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“I know you think we need to be 'accepting' of chem addicts, but—”
Scout held back a sigh and an eye roll as they worked on hammering in a nail. They didn't need to look at Danse to know he was making a face like he'd just seen two bloatflies having filthy premarital sex. It was the look he always got when he went on one of his rants against Hancock, undoubtedly the unnamed chem addict in question.
“—even the ghoul ones still suffer from the side effects and withdrawal symptoms.”
Scout pounded the nail in harder than necessary. He could just say Hancock. Everyone knew Danse was talking about Hancock. Sometimes it seemed that was all he talked about.
“Some of the ghoul chem addicts look a little malnourished and some of them might be high too often and some of them shouldn't be trusted to have your back on missions,” Danse continued on his tirade.
Mayor John “Some of Them” Hancock. He'd get a kick out of that when Scout mimicked Danse's rant for him later when they—wait, what was that first part?
Scout looked up from the wall of the house—glorified shack—they were putting together. “You think Hancock looks malnourished?”
Danse brightened at the opportunity to finally convince his Sole that Hancock was inadequate to properly protect them. “Yes, he's far too lanky. Ghouls can put on weight as easy as anyone else, so you can't chock it up to just that. It has to be the chems. One time, I put down a feral that had gorged itself on so many victims, its intestines had burst out of its stomach and—”
“Do you think ghouls need to eat more than humans because of the radiation or something?” Scout interrupted. “Is he not getting enough food? Curie! Hey, Curie!”
“What?” Danse frowned. Scout paying even more attention to Hancock was not the outcome he wanted. “No! I'm sure he's fine. I mean, he would be, if he got off all the chems.”
But Scout had already rushed off to talk to Curie about the proper diet for ghouls.
Mission status: critical failure.
***
Scout spent that evening in the kitchen. Everyone in Sanctuary knew Scout retreating to the kitchen was either very good or very bad, and yet still also kind of good. Scout was the kind of person who stress baked and anger baked and also sad baked. Any negative emotion was dealt with by singing loudly and making at least three pies. And of course Scout's companions didn't want their Sole to be stressed or angry or sad, but those emotions did result in some damn delicious pies, so … very bad but still a little bit good.
Tonight's bout of worry baking resulted in chicken pot pie, which was actually made with radstag, but close enough. At least it wasn't bloatfly. But now that Scout was specifically watching for it, they saw that Hancock only got a tiny portion for himself, barely enough to feed a child and certainly not enough for a grown man.
“Do you not like my cooking?”
Hancock nearly choked on his mouthful, but the pie was too good to waste by sputtering it out. He swallowed hard as Scout grabbed the chair next to him and turned it around so they could sit and stare directly at him.
“'Course I do, buddy,” Hancock said once he recovered.
“You hardly ever eat more than a kid's size portion when I cook,” Scout said.
“Wouldn't wanna hog all the good stuff for myself,” he replied. “You know how I feel about getting too comfortable.”
Scout hit him with their best earnest puppy look. “It's not 'hogging' to have a full meal.”
“Yeah, well.” Hancock looked down and started twirling his fork around in his fingers. “I can just grab a can of cram later.”
“You hate cram,” Scout pointed out. “The last time you were high, you said looking at it reminded you of that drifter's brains on the pavement.”
Hancock refused to look up from his fork. “Said that, huh?”
Scout softened their voice. “Yeah. So just eat some of the pie, all right?”
“Listen.” Hancock finally set down his fork and looked up at his Sole. “You don't wanna go wasting good food on a ghoul like me.”
Scout straightened up and their eyes narrowed. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“Easy tiger,” Hancock said. “Just pointing out that I can eat the scavenged food that's still got some rads on it that would make smoothskins like you sick. No need for me to be using up the food you've got.”
“Oh all right,” Scout said in their cold, polite voice that meant things were definitely not all right. “I guess I'll just divide up the camp into ghouls and humans and give all the crap food to the ghouls and let the humans have the good stuff.”
Hancock looked back down and scowled at his bowl. That wasn't what he meant and Scout fucking knew it, but he'd already dug himself a hole so he might as well put down the shovel and keep his mouth shut.
“Or are you the only one who doesn't deserve nice food?” Scout asked much more gently.
Hancock pushed a piece of tato around and didn't answer.
“You're going to eat all of that,” Scout said, their voice still soft but too firm for him to argue with. “You're a person, John. When you say 'for the people,' you know you're one of the people too, right?”
“Plead the fifth,” Hancock muttered.
“All of it,” Scout repeated.
“Well.” Hancock pulled himself together and forced his usual cocky grin back onto his face. “If you insist on me eating your pie …”
“I do,” Scout replied, then continued with a completely straight face. “But I gotta warn you, it's not cherry.”
Hancock relaxed at the banter, his grin feeling a bit more natural. This was what the two of them did. Gave each other shit, made dirty innuendos, pined for their touch and affection and sweet little smiles … maybe that last one was just him. He picked up his fork and ate another bite, if that's what would make Scout happy. And they continued to stare at him while he ate, down to the very last bite.
“Now it's time for seconds, which is really still firsts because you got a half portion to begin with,” Scout announced, grabbing his bowl.
“I can't.”
Scout sat back down, earnest puppy face in full swing again. “You deserve to have good—”
“It's not that,” Hancock quickly said. “I'm just … not really used to eating that much. The chems dull the hunger, which helps when you don't have much, but then you do get some caps and you gotta spend it on the chems to keep the high going and you still don't have any food.”
Scout stared at him, and Hancock immediately regretted sharing that shit. Now it was Lecture Time about how Chems Are Bad and he needs to Stop™. People who'd never been addicted to anything loved spouting off that kind of bullshit, like it was really that simple.
“OK,” Scout said. “But we're doing this again tomorrow night.”
Hancock waited for the rest of it, but when Scout didn't start The Lecture, he didn't waste any more time before changing the subject.
“You planning on eating anything?” he asked.
Scout blinked and looked down at the the bowl. “Oh! Right. Um, yes? Unless there's not …”
They turned and looked back at kitchen, but everyone else had already went through the line to get their food, so the chances of any being left were pretty slim.
“I think Coddy's gotcha,” Hancock said.
Sure enough, Scout spotted Codsworth making his way over to their table.
“Ser, I finished serving everyone, but you didn't stop by, so I saved you a plate,” Codsworth said, hovering anxiously. “Are you not hungry? Do you feel ill? Shall I alert Curie—”
“I'm fine,” Scout cut in. “Really, I promise. I just got distracted talking to Hancock and forgot to get my own food. Thank you.”
“Right then, here you are.” Codsworth set the plate down in front of them. “Will you be needing anything else or shall I go clean up?”
“I'm good, you can go take care of the kitchen,” Scout said.
“Yes, ser.”
Scout waited until Codsworth was out of range for his sensors to hear them and then whispered to Hancock, “Do you think the radiation made him a little bit sentient?”
“Damn.” Hancock considered that. “Never thought about that, but shit. Crazier things have happened.”
“Don't tell Danse,” Scout said, still in a whisper.
Hancock scoffed. “I wouldn't tell Danse if someone pissed in his power armor.”
“Don't do that either,” Scout hissed.
“Tell Danse that someone pissed in his power armor?” Hancock asked innocently.
Scout gasped. “You didn't already … ? He has guard duty tonight at—”
A loud yell from outside quieted the dining room. Preston put a hand on his rifle and started to stand up, but Scout beat him to it and waved him back down.
“It's fine, I'll handle it,” they said.
“Still think I'm good enough for pie?” Hancock asked.
“Yes,” Scout immediately replied back, the fierceness in their voice shocking him a little. “But … maybe not dessert pie. Preston, tell Codsworth Hancock has been a very bad boy and doesn't get dessert.”
“WHO DID THIS?!”
“Aw, crap,” Scout muttered.
They rushed outside, and Preston turned to glare at Hancock. Deacon sauntered over to the table and took Scout's seat with a grin.
“So you peed in it too?”