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Hancock took another puff of the jet inhaler as he stood on the patio, fascinated by the way the smoke curled up, up, in a thread and then into the air. He took the hit like it was nothing, quite different to the first time he smoked. He used to exhale it in a big puff, but he learnt how to curl it around his tongue, his face, enshrouding his ugliness. Making himself all mysterious, and sexy, and hopefully that would distract whoever was watching about the truth of his being. He was all rigid edges, and spikes, pushing away anyone who got too close.
Anyone, except for her.
In the rowdiness of the Sanctuary bar, he can hear Nora. Her voice, the way she sounds like she is cradling every word she speaks. The sound washes over him like a brand new drug, up his neck and behind his ears. Hancock hears a particularly snorty giggle, and turns around to watch her, because it's his favourite thing to do. He has long past accepted that this feeling of his, like his heart was warmed, cradled by her hands, is unreciprocated. So he watches, because staring at the curve of her dimples is all he will ever do. Okay, Hancock is many things, but he is not a liar. He is not just staring at her smile, he stares at her lips, too. In this particular moment when he turns to look, leaning his back against the railing, he stares at her body. She’s attractive, sue him. He stares at Nora’s curves. Curves everywhere. Her ass, breasts, whatever. He just knows he likes it.
John Hancock had always been a vulgar man. As a person, he was always interested in curves, an opposition to his lingering harshness. The curves of bodies, no matter what equipment they had. The curve of his fingers in said bodies. The curves of pillows the morning after, the indents, the absence in the bedding that was always left. The curves of beer bottles, curves of mouths on bottles, on other things. Nora’s curves. Not just the way the vault suit hugged her, not just the way her body still held onto good, pre-wasteland feeding. It was more than that, and that was the part that Hancock hated. It was more than just lust. Lust would make it easier to breathe around her. The worst part of her softness was that he couldn’t have it for himself.
He watched Nora, mid conversation with Danse, laugh at something he said. She raised her hand and gently squeezed his arm as she grinned. The whole scene was illuminated by warm overhead light and gentle moonglow that peered through the glassless windows. Vaguely unimportant people in his periphery seem to fade away even more as he watches Nora rub her thumb on Danse’s forearm. He flushes. Hancock takes another sip of his beer. Nora is so beautiful, and Danse is so beautiful, and they are so beautiful together. Beautiful in a way that Hancock could never even learn how to be. He had long realized that he shouldn’t compare himself to smooth skins, but, without even thinking about it, he reaches his hand up to touch his face, feeling for the formerly familiar place where his nose used to be, the curve of it. Before dropping his hand after remembering all that is there is a chasm, complimented with the roughness of his radiated skin.
He stops looking, because it’s been too long, and at this point it has probably turned creepy. Instead, he looks down at his beer bottle, curved and half empty. In the curve of his hand. Maybe there is some gentleness still in him, mostly destroyed if it does exist, but isn’t it nice to think that he can be soft again? He doesn’t know how long he gazes at the bottle, but when he briefly looks up, he notices that Nora is looking at him. Her head is slightly tilted, and he feels like his soul is being examined. So, being the coward that he is, he turns around to face the night sky, the village, the apartment building Nora cobbled together. Anything except her.
He hears the footsteps first. Nora is quiet, but he’s gotten pretty good at picking out the noises that she makes. After you travel so much with someone, you unfortunately get to know them well. “Are you okay?” Nora asks, placing her hand around his bicep.
He hums. “Everything’s good, sunshine.”
“You look miserable.”
Hancock can’t help but laugh at that. Finally, he looks at her. Nora is smiling. Anyone else would think it’s a normal smile, but Hancock can tell it’s a proud one, because she’s proud she made him laugh. “I’m just thinking, that’s all.” He says
“About?” She tilts her head again, slightly batting her eyelashes. Ah, this is the expression when she’s trying to persuade someone to talk.
Fine, he’ll bite. “Curves.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Curves.” She repeats.
“Everything is curves. It’s curves all the way down.” Hancock says. “Life is just… curves. People. Planets. Everything.”
“...what have you taken? Mentants?”
“Good Neighbour Special.” He answers, smiling into a sip of his beer.
“Which is?”
“A little bit of everything.”
Now, she’s the one who laughs. It’s a beautiful sound, it might even be his favourite sound. Nora has a habit of touching people when she laughs, a slap of an arm, a grab of a hand, but she’s the most touchy with Hancock. Less so with others around, but when they’re alone, she curves her body into him. It drives him absolutely fucking crazy. This is one of those times. She presses her head into the curve of his neck. It wasn't even that funny, but she still gives the joke more than its due diligence. The world suddenly seems slower and fuzzier around the edges, but that may just be the delayed hit of jet.
He isn’t really thinking, so he slides a hand around her waist and presses his cheek against her hair. Nora gives an uncharacteristic stumble, just a slight give of balance, and giggles against his neck. She’s so close that Hancock can smell a slight tinge of alcohol.
“Someone’s tipsy.” Hancock teased, suppressing the urge to kiss her head. “How much have you had?”
“I had one drink.” Nora pulls away, grinning. She leans against the railing. Without asking, she reaches into the pocket of Hancock’s jacket and pulls out a jet inhaler.
“Getting handsy, are we?” He rasps. He leans his chin against his palm, his full body weight against the railing.
“Fuck off.” She says, bringing the jet to her mouth. The world slows even more as he watches her mouth press against the inhaler, her quick, heavy breath, her fingers slowly pressing on the button. She stares at the puff dissolve. After a few seconds, she grins at nothing and sighs. She glances at Hancock, her eyes narrowing in a way that he can’t quite pinpoint. Sad, and confused and maybe somewhat knowing at the same time. “Don’t… don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what, sunshine?” He asks, because he wants to tease her but he also is curious to what she might say.
“Like…” She stops herself. Her next expression is more familiar, with averted eyes, slightly pursed lips and scrunched eyebrows. He’s seen it a handful of times, usually, whenever he word-vomits and gets as close as possible to admitting his affections without actually closing the line. She’s holding something back.
When she doesn’t continue, he takes her hand. “Like?”
She laughs, but it’s more bitter than usual. “Like you want me.”
She tries to drop his hand, but he catches it again. He feels like he might throw up. Her hand is so soft, and it curves around his perfectly. “And if I do?”
Nora’s face is half illuminated by the orange bar lights, the other half by the cool night. She looks like she might cry. “You can't— Don't joke about this, John.” She says, voice shaking. “You can joke about anything else, just not this.”
He had never heard her say his first name before, and it lit a fire in him that had never sparked that strongly before. “I want you. I'd never joke about that.” He reached up, and held her face in his hands. “I want you, Nora. I promise. You're so—” How could he begin to describe how he felt about her? How much he craved her touch? How her voice brought him to his knees? How all he needed was to see her smile and he was done for? “You're everything to me. You gotta know that, huh? You gotta know how much I love you. You bring out every good thing left in me that I didn't know was there. You’re the best thing I got.”
Nora smiles. “John…”
“I love it when you say my name.” Hancock mutters, and with that, he goes to lean in, but Nora stops him, putting a finger to his lips.
“Hang on, I have something to say, too.” Nora grins. “Whenever I needed help, or a companion, or a shoulder to cry on, or, fuck, even when I needed a drug dealer—” Hancock laughs as that, “—you were there. You were always there. You stood by me no matter what I did, even if you disagreed, you knew I needed you. And, with Shaun, you’re so great with Shaun. You’ve… you’ve taken care of him, and this is gonna sound weird, but I know Nate would be thankful for you taking care of Shaun, and taking care of me. I never thought… I never thought I would fall in love with someone again, but, here you are! And you’re so wonderful, and understanding, and… I just love you. I love you so much.”
Nora presses her forehead to Hancock’s. The touch is past intimate for him, and he, a man who had done demeaning, disgusting, and sometimes unspeakable things, flushes under the innocent press of skin. He closes his eyes, deciding to soak in the touch he never thought he would receive. “Moments like this, I know all this karma stuff is bull. Because no one like me should be this lucky.”
“You sell yourself short.” Nora says. Her breath heats his face. “You’re so kind.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Do you…” She hesitates. “Do you wanna get out of here?”
“Fuck yes.” This was more Hancock’s speed. This was what he was good at. But as he led Nora out of the bar, hand in hand, he felt so unprepared. He wasn’t a touring ghoul anymore, not after his most recent hook up left him feeling empty, thinking about how much he would have rathered it be with his favourite vault dweller. He came back to her a couple days after in Sanctuary, taken over completely with guilt at the non-existent betrayal. When he saw her, she had just smiled, and asked for a travel companion. He didn’t realize how much he craved that kind of forgiveness until it met him so easily.
But now? Now, Hancock led her into her bedroom, windows boarded up with barely any light. Everything in that room is shapes, shapes all the way down. The shape of door handles, her gentle hands, the way her voice curves against his neck. At the beginning, she laughs and remarks, “I’m a little rusty.” and he assures her that he wouldn’t care if she was rusty, or a virgin, or if she slept with a million people before him, all he wanted was her. She kisses him for the first time and the shape of her glows like a halo in his hands. He gets to feel her curves, curves everywhere. When he points them out and explains his earlier thoughts, she trails the grooves of his skin with her fingers and says that he has a couple curves of his own, too. He is still good.
The morning after, he wakes up first. He gets to watch her take up space in the bed, watch the curve of her breathing. Light peers through the room, illuminating his tricorn hat that hung on her bedpost.