#VERSE⠀ [ . . . ] ᵐᵃʸᵒʳᵐᵉⁿᵗᵃᵗˢ when you’re at your best i’m at my worst.

[vaultdamned]

@mayormentats

THE OCEAN ABOVE IS BLACK, dressing the towering man with a coat made of night. footsteps traverse along the rotted ground, his shadow following behind like an obedient ghost. the silence is familiar; an old friend listening to the solemn rhythm of vincent’s heart beating inside his chest, unchanging in the air of loneliness some 200 years later. however, this particular loneliness fairs differently. self-inflicted, rather than forced. 

he tightens his grip against hancock’s freshly washed clothes, folded neatly & cradled by the weight of his forearm. blood still painted the fabric, splotches sized like pin-pricks; an effort made in vain, as no matter how much fluid could be scrubbed away, the reminder remained within the squint of an eye. 

mass pike tunnel e looms ahead, skyscrapers stretching high against the rubble, watching over the graveyard of cars — the phantom beeping of horns, panicking for evacuation, mimicks the echo of a piano player's notes from miles away. the past entertains the darkness as vincent continues forth, allowing the parade of memories to float on by like an unpleasant odor. mushroom clouds. radiated sulfur. sweat. 

the warehouse manifests out of thin air, a projection of reality outside vincent’s tunnel vision. he stops, standing beside a once bright yellow, now decrepit truck. hancock’s warning lingers in the back of his mind. don’t fuck with the lock. fine — but, part of him thinks he could break in no problem. most locks had a master system, & this one probably wasn’t any different – what a sight to see. vincent settled as hancock enters the space, finding his warehouse infiltrated, an all knowing, shit-eating grin greeting him from across the room. maybe even right inside the door.

No.

hancock’s tone turned serious at the mention of waiting. vincent’s wrist burned, remembering the pressure of hancock’s grab & the impression he’d left as he slapped that note into vincent’s palm,.the immortal man's breathing hitched in just that split second, caught off guard & distracted by the smell of cigarette smoke — which damn, why did he forget his smokes?

he flicks his head to the left, then the right, spotting a train car; its backside just inches off the track. he retrieves his knife as he paces forward, opening the side door with anticipation for an enemy, but it’s empty, save for a lone chair & a patch of stained wood. he holsters his blade. takes the seat. lays the clothes against the floor. leans forward, meeting his elbows to his knees. no way anyone would follow him out here, still, he wasn’t exactly on marowski’s goodside, especially after insulting his shitty handywork which nearly got vincent killed by the mayor of goodneighbor – or so vincent spun, leaving out many, many details -- details that held a power over him he could only relay as, haunting.

minutes pass & still he’s left to his own company, hiding inside a traincar. it’s expected, isn’t it? why would hancock give him any more than necessary of his deserved time? what gave vincent that right? bringing the clothes felt ridiculous now. this whole thing — god, he should have packed up & left when he had the chance, & there were plenty of them, still he stayed. couldn’t be hancock’s sake. perhaps for his own revenge? freedom from marowski? some deeply misunderstood alliance between himself & a betrayed friend? 

none of these harbored enough life; the reason was always selfish. 

the distinct jingle of keys alerts him. vincent twists his head up, his whole body lifting as if he’s tied to a rope that’s actively being pulled, then he grabs the clothes & inches closer to the edge of the traincar, peeking his head out, his brown curls brushing against the doorway. he’s spying on the earth, watching the front of the warehouse, waiting for his turn to appear like a rabbit out of a magic hat.

[vaultdamned]

@mayormentats

   THE BOOK IS ANCIENT. a living relic to the past cradled against his chest as he nears the statehouse, past the glowing red sign of the Rexford & into the keen eyes of a watchman. vincent throws a subtle nod of his head, as he did each time he visited the space, ducking inside & meeting the spiral case; steps seeming to ascend on & on, like a holy passage. the wood creaks with each step as he finds a rhythm to the top, red hair manifesting out of thin air as he rises. the woman peers to him like any other visitor; uninterested & aware, or perhaps that was only reserved for vincent’s arrival when he popped up like a whack-a-mole.

            he towers above the ground floor, hand coming off the railing as he slips into the room, seeking his intention within a red-trench coat & hatted mayor, who’s currently sleeping on the woman’s lap, content & listless. he holds the book tighter, as if intruding on the space. should he come back later?

absolutely not. he’s stalling for time in the lab. might as well make this count. he doubles down on his stance, clears his throat, just to make it all the more prevalent he's not leaving without giving up this book.

❝ … didn’t realize it was nap time.  ❞

[vaultdamned]

VINCENT’S PERCEPTION BLURS, his mind occupied momentarily by the crackling of objects inside the barrel; red & orange streaks rising & swirling like a hypnotizing lantern, violent with active flame, as sparks fly out onto the ground. he’d lost track over the years exactly how much time he’s lived, but the number is enough justification, should be, but in the morbid sense of whatever his condition categorized him as, experiencing the regenerative abilities unnerved him. disgusted him, but the burning of his hand … came from some deeper monologue; an expectation for unbridled pain, an enemy he’d never quit, because he’d tried that before — ignored its voice — & while no harsher consequences from the never-ending suicide attempts ever came to be, an understanding formed. an obedience to the screaming.

but maybe this … this was his own, sick apology towards hancock; touching him as if he were a stranger again; strangers wandering amongst the dust of their coveted past. 

his fingers flex, new & smooth, as hancock puffs on the cigarette, settling himself on the stool. vincent focuses his glance towards something else, anything else, a lone tire on a junk pile. he traces its outside ring a few times within those seconds, lest he display anything comparable to the mental turmoil brewing during … whatever this was they circled around, chasing each other’s tails like dogs. 

a final exchange as fingers sweep against each other’s skin, chilling vincent’s nerves & stirring them into a frenzy. his body warmed, whether from the fire or their knowing exchange, he couldn’t be sure. he didn’t care. he’d slip the smoke into hancock’s mouth next time if he asked him too, hell, maybe he wouldn’t have to ask.

he pursues the thought within another drag, allowing nicotine to mix with the unobtainable as he watches hancock tap his knee, recite a plan, as if thinking out loud. the second request comes, flames reflected within the golden rings hancock fashioned as he waits expectantly, but unfortunate for the ghoul, vincent’s mid-puff, flicking his perplexed gaze to the other, almost in pity as he inhales the entirety of the drag, holding eye contact as he snuffs the butt out with his boot.

there’s plenty more to light up, but vincent’s buzz was enough for him right now. hancock would have to wait, or act upon his own want; vincent could only listen so many times before his pride punched him in the gut, forcing him to indifference.

❝ marowski’s got a chem lab inside the four leaf fishpacking plant. bit tricky getting in, but i can figure it out. ❞ he recalls the congested, low-ceiling chamber housed in the side of the plant, like something out of a movie. the mission as a whole was plausible, almost too easy, until hancock’s vulgar comment throws him for a loop; sending his eyes to the back of his skull with a cock of his head.

❝tempting. not like material is sparse to think about lately, hmm?❞

he licks the top corner of his lips, eyes heavy with intrigue as a chilled breath sucks through his teeth.

❝ i’ll make something. bring them over for a crash course. finn was always finding a way to stick around when i worked inside the chem lab. ❞

it’s a partial lie that comes off his tongue. finn loitered for the end result; the killing part, not so much the science of it, nor the illusion with which vincent intentionally spilled, but what was the harm in letting the mayor’s imagination continuously run without limits?

he stares into the fire, choosing his next words carefully as the warehouse fills with warmth. this game ... their insufferable desire, but cleverness not to reveal more than what was deserved, brought a neutral dizziness to the immortal man. he locates another stool, props it at an angle so that Hancock remains in his trajectory of vision within a reasonable distance. he leans forward, the curls of his hair swaying forward as he rests his elbows on his knees, folds his hands in front. regards the other with the turn of his head, displaying the subtle smirk that seemed to live within his rested lips as his gaze travels subtly up & down the ghoul's drifter persona; an air vincent didn't mind sitting next to.

❝ and you? can’t imagine a busy mayor like yourself has time to jerk off for two weeks, let alone two minutes. what will you be doing while i'm fucking around in my basement?❞ 

The air around the fire smelled of scrap wood, plastic, and burned flesh. The reflection of flames flicked across the black of his eyes while he peered into the barrel. Hancock thought he could find a source for that distinct charred smell, but the truth of the matter lingered in the wetness of Vincent's face. John caught a glimpse of it when he looked over his shoulder at him. Red and beaded. It can happen when one stands in way of the smoke, but John couldn't bring himself to ask if that was the case. His eyes now bounce between the flames and the threads of his pants, unable to look Vincent in the eyes. There was an unsettling feeling of seeing his own reflection in them. Small, and kicked like a chained dog. He didn't want to face that. 

❝ nah, wasn’t happy. only roughed me up a bit though. ❞ 

There was a huff of amusement from Hancock. With how casually Vincent held a cigarette between his teeth to tell the story, it felt like a joke. The man was supposed to be suffering from stab wounds, the ghoul was doubtful that a roughing up from Marowski's bodyguard could really do much. 

❝ told him i’d make a better poison, and he really, really, didn’t like that his own shit wasn’t strong enough to ice you. called you a fucking rad roach. ❞

Hancock finally looks up across the fire to laugh. “Rad roach!? Thanks for passin along the message.” The appreciation is lost in the disingenuous delivery. 

His scratchy laugh settles in the moment Vincent holds out his cigarette. The offer is observed quietly. He just had his own smoke, he didn't need another. Yet marred fingers brush against virgin skin in acceptance. Hancock brings his knee to his chest and the cig to his lips. The taste of Vincent's tongue lingered on the filter. This was what they were doing. Attempting to recreate the moments of connection that led them to have indulged their desires until it all went to shit. Hancock blows smoke to the side, wondering what they even gained from doing this. It was distracting. He figured they should just fuck for closure so they could get out of this perpetual foreplay. He swallowed the thought down and passed the cigarette back. 

“Two weeks,” Hancock echoes through a smoker's cough, “generous.”  

He inhales sharply and exhales deeply. Mentats could help in this, but it was still too soon to dig around for those, despite knowing that there was a tin somewhere in his locked train cart. The keys in his pocket weighed heavily, wanting him to get up and grab the chems anyway. He taps his fingers against his knee, fidgeting away the pull. 

“Alright.” He says forcing himself to think without chem assistance, “obstacles first. Marowski has folks willin to defend him at the Rexford. Don't wanna just bust in there, even though I got the manpower with the watch.” 

It technically would be easy to outnumber Marowski's men. They could storm into the hotel, cause a scene and apprehend him no problem. But that left two other players out of their focus.

“...cause once Marowski goes down, Finn and Bobbi are gonna catch wind and skip town. I don't wanna do a hunt through the wasteland. I got men but not that many.” 

Hancock extends his hand out, the rings on his finger clinking together as he taps in ask for another drag. It was the only thing he would allow himself right now. 

“We need em all together in one place,” there's a lapse in his explanation before he glances up towards Vincent, “where have yall been meeting? Ya promised to make that poison, sure you can gather them up for a little show n’ tell, ya feel me?” 

"And by the way, ya even plannin on makin somethin or are ya just gonna jerk off for two weeks?" Hancock jokes with him, but he was genuinely curious.

[vaultdamned]

CIGARETTE SMOKE LINGERS inside his mouth, steps calculated as he manuevers around & away from the junk until he’s met with the barrel. hancock’s voided eyes managed to burn themselves into vincent’s vision, as if he’d finished staring directly at the sun, black spots following his every glance. his thumb flicks against the side of the lighter once, twice, a third as the flame finally ignites. vincent lowers its heat into the barrel, lighting the wood & branch & burnable scraps. he backs away slowly in anticipation for a large flame, nearly losing his balance until he grips the floor with his shoes.

vincent slides the lighter into his pocket without thought, as if it were his; as if it wasn’t a possession, rather, an object taking up space, like a pen or a pencil. the fire roars subtly, eating away at the mess of flammable brush, radiating a gentle heat against the man’s chilled face that only moments ago, burned an insatiable warmth — uncomfortable as it was natural, the way hancock’s chest heaved as the lights exposed their closeness. familiar from that fateful night — this was a continuation of their unspoken game. teasing & testing the others limits. 

vincent hovers his hand above the flame, allowing the orange tip to flick his skin, singeing flesh, throwing the sensation of pain up into his fingers and palm. tears collect like little pools at the bottom of his eye as he presses his hand further into the barrel. 

what the hell was he doing here? the answer was obvious, but the gaps inbetween; the ones hancock and him seemed to fill with distractions, confused the fuck out of him. by all reason, hancock should hate him. perhaps he did, merely burying the hatchet in a shallow grave for the sake of marowski’s demise, yet when an opportunity arised, vincent couldn’t help but loom closer to the ghoul & if he wasn’t mistaken, the air was mutual – practically sharing the same breaths, if only for another taste of each other. a replica to the strangeness of longing vincent had been fighting for so long, only for that sick feeling to dissipate at the invitation from his friend.

heat engulfs his skin, melting flesh mixed with the smell of burning wood, every nerve inside his hand screaming for mercy as droplets push themselves down his cheeks. hancock’s footsteps scuffle behind vincent, an action written off as casual when the clunk of the shotgun rings out. he looks over his shoulder, hand still resting in the fire, the first layer of skin no doubt burned away. 

hancock was his friend, & even now, a partner, but was vincent deserving of even that? who’s to say he wouldn’t just fuck off & murder marowski himself? he possessed the capability. considered it in quiet contemplation as the hours ticked by, leading up to this fireside chat. 

hands dig into his backside, surprising him as he mundanely pulls his hand away from the fire. a hardened shape enters his pocket. vincent turns his head, chin just over his shoulder, eyebrow raised, gaze shifting gradually from the mayor’s worker boots as the groqtuesue feeling of his flesh molds back into the shape of a hand. he remembers the ruggedness of hancock’s body, blemished & scarred as his fingertips dug into his skin; a moment that crosses vincents mind more often than he prefers, but within the dim-light, outside of his red coat & head bare, he sees him. a man, perhaps not human by name, but behind softened, coal-rubbed eyes, there’s a beating heart that’s stronger & braver than vincent could ever be, & perhaps that’s why he agreed to kill him. 

he meets the mayor’s gift with a gentle nod of the head, smirking as if they’ve shared an inside joke at the mention of stealing his lighter. if he could keep it, he would. he needed a new one anyways — his chest rises at the graze of his waist, ignoring the slight lean into hancock’s palm as the other situates himself. vincent stands, pushing away the sudden adrenaline as he recalls last night’s events through the lens of a disoriented mindset. as if permissible by the mayor, vincent reaches for a drag, sticks a smoke between his lips, speaks with his teeth. ❝ nah, wasn’t happy. only roughed me up a bit though. ❞ 

his tongue holds the cigarette in place as he flashes a joking gaze, flicks the lighter to life once more against the end of the filter. ❝ told him i’d make a better poison, and he really, really, didn’t like that his own shit wasn’t strong enough to ice you. called you a fucking rad roach. ❞ he puffs, blows the smoke high into the air, looking at the stick in-between his fingers for a moment before he reaches over, offers it almost hesitantly, as he has many times. as he would until his last day in goodneighbor. 

❝  got two weeks to come up with something. ❞

❝ you told me to start a fire, so i am — ❞

The barrel was cold but Hancock could already feel heat. The audacity for the man to smile at him like that, all knowing and perfect. That annoyed him. He was close enough to smell the rain that held onto the fleece of his jacket. The lighter illuminated his features, and the curls of his hair tickled Hancock's forehead, but there was no place for him to shuffle back to, his shotgun had already thunked against the warehouse walls.

In some sort of attempt at disrespect Hancock held the first drag of the cigarette in his mouth then blew it forward into Vincent's face. The ghoul didn't expect him to welcome the act, breathing in the remnants of nicotine. It was an odd play of the closeness they used to have. All the times where they each had packs in their pockets but would rather get the chance at an accidental touch of their fingers in sharing a single cigarette.

Eyes are locked on his, to make sure he saw the exact moment Hancock became intent on not offering him a drag.

❝ rumor has it, they had a secret warehouse underground, so, who knows. ❞

And off Vincent went to do as he was told with Hancock's lighter. Even from the view of just his backside he looked too pleased with himself. The typically cool and collected Mayor was left trying not to snap his cigarette in half before the nicotine hit.

He decides to take his smoke break at a distance and watches the barrel flick to life. Each inhale brings his heart rate down, until he notices Vincent pocket his lighter. He flicks the butt to the ground and snuffs it out with his boot on his way to Vincent. Just as he's about to demand his lighter back, a familiar folded stack of clothes on the nearby metal shelf catches his eye. His path shifts towards it. Vincent had cleaned his clothes like he had asked. 

Hancock thought to make a comment on it. To tell the man he missed a spot. But he couldn't find the will to act in hostility. They were working together again. Should one lapse in judgment ruin that? Vincent's actions were a distorted reflection of his own several years ago. Vic deserved it though. Did John? Was he becoming some sort of jackass? Down goes his shotgun against the lower shelf. He uncoils the flag at his neck and sets it beside his clothes. His coat comes off as well, exposing his wiry frame in just an old tank and torn up jeans.

Hancock approaches Vincent from behind and slips his pack of cigarettes into his back pocket. “Since ya took my lighter, might as well take the pack too…” He says, staring up at him with gentler eyes. Nearly forgiving if you were to read too deep into them.

His hand traces along Vincent's waist as he passes to sit across from him on an old rickety stool. 

“Alright. Let's start with what Marowski said when ya went back to him,” Hancock gets to business, chin rested in his hand while his other toys with the loose threads on his pants. “Imagine he wasn't happy, not that he ever is, but you're here so it couldn't have been that bad.” 

[vaultdamned]

FAMILIARITY CLOAKS THE SPACE, shared between employee & boss as pages are flipped through and a cigarette passed. he’s content taking his smoke out from between his lips, balancing it between hancock’s scarred fingers, watching as the book rested against the mayor’s lap, eager to be read. 

❝ the library. couldn’t sleep last night. ❞ the scientist could only stare at the water stained ceiling for so long, counting the divots within the wood as his arm rested above his head. time slowed, & without the existence of a clock, it practically stood still. it’d became routine to throw on his jacket & head out into the wasteland, blending in with the reclusively creatures of night. strangely, the book hancock holds was on already on display upon a flipped over table, as if someone picked it up, changed their mind, & left it there.

❝ wales is in great britain, i think — saw it on a map, once. ❞ pre-war knowledge litters his vocabulary, spewing daily with the mention of anything related, & he’s lucky to catch himself, posing as the smartest man in the wasteland, or so some drunken sap had blabbered on coupled with a hard slap to vincent’s shoulder &, ultimately, a spilt beer. 

vincent flashes a thin-lipped smile, graciously accepts the stick, & takes a drag, catching the lingering aroma of sweet whiskey mixed with ash. his skin tingles, from the rush of nicotine, no doubt, as he blows out. his chin rises, exposing his neck as hancock flaunts old-world facts, providing the room with entertainment. vincent catches a gleam to hancock’s voided eyes as the book is stretched out to him.

❝  you’re further ahead than me. ❞ truth be told, he hadn’t read past the first page – an odd, excited feeling overwhelming enough to snatch the book up, wait until morning, & waltz up the spiral staircase.

yes, he knows. all too well, this time of year – clouds of heavy nostalgia haunted those that lived before, but for vincent, it was merely a fog; blurred with the intention of disappearing when time allowed, but time & him would never see eye-to-eye. his gaze hugs the coffee table as he puffs once more, scanning various chems & liquor bottles now doubt frequented by the mayor, & perhaps, his guests. the silence looms too long, as if rushing water fills his eardrums, he's suddenly back inside the room with fahrenheit and hancock, recalling what the mayor had said seconds ago.

he laughs barely above a nose puff, shaking his head. ❝ sure, whatever you say, sir. i suggest door-to-door chem service. reverse trick-or-treating. play dress up & be the town’s charity event for a night. that would make quite a lot of folks ... merry.❞ 

❝ do I look like a guy who'd start a book-club? don't answer that. ❞

A quick glance is shared between Hancock and Fahrenheit. Vincent earns a smirk from the woman but a laugh from Hancock who picks the book off the table. 

He gets comfortable, an arm behind his head, his feet kicked up on Fahr's lap, and the book open on his chest. He flips through pages skimming over the words, only lingering whenever a sentence caught his attention. 

“Damn… where the hell didya find this?” He whistles. 

At the smell of smoke he instinctively reaches his hand out, tapping his fingers together as a request for a drag. Fahrenheit goes to reach for a stick from a pack but Vincent beats her to it and places his own between Hancock's fingers. 

If there was tension radiating for Fahrenheit, Hancock didn't notice. He simply brought the cig to his lips and continued to flip through the book. 

“This got places I've never even heard of. Where the hell is Wales? Or Hebrides?” He blows smoke to the side and hands the cigarette back over to Vincent, “thanks.” 

“Ah here's the section on America… elves, goblins, and fairies are native here?” His dark eyes are hard to track as he scans through the pages. Then he laughs, “ya read through this yet? They used to bake pennies and keys and shit into cakes to tell ya if you'd be gettin hitched.” 

Hancock holds out the book to Vincent, withered fingers pointing to the paragraph he read. 

“Didn't know you were a traditionalist. Usually we just let the pre-war folks go use the Memory Den for free considerin well… ya know,” he alludes to the bombs, “then we just get on to…what did this book say? Merrymakin?” 

[vaultdamned]

ALONE IN THE DARKNESS; a snapshot of their recent past as the lantern’s glass cracks, the sound bouncing off the depots empty walls, a shock of energy pulsing itself up vincent’s arm & down his body. the void lay claim to the glare given to hancock, as vincent sensed the ghoul’s breathing locked in his chest, feeling his own stuck in his throat like soured honey. he couldn’t be certain, but in the seconds that passed, hancock’s grip seemed to grow tighter, all consuming, as if his vigor around vincent might give way to a bruise — not that it would last. 

cool relief wraps itself around his wrist as hancock’s blemished flesh brushes against vincent’s own, seizing claim to the lighter — vincent swallows, an audible exhale falling out of his lips as retracts his hand at the request of the mayor, & the lights flicker to life. 

his feet spread slightly, shoes briefly grazing the others against the tattered floor. blue eyes find black, lids heavy with surprise as vincent’s wrist vibrates in the ghostly feeling of hancock’s strength. the man was capable of anything — a testament in the trials vincent impulsively explored when in the company of the mayor. he hadn’t anticipated such a move, & even if he had, some truth pulled at his gut; whining with the actuality that, despite their shared encounter resulting in the failure of both their murders, he couldn’t give a shit what happened next. he just wanted marowski & his goons dead, & maybe, in some chasm, deep within the crevice of his buried empathy, hancock was owned that closure. 

❝ you told me to start a fire, so i am — ❞  words pushed out of his chest, higher than a whisper but lower than his normal speaking voice, as he notes the rise & fall of hancock’s chest -- of the difference in clothing -- drifter, to drifter. he wasn’t opposed to this either, was he? face-to-face; an attempted killer & his welcoming victim. unresolved tensions loomed, like a shadow against their backs; a sickening want to pursue whatever they could get away with, even if that meant potentially meeting the gilded blade of a knife, again. 

business never succeeded with pleasure, did it?

the thought brought a bit of a smirk to vincent’s face, no longer hidden by the depot’s darkness as he lifts the lighter, flicking the flame to life, illuminating the cockiness of his lips. he cups the heat, concealing them within the inferno as he meets hancock’s request, noting the change of temperature as his forehead nicks the ghoul’s own. the tip of the blaze touches the end of the cigarette, kindling an envied need as vincent’s lips part gently, casually, slowly blowing out the flame. eyes bore into the mayor’s as if searching inside his skin, his bones, his muscles, for something, but he’s not sure what. he watches as hancock puffs on the cig, eliciting vincent’s mouth to open just a tad wider, welcoming the taste of his exhaled smoke. 

❝ rumor has it, they had a secret warehouse underground, so, who knows. ❞

he caps off the conversation, pulling himself away from hancock’s space. he turns his back, tossing the lighter into the air & catching it within seconds as he makes for the barrel, attempting that fire that was so desperately needed, for some reason.

Any snort or huff heard from his companion he just attributes to an auditory hallucination for his own sanity. The dull pain in his shins are just a reminder that he needs to invest time in cleaning this place up. Ironically, Goodneighbor wasn't a good place to store things. The triggermen being a constant problem in the town's warehouses. Hancock had obtained this depot with the intent to actually store valuables, per Fahr's suggestion, but when he got down to it, there really wasn't anything worth storing. However it was a good place to hide out when the going got tough. And now he felt particularly grateful for this hideaway as it was a secure enough location to continue their discussion on Marowski.

❝  this place transported ammunition from a sugar bomb factory – you know, when the war was going on, not the big one, but that alaska one?  ❞

Usually, Vincent's little tidbits of historical information charmed Hancock. He'd respond with enthusiastic questions or his own knowledge, but the bitterness of his friend's betrayal still lingered on the back of his tongue. The ghoul didn't even have any mentats on him. Only a pack of cigarettes.

“That so?” He says flatly as he searches for the breaker. “Were they putting ammo in the cereal?” The question comes out wry, subtly mocking the man's attempt at casual conversation. Just as he finds the switch the warmth of a body comes to enclose him. 

The lantern drops with a loud crack. The light goes out and the two of them are left in darkness. Hancock quickly grabbed the wrist of Vincent's exploring hand but froze soon after. The man of strategy suddenly lost on what his next move was. Grabbing his gun would be sensible right? Bashing him with the end of it and knocking him back? All he did was stand still. His breath was held in his chest, an uncertain anxiety driven arousal cuts through his lingering annoyance with Vincent and stirs at his core. 

What was he doing?

He loosens his grip and slides his hand in his pocket, feeling around for what Vincent had grabbed. Scarred fingers nudge their way into the intruder's palm and graze against metal. His lighter. Hancock exhales, shooing the man out of his coat and grabbing the lever of the breaker. With a push, the switch is flipped and the lights flicker on, illuminating just how close they were. 

He turns around, back to the wall. His eyes flick across Vincent's features, his darkened sclera hiding any shameful observations, “for all the thinkin you do, ya didn't think to ask before ya go feelin me up?” 

Hancock attempts to play coy about it. He considers zipping up his coat, which was a size too big for him, to hide the way his chest heaved. But instead he simply pulls out his pack and thumbs out a cigarette. 

“If you’re gonna steal my lighter, light this first will ya? Before ya go get that fire goin like I asked.” He places the cig between his lips and leans forward.

[vaultdamned]

GOD, HE WOULD KILL FOR A CIGARETTE — anything to quell the twitching of his muscles. the glowing ember of hancock’s lantern acted like a beacon, as he watched the embers burn away from his smoke, sucking in air through his teeth where familiar envy nestled its way inside. the chilly, rain-visited air breezed through the confines of his jacket, blue fabric with a white puffy collar nearly camoflauging him against the dark as the lantern seems to die with each step closer, hands throwing thsemlves above his head as the hancock reveals the shotgun.

❝  easy man,  ❞ he retorts, lowering his palms as the weapon follows suit. vincent frowns at the cigarette glowing still with life on the ground. would it be pathetic of him to grab it and finish the rest? as quickly as it’s thought, he abandons the desperate concept, throwing his attention to the jangle of keys as hancock roughs them up, searching against the lamp-light, determined & perhaps a bit unnerved at vincent’s quiet stance, until the correct key is found, & a mutual, finalized gaze is shared. 

vincent trailed behind hancock, hugging the lantern light close, chest nearly brushing against the ghoul’s back, but he maintained a comfortable distance, meeting specks of dust immediately as he stopped in his tracks, losing hancock & the centeralized light – not that he needed much. over time in his travels through the wasteland at night, the serum proved his vision thrived in the dark, nothing close to clear, but spotless enough to traverse the land without guidance from light. 

helped his survival too — blending in against the vistors of the night. 

the lantern sways with the motion of hancock, & it’s not funny, yet he stifles a chuckle as the sound of knocked over wood pallets echoes inside the chamber — & full of junk it truly is. nothing worth nothing, except the scrap metal. old tires meant for vehicles long gone. rusted traincars. a dead end of sorts — this couldn’t be the place bobbi was referencing. it couldn’t. 

he obeys. footsteps crunching against junk as he meticluously navigates the area, reaching the singular barrel, wherein the side reads NH&M F.D. freight depot? No way. It’s been years since he’d heard the name. Faded visions of the factory cloud his mind, distracting him periodically. 

he calls out, casually, but whether for hancock’s benefit or his own, is unknown.

❝  this place transported ammunition from a sugar bomb factory – you know, when the war was going on, not the big one, but that alaska one?  ❞  richard — a man who’s facial features have long left him in memory, comes to mind; his decision to make ammo on the side as a means of production money — his duty to this great nation.

❝ read it in a book once.  ❞  

vincent prys into his pockets for a lighter, met with empty linings instead, a frustration that leads him to the other man’s location, no effort in sneaking behind as his stalking is known against the walls of the depot. he recalled hancock’s holstering of the lighter deep within his pockets. within seconds, vincent closes the distance behind the ghoul, behind the shotgun, & boldly aims his hands, shoving them into the other’s coat pocket, wrapping his fingers around the lighter.

It had been a sobering twenty-four hours and for the most of it he had spent his time mopping up hardwood and picking glass out of his cushions. 

As expected Fahrenheit had questions and as he usually did, Hancock had answers, so long as she helped him scrub the office down. Though he insisted she tell him about Bobbi first.

While wringing out a muddied rag into the sink she explained that Bobbi had wasted her time on talk of tunnels that could lead to Diamond City. Allegedly a heist for the ages. Men and caps was her request. Fahrenheit laughed in her face. 

His red coat was laid out across his lap. With a needle between his teeth he untangled thread at his desk and thought of his story. The two men. The struggle. The bodies. And Vincent, the good friend he was, out there cleaning up the situation. His eyes, dark as they were, gazed softly towards the burned woman who scrubbed away at the blood. 

He swore her to secrecy and told her the truth.

Hours later and the ghoul’s skin smelled like expired abraxo and cigarettes. He walked in the dark, stripped of the clothes which made him Hancock. They were currently hung up to dry back in Goodneighbor. He dug through his broken dresser and put on his old drifter clothes. It made him small, unassuming and nearly unrecognizable to most residents. Just another ghoul in the crowd. This allowed him to slip out of town with a lantern in hand and his shotgun strapped to his back. Luckily he hadn't needed to use it on his walk. Though he wasn't feral, the packs of them couldn't tell the difference. They would stand there out in the open and just stare back at him. Their bodies creaking with a low vibrational hum that felt like an acknowledgement of his existence. As eerie as it was, he didn't mind them. He's received harsher looks from folks in Diamond City.

The ground under his boots was still damp from yesterday's downpour. The memory of Vincent caught in it just outside the statehouse clung to his mind. Wet hair and mutual curiosity. He wanted to see what was underneath at the time. Now he'd rather see the bottom of a bottle. Yet here he was, virtually sober, save for the chems he took in the morning to fight off his migraine. It was hard to shoot up while paranoid. Hancock had considered taking Fahrenheit with him to the strongroom, but leaving Goodneighbor unattended didn't seem wise. He told her he had things under control with the unkillable man, and though she conceded, he was unsure if he had been attempting to convince her or himself. 

The NH&M Freight Depot came into blurred view and he took it as a good time to get in a quick smoke for his nerves. It was quiet, just the sound of his own footsteps, the burn of his cigarette and the jangle of the keys he fished out of his coat pocket. 

Hancock set the lantern on the hood of the rusted truck and thumbed through the various keys on the carabiner under its flickering light. He went still upon hearing the shift of gravel in the distance. Glossy eyes squinted, but was unable to make out much beyond the extent of lantern light. The keys go back into his pocket and fingers twist the dial on the oil lamp, snuffing out the wick. Darkness. 

In a slow but certain motion, Hancock brings his shotgun forward and keeps his back to the warehouse wall. His finger rests on the trigger and he closes one eye in an attempt to bring objects in focus. A shadow. A silhouette of a man. He aims and…

“Fuck! It's you,” Hancock huffs, lowering his shotgun and spitting his cig to the ground. “Hell…if ya didn't  know I can't–” he hesitates to admit his poor vision as if he expected Vincent to use that against him. 

He reignites his lamp with his lighter. Giving the two of them a small circle of warm light against the cold of the night. “Just…give me a moment…” Hancock trails off, a rather quiet damn could be heard on the tail end of that.

He returns to how he was before, flipping through keys while leaned against the truck. He wore a rather focused look compared to his usual lazy smile. But when he found the right key, he eased up in his glance at Vincent. 

The door to his strongroom screeched upon opening. The interior was just as dark as the outside and the air was thick with dust. Hancock coughed into the inside of his jacket as he entered, bringing along the lamp to help him navigate through the maze of useless scrap, old train cars, and sedentary farming equipment. 

“Gotta find the breaker…get a fire goin will ya? There's a barrel round here– dammit!” The light shakes as Hancock hits his shins against the corner of a haphazardly stack of wood pallets. “Can't see for shit…”  

[vaultdamned]

IN THOSE FEW SECONDS BETWEEN slumber & revival, a pulling sensation pinches vincent's insides, parting his lips slightly with envy as hancock rubs his sleep-ridden eyes. the sight is enough to trigger a yawn. he promptly swallows it down.

still, the invitation for a sit-down coupled with the smile gives him cause to forget --- to indulge in the normalcy of a chat, despite the amount of days having passed without sleep. Vincent claims a seat of his own, finding little comfort on the old couch as he shifts his weight back, mimicking hancock's relaxed state.

he gently sets the book on the coffee table, slides it towards the other side. the cover is sun-bleached, displaying an aged orange with ripped pages that litter the confines of the inside. if not for the jack-o-latern on the front, its content would be a mystery to one who has not read it.

 ❝ do I look like a guy who'd start a book-club? don't answer that. ❞ he fishes into his pocket for his pack of smokes, grabs a cigarette, sticks it between his lips, balancing the filter between his next words as he throws the pack onto the coffee table, as if it's his right. ❝ it's a prewar book on Halloween. traditions, and such. ❞ in habit, he locates a lighter off the table, grabs it, uses it as his own for those few seconds as the cigarette is lit. between the puff & release, nostalgia wraps around his mind; that faint mist of a memory. his mother in a pink trench coat & blonde curls. his costume, simply yet fitting -- a mad scientist. how she'd teased his brunette hair in the bathroom before heading out to collect candy, but not before drilling the notion of stranger danger. it all seems so ... distant now.

 ❝ thought you'd want to take a look --- maybe share some of that with your town. ❞

It wasn't uncommon to find Hancock rested on the lap of his bodyguard. They were close. No lover or friend able to wedge themselves between their codependent partnership. If the wasteland taught anything, it was that if you found someone you trusted you held onto them. And they held each other. 

Fahrenheit, who was practicing her reading on a comic book Hancock had given her, notices the entrance of that new chem guy. In his arms was a book that looked above her reading level. Not wanting to talk to him herself, she bops her knee up, violently bringing the Mayor into the waking world. 

“Got company.” She says. 

“Damn…” he grumbles, his voice harsher than usual. Hancock sits up on the couch, rubbing away the sleepiness in his eyes. When he opens them, Vincent comes into focus. 

“Oh, heya brother, whatcha need?” Hancock asks through a smile. Despite the tiredness, he seemed pleased to see the man. He gestures to the empty couch across from them, suggesting that Vincent take a seat. If he had been interrupting, Hancock didn't mind it. 

He stretches out his back, and leans close to Fahrenheit to see the comic in hand. Then takes a look at the much heavier book it Vincent's. 

“What…ya started a book club or somethin without tellin me?” He feigns offense.