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They were in the middle of a conversation when Hank had locked himself up, becoming motionless and quiet. Normally, Sanford wouldn't think much of it, afterall it wasn't unusual for Hank to just stop responding. As frustrating and disappointing as it was, it was just something you had to come to terms with after knowing him. And Sanford’s known him for a long time. He knew his ticks, his quirks, how he moved, and especially when something was off.
This—his speechlessness—was off. Very off. Even the warehouse they called base felt strange after that, the atmosphere shifted and the walls that hummed with energy groaned louder.
Sanford looked up from his studious bandaging of his hand and to his friend. Worry tugged at his bottom lip when he noticed Hank’s glove clad hands holding the right side of his face. He still wore his bruise-dark coat, the bandana, and his crimson goggles. His mask was stretched out over the lower half of his face, his mouth looked like it was still open, as if he didn’t bother shutting it. Sanford was quick to connect the dots. Hank was in pain, the kind of pain that you can’t really do anything about to end completely. Unlike the cuts, bruises, welts, and whatever else Hank and their team ended up collecting that could heal with very little consequence aside from scars. Hank’s jaw being haphazardly replaced with stiff metal, messing with his teeth and bite couldn’t have been comfortable. Sanford could only imagine the pain that lingered constantly, with it’s migraines and god knows what else.
“You okay, man?” Sanford’s seen Hank take bullets, cuts, punches, and kicks as if they were nothing, but Hank could actually do something about those. He could kill whoever hurt him then get patched up by 2B. This wasn’t as easy or simple. “You don’t look too good.”
“S’hurts to talk,” Hank slurred, then paused with the barest hints of a wince and brought his other hand to hold his left cheek. “For too long.”
Hank died and came back, guns blazing, like nothing happened, he’s cleared cities' worth of AAHW agents, and he’s fought a psychotic clown on a train from hell. It’s easy to forget he’s still human—most of him—and inconveniences like this could leave him hurting more than ever.
The reminder of Hank’s humanity helped Sanford feel a little less ridiculous.
“You want me to help?” he offered, tearing off the excess bandaging and setting it down on the crate next to the new-used couch he sat on. He knew Hank hated being vulnerable, both physically and mentally, but they were alone. Sanford hoped with 2B and Deimos out, Hank would allow himself to loosen up.
The mercenary stiffened momentarily when Hank looked at him, his crimson lenses giving nothing away. His friend lowered his hands, stretching out his mouth with sigh and the quietest groan of metal. “Okay.”
Sanford was a little stunned at Hank’s agreement. He must’ve been really hurting. “You don’t have to talk, but if you can put your head here and take off your mask, I can try to loosen your jaw.”
He lied, watching this 6'2 killing machine get comfortable while resting his head on Sanford’s thighs, then pull his mask down with too gentle hands for a murderer, made Sanford feel so ridiculous. He wasn’t prepared for what he was going to do next.
Hank’s teeth were a mangled mess, his canines sharper than most and his top teeth nearly blunt from the constant brush of unforgiving metal. His top lip was bitten raw and cut up, the scars travelling up onto his cheeks. At least, onto the parts where there was flesh and not jagged metal cutting into pale skin. The border of skin and metal was an angry red and bruised around the joints. Sanford bit back a sigh of sympathy; knowing Hank would absolutely despise him for it.
Sanford was thankful he couldn't see past Hank’s goggles as he pried open Hank’s mouth so that it was slightly opened. He trailed his index and middle fingers along his jaw (despite knowing Hank wouldn’t be able to feel it), and rested them above the joint on his cheek. He pressed down lightly at first, testing the waters and when Hank didn’t budge or snap, he firmly pressed down with an added finger and massaged in slow, small circles.
Almost instantaneously, Hank sighed and further sunk into the couch with the grey upholstery. Sanford felt like he was witnessing a comet hurtling across the sky, with how rare and incredible the sight was. He’s only seen Hank wound so tightly his entire life, to see him relax was jaw dropping. Sanford felt something unnameable rise in his throat and his stomach twist itself into a knot. This man could and would tear someone apart with his bare hands and here he was, coming undone under Sanford's hands. He felt—flattered, knowing that Hank could trust him this much to let his guard down.
Sanford swallowed his feelings and continued his massage for a handful of minutes, occasionally working his hands into the tension at the back of Hank’s neck. He only stopped when Hank flexed his jaw, opening and shutting his mouth before shifting to sit up with a newfound laxity.
“Thank you,” Hank found Sanford’s eyes through his lenses, an obvious unease forming under his layers. “I, uh, don’t remember the last time I didn't have a headache.”
He never got a chance to respond as Hank stood and stalked off, lifting his mask to cover his face once again.
Sanford found himself looking forward to their next conversation.