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“Hey!” Hancock called, sticking his head in through the bay window with the chipped green paint. It was the only way in: up a fire escape, across two collapsed buildings, and up a ladder from the half-smashed balcony on the floor below. Not the easiest trip. Discouraged most. Not him, though.
When he’d last been in here, it was a collapsing wreck. She’d done a good job of cleaning it out and even patched the holes in the ceiling. More livable than most places he’d seen, though the lack of any distinctive smell betrayed how short a time she’d been there. Wasn’t lived in enough and she didn’t do chems, so the vaguely fecal odor of jet was nowhere to be found. Just the scent of old concrete and whatever the wind gusted in from the harbor.
“Oh,” a familiar voice said.
He turned to his left and almost jumped. Dee lowered the pistol she had aimed at him. “Hello to you, too,” he said.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone,” she said by way of apology, giving a sheepish shrug. But there was another note to it; she’d invited him two days ago to see how she’d fixed up the apartment. He hadn’t come.
He addressed what was really on her mind. “I got a little – eh, there was a distraction. I think you’ll like what I have to tell you about it, too. Can I come in, or are you just gonna leave my ass hanging for raiders?”
“Oh, hey! Tempting!” But she swept her hand in a welcoming motion and deposited the pistol on top of an empty shelf near the boarded-up doorway. “Make yourself at home. I don’t have, uh – anything, honestly, but you’re welcome to all of the nothing.”
Hancock hoisted himself up the final rung and sat on the window sill, swung his legs in, tucking his head down to avoid getting his hat knocked off, and sighed with relief once he made it in. Sun was always so damn bright. Inside was better, obscure patches of shadow and light smoothing into something resembling a room.
She pointed behind him. There were curtains pinned (literally, given the lack of curtain rods) against the walls around the windows. He dropped one side with a grunt of appreciation, leaving the other up to let some light in the room. Too much dark was no better, just as long as it wasn’t shooting directly up his pupils.
“Do you want anything to ea – er – drink? I have… water,” she finished lamely from the little kitchenette. “Unless you want the last of the Sugar Bombs. Pipes and I are supposed to go scavenging for stuff soon.”
He chuckled at her. “If you can spare any, sure. The climb up ain’t easy.”
“Keeps out creepy strangers.”
He spread his hands in protest. “I ain’t a stranger!”
She vanished under the counter as she laughed. “But you are creepy, is what you’re saying?”
“Only to folks who deserve a good shit in their pants.”
“Careful. This is the only pair I like. You make me ruin ‘em, you pay for 'em.”
He snorted. Dee destroyed her pants on her own, and often. It was easy enough to rile her up by telling her to keep up but more often than not it was he that had trouble maintaining her pace. Which usually meant she took hits first.
When she came back up, it was with a pair of water bottles. She tossed his, intending for him to fumble, but he caught it with one hand and snapped the cap off in one smooth motion. It was pure luck, really, but it made him look sharp and prepared so he didn’t question it. She smirked. The Y-shaped scar on the edge of her lip gave the expression an edge he liked.
They tipped their bottles in a mock-toast and drank. It was tempting to drain the bottle but he still needed to climb back down later. He set it on top of an empty cabinet.
“So.”
Dee tapped her plastic bottle against the surface of the counter. “So.”
“So – I got you,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket, “a uh– homecoming? House… heating? Is that what it is?”
“Housewarming?” she offered with raised eyebrows.
“That’s what Deacon called it – a housewarming gift.” He beamed and held out a cylindrical, wrapped package.
He’d tried his best to find paper that was both clean and colorful, but he’d settled for having Nat draw things on it. The result was randomly scribbled radioactive butterflies and depictions of Mayor McDonough’s robotic insides across old issues of Publick Occurrences; Hancock found he liked that more than some random printed paper scavenged out of some dingy shop. Certainly felt more alive and current, and she hardly needed more reasons to be looking backwards.
Once she’d gotten over the shock of him and Deacon exchanging non-mission-critical words, she pushed herself away from the counter.
“Hancock…”
Over the months, he’d learned to read the little rises and falls in how she said his name. Even when she was trying to be tactful or secretive, even if everything else that came out of her mouth was a smooth lie, he knew everything if she said his name. What was funny was, he wasn’t entirely sure she knew she was doing it. This one had emphasis on the first syllable, so she was irritated, but she softened the second – curiosity.
“Now, don’t tell me I didn’t have to,” he said, waving his free hand. “I know leaving your, uh… last place was tough. But this is a good spot, safe as it can get around here. You oughtta feel at home…and maybe this’ll help.” And being so close to Goodneighbor, well – that was just icing on the sweetroll. His boots were antiques, holes wearing in from walking so much just to see a friend who lived in the ass end of the Commonwealth.
Her lips puckered as she tried to resist a smile – but she slipped around the counter and came closer.
Seeing Dee without the vault suit was still weird; it had been nice to find another person running around in a single, persistent, and colorful costume all day. But the plaid shirt and jeans worked too. Hell, a hazmat suit would be fine, as long as he got to see the little smiles she tried so valiantly to hide.
She was barefoot, he realized – that’s why her steps were so quiet. Was that a pre-war thing, too? Being barefoot in your living space?
“You didn’t have to,” she said. The softness of her voice said it was genuine, not teasing. Her hands wrapped around the cylinder, narrowly avoiding brushing his fingers with hers. “But it means a lot that you did. Thank you.”
“Welcome home,” Hancock said.
She was about average for a wasteland woman, but apparently that tallied out to short in the old days, and she was still shorter than Piper – a fact the latter loved to remind her of. He could still rest his chin on her head if he didn’t know from experience that would result in a bruise on his ribs.
He let the package go. She took its weight almost reverently – then squinted at it. “Is… that Mayor McDonough? On the paper?”
“Mmhm. Great likeness, right? You should save that. It’s a Nat Wright original.” He raised his brows and gave a firm nod. “Good shit.”
That peeled another small smile out of her – he was on a roll today. And up close, she wasn’t blurry or blotched, but clear and sharp. He could see the single freckle on her left cheek, the crinkle of her eyes.
She shifted a little to his side so she could see the wrapping in the light. Taking great care not to rip it, she slid a finger under the edges and popped the adhesive apart. The gift waited until the paper had been smoothed out and settled on one of the shelves. A Nat Wright original.
Hancock exhibited great self-control by not letting his foot tap. It wasn’t that he wanted to rush her – but he wanted to see if he’d picked the right one. Not that there were a whole lot of options, but he’d skipped out on her invitation for this. It had to be right. But what did he know about pre-war tastes?
All his doubts faded when she looked down at it; her eyes widened and her mouth spread into the biggest smile he’d ever seen. It took up the whole lower third of her face until she caught herself and struggled to restrain it. It didn’t work very well.
“Coffee?” she squeaked. It sounded like sand in a can when she shook it.
“Damn right. Coffee.” He beamed at her. He’d gotten the right one.
“And it’s sealed!” She turned it over and over in her hands, inspecting the faded label. “How did you know?”
“You kiddin’ me?” he laughed. “You’ve been complaining about not having any coffee since, hm, the day I met you.”
“Oh.” She ducked her head briefly. “I guess I have. I really missed coffee. Oh– I’m making some right now.”
The smile he could handle. Even the little gasp she’d done when she first laid eyes on the can. But now she’d just bounced on the balls of her feet as she turned – it was almost too much.
He followed her to the kitchen to observe the coffee-making process. It was mostly intact despite the lack of cabinet doors. All of the appliances had been taken out – no use for crap that didn’t work. Instead there was a homemade battery and a pair of hotplates. Brows knotted in focus, Dee carefully plugged one plate into the battery and leaned away. When it didn’t spark or set anything on fire after several seconds, she relaxed.
Hancock glanced around the apartment curiously. The set-up was so obviously pre-war. There wasn’t much in it, but she’d already devoted cabinets and shelves to things she hadn’t yet found. It was odd to see separate areas for seating, for eating, for reading, for sleeping in such a small space. Habitable places were rare and limited in the Wasteland; everything wound up all jumbled together, made to be shared with four or more people sleeping ass-to-ass. The only other home Hancock had seen like this one was Daisy’s. Pre-war folks – they settled in long-term.
By the time he turned back, she’d clambered up the cabinets to pull a tall-looking pot and a pair of mugs from an upper shelf. He wondered if this was what she been like before the war – the eager industriousness, the absolute focus on even this relatively small task. It was always like this, these short glimpses into the person she had been… or maybe only wanted to be.
The water went into the pot. Then there was a long pause as she inspected the coffee again. Then the can popped open with a hiss, and she bowed her head to inhale the scent. Hancock could smell it from where he stood behind her, thick and earthy. But it was more interesting to watch what it did to her; shoulders sank. A hip leaned against the counter for support. A quiet sigh. She’d probably even forgotten he was there. Whatever it was, it must have been something essential to her.
There was a never-before-seen looseness in her motions when she resumed. Several spoonfuls of the coffee went in with the water and she set the pot on the hotplate – and waited. She leaned over the pot and sniffed deeply again, the radiation burn scars visible along her neck.
He could kiss her.
The realization took him by surprise. But if he really thought about it, it wasn’t that outrageous that he could. That he wanted to.
He could kiss her right now. Could wrap an arm around her waist, turn her face up, and kiss her. The coffee scent would be on her fingertips when she reached up and her lips would taste like Sugar Bombs. He could smooth out the chaos of her short hair with his hands. Could kiss the single freckle on her cheek. Trace the long scar on her forehead. If nothing else, he could have kissed her.
He’d almost lifted his foot to go and do it, too, when she suddenly began to stir rapidly, the spoon clinking against the pot. Hancock pulled himself together quickly, straightening the collar of his old coat. The potential was always there with anyone, of course, and Dee was no different. But it was always a casual thought. More frequent than usual lately, but not meaningful. But it was more than an idle fancy now. There was a compulsion to it, full of potential, like a seeing a fresh inhaler on the table. Worse. Better.
The smell became denser, even richer. “I don’t have a coffee pot,” she explained over the ringing of the spoon against the metal, “or a stove. And the grain’s really coarse, but it can still work. It’s called Turkish coffee when you boil it like this. The coffee grounds should sink to the bottom, but I don’t know if the coarseness will keep them floating. Guess we’ll see!”
He’d seen the picture in the locket Codsworth gave her, the one tucked into her shirt right now. There was no way in the world she’d kiss a wrinkled, chem-addled face like his after marrying a face like Ryan’s. But more than that – she was a friend. The best he had. And a widow. And a mother, after a fashion. And only just finding her feet in the world. Saddling her with the crap that inevitably followed him around like a bad odor would be worse than unfair.
“Turk–ish?” he said, closing his eyes briefly to try and restore his priorities. “What, like the bird?”
She snorted. “Like the country. There was a country called Turkey. Straddled the border between Europe and Asia. I’m sure they had coffee machines and whatnot, but this is the traditional way. I guess. My country got the habit during the Ottoman occupation.”
He sighed, feeling a ghost of what she must have felt when she first popped out of the ground: clueless. “Ottoman as in the chair or…? 'Cause I’m picturing an army of ottomans, fed up with people’s asses crushin’ em, lining up around big stone walls…”
The stirring paused and she clamped a hand over her mouth. “Turkey used to be the Ottoman Empire, hundreds of years ago,” she said through her hand, trying to remain solemn and informative. Her shoulders shook with the effort of containing her giggles. “Maybe the seat was named for them.”
“This must be some damn good drink if you’re gonna go through all this trouble every time.”
“It is!” she assured him brightly. “I mean – I prefer not having grounds in it at all, but what can you do, right?”
The concoction began to bubble. She stopped stirring and fiddled with the hotplate controls so that it never quite boiled. As she waited, she rolled onto the balls of her feet then back down to her heels over and over, fingers restlessly pressing along the edges of the counter-top, but eyes trained on the coffee.
After several more minutes she finally lifted the pot from the plate and poured the dark drink into the mugs. With the same amount of caution as before, she unplugged the hotplate, then padded from the kitchen to drag a small table from a corner over to the window nook.
Getting the idea, Hancock pulled the two available chairs to the table and sat himself down by the curtained side. Both mugs in hand, she sat in the sunlit half and placed his cup down in front of him.
“Give it about another… minute, maybe. For the grounds to settle.”
He raised his brows at her. “Are you sure you wanna be sharin’ this? There’s not a whole lot of coffee, and it can be tough to find. Lost count of how many diner wrecks I had to plow through.”
“Coffee is always better shared with someone.” She almost met his eyes but turned her head at the last second to direct her smile out the window.
The worst of the winter had passed, but the chill would stay a while yet. Hancock barely felt it, all ghoulified and practically born swimming in frigid water, but Dee hunched over her mug, one hand around the ceramic and the other warming her fingers in the steam above.
“There’s lots of advertisements and stuff all over for coffee – staple of your era?” he prompted, trying to keep her here with him, in the room, before she drifted out the window to CIT. Without the motions to focus her, she was more susceptible to the dangers of overthinking. That was why he never stopped moving.
Her eyes still had the glazed look of someone elsewhere when she looked back. “Huh?”
“I said, was coffee a staple of your era?”
“Oh.” She nodded, looking down into the mug. “Yeah. Had it every day. Several cups sometimes, if you’re tired or sleep-deprived. Or need to stay up late. Or just want something warm to drink. Or…” She motioned to indicate and so on.
Hancock leaned forward on an elbow and lightly tapped the hand hovering over the mug. “That sounds like an addiction to me,” he said with a sly smile.
She tapped his hand back. “No,” she said with a pointed furrow of her brow. “It’s not the same thing. The caffeine is a mild stimulant. I mean – I had an art teacher who was addicted to the stuff, sure, but it takes weeks or months of frequent use to do that.” There was a pause and her expression became distant again. “She slept poorly, so it helped a while to stay up. She lost her son.” The also remained unsaid. “Accident. Mailman in a truck didn’t see him on the bike.”
“Hey,” he said, taking hold of her hand. “Coffee, remember?”
It was cold, her fingertips tinted blue, but her palm clammy. He kept his grip loose. If she wanted to pull away, she could, no harm done. Her wrist twitched as if she meant to – but then she relaxed her arm so their hands settled on the table. His other hand also wrapped around hers, but never trapping. He rubbed to return circulation into her fingers, the way his mother had when he clambered out of the water blue and shaking and laughing.
Their hands weren’t so different. Hers were small, palms square, a hitchhiker’s thumb, clipped nails and callouses. His fingers were a little longer and much bonier, sunken and irregular, nails twisted if they hadn’t yet fallen off. But both were scarred up – his deep like cracks, hers fresh and ranging from white to red.
“Coffee,” she repeated, inhaling. “Yeah. I had a lot. Especially once I quit drinking. That’s why quitting this time was so hard, maybe. I –” Her mouth twisted in distaste. “Yeah, I guess it’s kind of like chems. But… really mild. And instead of impairing anything, it helps keep you alert.”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Society has plenty of 'mild’ and 'acceptable’ drugs. That’s what I been trying to tell ya – it ain’t a big deal. Everyone’s got something to help get through the day. For you, it might be something to keep you sharp, and for someone else, it might be something to make the whispering stop.” He knew that one well enough. So did she.
This was a regular debate, circular and ending nowhere. But neither would budge, and neither would let the other go unreminded. Sometimes it was frustrating that she’d be so close-minded and severe in her judgment. Other times, when his head hurt and his mouth was dry and no food would stay down, he wondered if she wasn’t right; sure, the memories faded off a while, but he could do without the tremors, without the mental fog.
But today, the debate was familiar and regular, and if it was an argument she wanted to keep her head occupied, well – he could go for hours.
Dee sighed and adjusted in her seat. “I get that, but help is different from an addiction. And stuff like jet – it’s practically made to get you addicted 'cause it works so fast.”
“But, Dee, it ain’t your position to dictate folks on that."
It was one thing to keep an eye on a friend and it was another thing to tell them when and how to move on. The wasteland was unkind. Could anyone be blamed for grabbing any opportunity to leave it a while? After all, not everyone had the bad reaction she did.
"I’m not saying it is, but–” She cut off wearily and made a noise in the back of her throat. “Just– shut up and drink your coffee,” she said, lifting her own mug with her free hand.
He shrugged. “I’m just saying. If this is what keeps you going, no shame in it.”
He slid his hands away, trying not to make it look as reluctant as it felt, but she grabbed his thumb. Not quite pulling, but insistent. A quip was on the tip of his tongue – careful, or I might lose that finger, too – but he knew if he drew any attention to it, she’d just let go. Pretend it never happened. He wrapped his left hand around her right without comment and picked up the mug with his other.
The smell was powerful enough to make his sinuses hurt up close. It wasn’t bad, but overwhelming. Surely the sign of something strong. He took his first tentative sip – and nearly spat it back out. Instinctively, his hand crushed hers in shock. Shit tasted worse than the limited edition chocolate Mentats! And there were grounds all over, down his throat and probably up his nose.
“Are you okay?” she asked, and bit down on her lip to restrain her laugh, unfazed by the pressure on her hand.
He choked down the sip, caught between the terrible taste and the sight of her teeth worrying over her lower lip. “Yeah,” he said, strangled. “I’m good. That’s… certainly something.” The cough couldn’t be stopped.
“Oh, God. Hancock –” Dee put her mug back down and pressed her other hand around his, half worried and half amused. “Can you breathe? Did you get grounds down the wrong tube or something?”
Finally, his sinuses seemed to clear and he nodded. “I’m good. I’m good. Yeah – wow. Obvious why anyone would get addicted to it, even though it tastes like fuckingmotor oil."
"At least it’s not made from brahmin shit,” she said with a squeeze of his hand, trying to both worry and defend her beloved drink.
“Brahmin shit fumes,” he corrected as she rolled her eyes. “I think maybe I’ll stick to Mentats for my stimulants, but damn.” He cleared his throat a few times. Everything was worth trying at least once – but sometimes, once was enough.
She gave a knowing smile and leaned back in her chair and stretching out her legs, taking her mug with her. “Not for everyone. Had a friend who preferred tea. Watching him with coffee was like making a cat take medicine.”
He straightened in his seat. “There we go! That’s my point exactly.” The mug came down with a loud clatter against the table.
“Oh, jeez,” she sighed. “Can we do this after I finish my coffee?” She paused. “Damn, that feels good to say again."
He snorted. "I got all day,” he agreed.
Finally, reverently, she took a sip of her own drink; her eyes slid shut in simple contentment. Five bare toes – probably damn near frozen – curled against the floor, arching her foot. Hancock gave another few tentative sniffs over his mug to distract himself.
The wind carried away the heavy scent. Now that his face wasn’t shoved into the mug, it was acceptable, even comforting. The lack of grounds up his nose helped. He returned his right hand to hers, resuming his attempts to keep her fingers warm. It became a little game, making her fingers play out little dances along the surface of the table. One eye popped open to regard him, and dropped closed again. Then she joined in, adding in random taps to throw him off.
“Knock that off,” he protested, “I’m tryin'a choreograph, here!”
She giggled – a genuine, grade-A giggle – and wriggled her fingers more. But the sound had caught him off guard and he had to look up to see. Eyes closed, fully intact nose scrunched, the mid-morning light streaking her dark hair with gold. And the most dangerous of all –
Ah, shit, he thought, forgetting what he was doing. She’s got dimples.
Her eyes opened when she felt him stop moving, caught him mid-stare. She sobered immediately.
“Are you okay?” she asked while he realized his jaw was just shy of popping off and going for a run.
He knew a ghoul with no jaw. Not a pretty sight, and useless for all the things Hancock liked to do with his mouth – talking, drinking, smoking… kissing…
He snapped his yap shut. “Yeah, sure. Just got a little chill, you know? First time in years so it took me by surprise. Ain’t you cold up here?” he asked, redirecting the conversation smoothly.
“Usually. The lack of actual glass in the windows kind of sucks. I had to straight up put wood in there during the snow last week.” Dee leaned forward in her seat, as if to get up, brow curling in concern. “You want a blanket?”
If she got up, she’d let go, and her fingers were only just losing their blue tint. “Nah. I got that damn cute laugh of yours lightin’ up the room like sunshine. It’s practically summer in here.” He gave her his usual dazzling grin. If he played off the truth as a joke, maybe – what?
Maybe nothin’, he thought. In making a joke of it, he had ensured nothing he said would ever lead anywhere. Just as well. Their hands were too different; even scarred, hers were smoother. They were the right level of pliable for a human. His skin was stiff, dry. Difficult to break, but nearly permanent when it did. It was probably bizarre for someone who wasn’t even a year past the war.
“Let me know if you do.” There was that smirk again, the sharp corner of the Y emphasizing the curve of her lip. One of her toes prodded him in the shin, a little stab of cold even through the leg of his pants. “And I’m not cute. I’m deadly.”
“Whatever you say, Sunshine.”
She scoffed into her mug.
Nothing’s gonna happen. But everything was worth trying at least once.
She slumped back, turning to look outside again. But there was a settled quality about it this time, the corners of her mouth turned up a fraction, even as she continued drinking her coffee. Distantly, there was a beleaguered moo – a caravan passing through the city with their brahmin. But it was quiet. The city slept til noon and went til dawn.
Quiet was hard. The opportunities to hear his own thoughts, his own breathing, were few and far between – he made sure of that. They never went anywhere useful. It wasn’t so bad up here, though. Watching her re-learn to be patient with herself had taught him a bit, too. Now quiet was a little easier. There was a safety in it, safety in their locked hands as the sun rose higher and higher.
When Dee sipped her coffee this time, she wrinkled her nose in distaste, apparently having reached the sunken grounds. Casually, as if he did it every day, Hancock took advantage of her loosened grip to lace his fingers with hers.
There was a sudden stillness, wide eyes flicking over to their hands on the table. Her mouth formed a small, silent oh. Any second now, she’d pull away. He braced himself and let his grasp stay light. Even so, he couldn’t help but think that if he stood and went over and kissed her now, she’d taste like coffee, and the flavor would be much more tolerable that way.
“Hancock,” she said. That was a new version of his name, almost a sigh. She looked caught between a smile and worry, the furrow of her brow pronounced. Would it help or hurt his chances if he reached over and smoothed it out with a thumb?
“You alright?” he asked.
She inhaled. “Do you think–? I mean, would it be –?"
Her expression shifted into impatience, frustrated with her own stutters. Her eyes closed and brow scrunched. He gave her fingers a small, encouraging squeeze. She opened them again. The light made her pupils shrink, leaving him with a sea of sun-specked green. He couldn’t quite inhale; his lungs had gone and drowned. Ain’t that somethin’.
"Hancock,” she said again, her voice lighter than he’d ever heard it. “Are you…” Then she faltered again, the breath running out of her. “Are you going to finish your coffee?” But her grasp tightened around his fingers.
There was a thud in his ears and his chest began to ache from the sudden beat of his heart. “You can have it, Sunshine,” he rasped, his voice lower than he ever remembered it being since he took his name, the name she so carefully said.
He wouldn’t push her. Maybe slow was good. Give her time to be sure. Give him time to be sure. For now, laced fingers and coffee and traded smiles would hold him.
Her mouth split into another toothy smile and she reached forward to grab his abandoned mug. There was no steam, coffee likely gone cold by now, but that didn’t seem to bother her one bit. She still gulped it eagerly. But rather than facing the window again, she remained facing him, eyes focused on their hands, her lips curved in the tiniest of smiles.