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Hank is a strange fella, or at least that's what Sheriff would say about him.
Sheriff had spent so much time being mortified of Hank J. Wimbleton, running from him, hiding from him, trying in vain to kill him to no avail, he had never been able to pick up on Hank's little quirks and tendencies. Until now, that is.
Like how he had to duck when he walked through shorter doorways because of his large, looming figure. How he forgot to close doors when he left rooms.
The way that he insisted on keeping lights off, or dimmed. Never fully on. Sheriff thought at first that last one was some strange attempt at intimidating Sheriff by keeping him in the dark, but now he realizes that bright light was annoying for Hank. It made him wonder if that's why he preferred to keep those goggles on all the time, some sort of equipment that only served his own comfort.
Maybe Hank was ashamed. Sheriff would feel ashamed too if he was him. Sheriff knew those were just his own thoughts though, he can't stop the fog of anxiety that permeated his brain and bones at every turn. There was something wrong with his brain and he knew it. An urge to wallow in his own self-pity and drag anyone around him inside of that hell. Yet, Hank wasn't affected by it.
The other thing about Hank is that he's got much different ideas of intimacy then the average folk would. Most would be satisfied by holding hands or going on romantic dinners, but as a— ah, partner? Was that what Sheriff wanted to call him? That wasn't the right word. As his… Hank.
His Hank was insistent on touching. Not touching each other, more accurately; Hank touching Sheriff. His face, his hands, forearms, back, shoulders, stomach, legs. The entire time, he would usually be dead silent. He was usually dead quiet anyways, which helped with Sheriff's whole 'keeping this a secret so that Christoff doesn't strike me dead' thing. Or keeping MERC from finding out about it, this was still under their territory anyways.
MERC. Despite Sheriff being their so-called leader, Sheriff felt like he was anything but. After all these years, he still feels like a guest in their faction, a substitute before something better came along. He knew what he was, a coward. Someone who would never really step up and make the hard decisions here, the Foreman would always be the one to make them. He felt more like a mascot than a leader. He was used to being a mascot for a company, it's easy to put on a facade and pretend to be a lot happier than he was.
Maybe he doesn't have to think about happiness when Hank's inspecting him like he's the most precious thing in the world. Or maybe just a suitable enough distraction.
Maybe it was also selfish of him to ever think of Hank as 'his', like Hank would ever consider himself Sheriff's anyways. How laughable of an idea that was, desperately trying to mend some sort of domestic title out of their dynamic. He would never deny anyone saying that he was a fool, cause he was. That's not what this is, not what they had, and he wants to ask Hank what it is. Oh God, how he wants to ask Hank what the hell this is. Ask him why the hell he keeps coming back here, and just ask himself why he keeps letting this continue.
Why was he willing laying here, on his mattress, belly-up and letting a murderer sit on his thighs and touch his face like this? Was it the same as a prey animal would? Laying in submission, waiting to be devoured? He certainly wasn't coerced into this. He couldn't lie to himself and say that he didn't want this because he absolutely did.
Was he devoted to Hank at this moment? Wanted him like a proper lover, to hold and to kiss, to tell his problems to? Wanted someone that he could go to at the end of the day and know that there was at least one person who tolerated him enough?
Hank's index finger traced the bridge of Sheriff's nose, then slid down to his cheek. Sheriff didn't know how Hank could stand touching his skin, his dirty, oily skin. If only ma and pa could see that their boy had turned into such a rotten thing. Just can't bare the thought of looking someone in the eye when he's turned into this.
A thumb against his lip, and he shuddered inwardly. He didn't want to make that sound, and he could see Hank tilt his head just the slightest at the noise. His right hand smoothed across Sheriff's neck, fingers flat against his throat.
He's seen what this killing machine was capable of, he could rip out his throat right then and there. He probably should. A coward taken out while laying in defeat, with absolutely no attempt to save himself. That'd be a nice way to go, Sheriff thought. There would be no disappointments. Just reality playing out the way it always would.
When Hank's hand stilled on Sheriff's throat, for a moment he thought it just might. His heartbeat naturally sped up, hopefully in fear, and he heard a slight hoarse laugh leave Hank's mask. He's no doubt amused at the way Sheriff reacts with such little input. Sheriff's so mortified at that revelation, face burning red with frustration, with embarrassment, but he can't stop. Maybe it's just being touch starved, but the pair of cold hands caressing his face felt a little too secure.
Using his nail, he scrapes his finger along the rim of Sheriff's hat, listening to the sound of leather being scratched. His knuckles brush against locks of his hair when he brushes them out of Sheriff's eyes, showing Hank just how dilated and pinprick they were in the dimness of the room.
They hold each others' gaze for a moment.
Sheriff wants to ask him how he could possibly enjoy this. Maybe it's selfish to assume Hank is enjoying this, just toying with him instead. But maybe Hank really does like intimacy, and Sheriff's frail, ugly nature just faded away into the warmth of his clammy skin. Maybe Hank liked the way the sweat ran down Sheriff's brow.
The killer pressed his masked face against the side of Sheriff's neck, asking him in a low tone; "Are you scared?"
Sheriff shuddered, suddenly very able to feel Hank's warm breath through the mask and on his skin.
"Yes." Was the only thing Sheriff could say.
Hank audibly sighed, and Sheriff whined softly. It wasn't a sad sigh, or an angry one. Just a noise.
In a moment of rare brevity, Sheriff cupped Hank by the wrist and brought his palm to his lip again. As if to silently say, 'there, please,' while sparing himself the embarrassment of actually uttering those words.
With a shrug, Hank merely obliged.
Whatever Hank thought they were, it was good enough for Sheriff.