel. He can still feel the traces of MacCready’s mouth against his, the curl of his tongue, the ghost of his warmth on his lap, underneath him —
Hancock, you fuck up, another thing you can’t do fuckin’ right, his mind whispers, and as he hauls himself back up on, he pretends his heart isn’t hollowed out and wounded, pretends he doesn’t feel raw and fucking awful, pretends searching his messed up table for any med-x left behind and injecting liquid stupid into his veins is important enough to keep him from going after MacCready, and bringing him back.