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Hancock reclined in his chair, leaned his head back to let gravity pull his neck down like a vice. It was a good fuckin’ day.
The ceiling undulated before him in weird swiveling waves. By now he was so used to those optical illusions creeping into his vision that it was like an old friend beckoning him over to a new high. He took another hit of jet; fresh, cold air rushed into his lungs and spread through his chest like frozen water.
A glacier of numbness collided with him, that Titantic feeling he chased so often when the fire of his life overcame his quick wit and charm. If John imagined what space might feel like–the pure sensation of being suspended freely–he would describe it as this. An intense absence of… being. Eclipsed by a gentle tugging at his limbs that found him afloat on his ocean of doubt.
Someone rapped on the door. Quick. Insistent. One, two, three, four, five.
Hancock groaned and slid further down in his chair. The tricorner hat fell over his beady eyes and, knowing that it wouldn’t catch on his nose (or lack thereof), he slowly extended his hand to close around it and set the hat on the table in front of him. It wobbled and swayed like a black cat, growing a tail and morphing into a face on both ends. He blinked and the hallucination was gone, replaced by dark blue dots swirling in a hazy tidal wave near the door.
Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Another series of aggressive knocks.
It sounded like Fahrenheit this time. She usually had that tell-tale sass that couldn’t help but announce itself. He liked that about the woman. It was what had drawn him to her in the first place. She had this fuckin’ presence like you’d never seen… ‘Kinda chick who shouldn’t be holed up in a place like Goodneighbor. He was always telling her to get out of Boston. Do something big. Do something crazy. He didn’t want her to waste her life on him and his drifter city. Not that Goodneighbor wasn’t her home. But the kid had potential.
“Come inh…” he muttered, clambering upright in the chair. The whole world tilted with his movements. He was positive that he had gained magical powers to move at the speed of… whatever the bastard child of fast and slow was. Fuckin'... flow. He was flow right now.
A shadowed figure shifted outside his door and he arranged himself into his best normal, functioning person position he could manage.
In walked none other than Nick Valentine, the decrepit old tin can himself, and his loyal sidekick. Hancock chuckled to himself and let his guard down. He could handle these two. No shame in letting good friends know that you’ve had fun. John was tempted to run up and hug them. It had been ages since they stopped by.
The Easy-Bake Oven looked like he was in good health. If that was possible for Nick. Poor guy was a walking deathclaw attack. Mauled all over. Rips and tears in his skin just exposing wire right and left. But Hancock wasn’t a prize himself. Everyone in Goodneighbor had their scars. Nick was kinda badass for flaunting them. He didn’t really have a choice, but still. Hancock respected it.
As usual, V was half-dead. Irradiated to all hell, tracking in blood. The psychopath probably had three broken limbs under their… fuck. Was that like a cowboy duster? It was different from the jumpsuit they had been wearing last time. Who gave a shit. They were still crazy. Their shotgun was still fastened tight to their belt like a warning. The unreadable mask strapped to their head was still creepy as ever.
The pair of them had stumbled into the room out of breath, rushing like rabbits in a snowstorm. The chill dancing across his spine was electrifying as he took another hit. Fuck moderation. When was the last time it had even snowed in Goodneighbor? Had they gotten actual, falling snow in the last decade? He knew that they had some sort of nuclear winter going on in the East. He could go for one of those right about now. It was strangely hot in his office, despite the sticky, icy wound he had just inhaled.
Hancock realized that V had been talking during his little self-indulgent moment of dissociation. He held up a limp hand and waved.
“Wai- wuh. Waitaminute. Start again. Flo- slowly,” he said, stumbling over his words.
V stopped. “I was saying. Uh, we need time. Permission. To investigate Goodneighbor.”
Hancock shook his head in confusion. “You can already do that. Don’ need me.”
Nick, ever the diplomat, pushed his way into the conversation. “I think what my good friend was saying, is that you have a pack mentality here. A great culture built on protecting your own. I think it’s just swell, John. But as our friend, we might need you to turn a blind eye for this”–he exchanged a glance with V–“case we’re on. It could get messy.”
“Oh.” Hancock trusted Nick and V, implicitly. But he didn’t want to spend tomorrow convincing his associates that he’d gone soft and abandoned some poor sod on the run. This was his city and these were his people.
“Did one of our own do something, Nicky? Kill anyone? Murder, I mean.” That would be problematic. Goodneighbor was a haven for freaks, sure, but it didn't take kindly to assholes. There was a big difference between self-defense and cold-blooded killing.
“We think it might be worse. Don’t know a lot right now. All our loose threads led us here,” he replied, stone-faced. It was clear that this was the last place they wanted to be at the moment. It probably meant bad news for whatever investigation they had been on.
“Worse,” Hancock muttered, “worse. Mmnm. As long as you’ve got incriminating evidence…”
His grip had loosened enough for the jet to fall from his fingers and clatter onto the desktop. It surprised him. The sound of it hitting the wood was enough to momentarily shake him out of his stupor.
“As long as you’ve got incriminating evidence, do what you like. But don’ turn this into a witchhunt, you hear? We don’t do that typa shit here.” He sighed.
“Don’t worry about it. You know we wouldn’t pull a thing like that. Thank you, Hancock.” V did a half-bow and turned to walk out the door with their newfound protection. Nick clapped a hand on their shoulder as they left, but didn’t immediately go. He hung back a second, conflicted.
Shards of glass were weaving in and out of Hancock’s veins. Not in an unpleasant way. Just a mildly uncomfortable way. His trip had been interrupted on a fundamental level, and he was trying not to show it. But the ice had melted into a thick slush in his chest. And he felt heavy, like a weight was wrapped around his skull.
“You alright, John?”
“Mmm. Cloud nine, Nicky. Plus one. It’s me.”
“Yeah…” Nick trailed off. He had a few words stuck in his throat. The walkie-talkie was too polite for his own good. Centuries of brutality and nevertheless the old detective could never get over that tactfulness. It was pretty commendable, all things considered. Hancock spit in the face of polite society, but he could get behind common courtesy. A bit of decency went far in this fucked-up world.
Nick took the hat off the table and placed it on Hancock’s head. “Take it easy on the jet. Goodneighbor needs its mayor.”
“Oh, I’m invincible. This shit couldn’t touch me ten years ago. Can’t now.”
“The nose says otherwise,” Nick replied, that old sardonic tone bleeding through his voice.
“’s a fashion statement,” he countered. John pushed the jet to the side and adjusted his hat. “Have some faith; I’ll outlive you yet.”