Title:Midnight Rendezvous

Rating:M

Summary:The sole survivor is staying the night at the Rexford. Hancock takes the opportunity to bring up something that's bothering him.

A/N:Thanks for reading. Review please.

Midnight Rendezvous

She never thought to find a home in Goodneighbor—a pile of collapsed buildings filled with twitching junkies and tired drifters. Like most places in the Commonwealth, it's dangerous. When she leaves Hancock's company at night, she keeps her hand on the knife at her waist, fingers always twitching toward a gun. She can't trust these people, can't afford to, like he does. The Hotel is the only place she's comfortable sleeping, but she steps over reeking bodies and tattered mattresses, empty Jet inhalers and broken syringes, just to get there.

But the Hotel has hot water, and she has the caps to splurge. She buys an old bottle of whiskey with a faded label that smells sharp and seductive and waves at the old man peddling drugs in the lobby. She trudges upstairs, throws her heavy, tattered backpack onto the floor of the suite and drinks straight from the bottle, ignoring the burn even as her eyes water. She swallows huge mouthfuls, forcing herself onward, afraid to stop and feel that sharp, bitter taste and afraid to keep going because a part of her knows this isn't a healthy way to cope. Eventually, she's forced to gasp for breath and stops, coughing violently, her throat scalded; she's nearly crying.

She never used to drink like this, but there are no chasers in the wasteland; fruity mixers cost caps, and the taste of mutfruit reminds her of batteries. She has no time to play around, craves the buzz in her limbs to help her fall asleep, to fight off the nightmares of diving bloodbugs and vicious, burned dogs.

She puts the whiskey aside on a collapsing end table and fumbles with the buckles of her armor; it's no more than rusted bits of metal strapped to her chest, some synthetic plating on her legs. There are bullet holes in her arm plates, and all of it stinks of rust. She shoves it in the corner by her bag and begins to shrug out of her dirty army fatigues, watching herself in the mirror. There are bruises on her shoulders, dark purple and bright yellow, cuts and scrapes all over her hands. She pulls off her necklace, sets it carefully on the armoire.

There's hot water in the tub waiting for her, curls of steam drifting up toward the rotten cieling. She sinks into the warm porcelain basin with a soft moan of pleasure, seeing the dark bruises on her legs. She took a bullet to her left calf a few months ago, and the scar is finally turning a puffy pink. She runs a hand through her hair, feeling the half of her scalp that's shaved and smiling to herself. Nate would never have approved; he'd have said she looked like a lesbian. She doesn't mind. Out here, where she can trust no one, she has found herself looking at Cait with an appreciative eye a few times. Piper, too. But she knows it stems from loneliness, not real interest, and she doesn't know if she's ready for a relationship in this brave new world.

She scrubs hard at herself until the water becomes tepid. Her skin turns red from her efforts, but she feels clean and properly drunk by the time she's ready to get out. Her limbs are heavy, and she finds herself laughing a little at how difficult it is to get out of the slippery tub. Eventually she emerges dripping wet, her soaked bare feet leaving imprints on the scarred wooden floor as she slips into a soft cotton shirt.

The fabric clings to her slick, round breasts, her thin taut waist. She shimmies into a pair of boxer shorts she found in a factory near Diamond City and nearly falls onto the bed. There's a spring digging into her back, but she doesn't care; it's not a hard floor in a burned ruin of a house or out in the Commonwealth by a fire, fearing raiders and super mutants, waking up every few minutes to make sure there is no danger.

She knows the dangers in this place are no less real, but with a brick wall to her back and only one door, she feels a bit better. The world is spinning, and she feels a powerful drowsiness pulling her down. Just as she's about to drift off to sleep, a knock on her door startles her away; she sits up on her elbows, wary even while intoxicated, and eyes her bag in the corner.

The knock comes again while she waits.

"Who's there?" she asks, hopes it isn't slurred.

"Your favorite resident ghoul," comes Hancock's deep, throaty drawl from the other side of the door. "I got a present for you."

For a moment, she wants to roll over and tell him to go away. She doesn't get a lot of time to herself, and she is on the verge of falling asleep, the alcohol heavy in her blood. Instead, she sighs and climbs off the bed to open the door.

He stands with a slight smile on his scarred mouth, eyes hooded and temptingly dark. His coat is a stark red in the dimly lit hallway, and she can hear crickets singing outside. There's an enticing allure to Hancock that she just can't put her finger on, an air of tumultuous danger surrounding him, a sharp glint in his dark eyes.

He slinks in the shadows like he belongs there (and he probably does), no fear even in the littered backstreets or alleys where the drifters are always waiting with rusted knives and shaking hands. He has an easy confidence, a whirlwind mind, which is both soothing and terrifying; it's the kind that would allow him to amiably welcome a filthy stranger stumbling through the front gate and shank a member of his community in less than two minutes.

Hancock puts a hand on top of his hat and gives a slight bow, "I didn't know you were busy," he says, gesturing to her clothes, and she catches the sweet scent of a burning cigar.

She rolls her eyes at him and steps aside. "I'm always busy," she tells him, "but I was about to go to bed."

"Had a little bit to drink?" he laughs warmly as he enters, and the rumble of it sends a thrill through her.

"Just a bit," she admits, shutting the door and fitting her back against the cool surface of it.

He lifts a cooler in his hand that she hadn't noticed. There's a rattle.

"Brought you something to eat," he says. "Nuka Cola and radstag jerky. Some mutfruit. Tomatoes. Cheese."

"Whose good side are you trying to get on?" she mumbles at him.

He laughs again, that sound. She swallows.

"Yours, of course."

Without asking, he sits at the small table in the corner and begins setting out the food. He beckons to her.

She sits, realizing that she's famished.

"Are you taking off tomorrow?" he asks.

"I'm going to Diamond City," she replies, relishing a bit in the disapproval that turns down his mouth. "Valentine and I will be going into the Glowing Sea soon."

He's quiet for a moment, piles her plate with most of the food and deftly twists the cap off the soda. "Taking Valentine, eh?" he says mostly to himself.

"A synth can't be hurt by radiation."

"Neither can a ghoul," he raises a beer at her then takes a sip.

Ignoring him, she takes a ravenous bite of the jerky and cheese. None of it tastes like it did before the war; even fresh meat tastes old to her. She's growing used to it, day by day, but she wonders why everything has diminished with time.

The tomato leaks juices all over her hand, and the acidic tang makes her mouth water. Hancock watches her with glittering eyes, his face expressionless.

"Thanks," she says after she's done, feeling a bit more sober and less empty.

He offers her the beer, but she turns it down. She didn't like beer even before the war. Besides, she feels as though she's the right area of drunk and doesn't need to tip in any one direction.

"Thought you might be hungry," he says cryptically.

She sighs, "What are you after, Hancock?"

"You wound me," he places a hand over his heart, "but now that you mention it. I thought you would pick me to wander the wastes with. I'm a better shot than Detective Synth is any day."

"He's a detective," she replies. "He's good at finding things. Which is what I'm trying to do. This isn't because I like him better than you."

He shrugs, his eyes lingering on her breasts, "Just wondering where those loyalties lie."

"With my son."

There's something dangerous in his voice as he asks, "And nowhere else?"

"What are you expecting?" she demands, weary. "A love confession? Marriage? What?"

He chuckles darkly and leans back in his chair, lighting a cigarette. The smell is sharp and irritating. "Just a little more consideration, I guess. But hey, I might've thought this was more than it was. No hard feelings."

"This is tactical," she growls. "Nick knows more. He's been with me since the beginning. And to be honest, I don't need you to distract me while I'm out there. This is dangerous. I could die. I could lose my son."

"Yeah," he hisses, "and I could lose you. But you didn't think about that, did you? Didn't think that ole Hancock might not trust a rusty synth with half his face blown off to watch his girl in the Glowing Sea—arguably the most dangerous place in the Commonwealth?"

She's touched and sits back in her chair, momentarily quieted. No part of her thought she meant that much to him. Playing around is one thing, affection is quite another.

"Hancock…" she pauses, unsure what to say.

He touches her hand on the table, and he's so warm it startles her. The rough texture of his radiation scars is still so strange but not unwelcome anymore; she's grown used to it, to him. The contrast between their skin is stark, and she closes her eyes as if in pain. To lose this—her only physical contact in this disintegrated world—would hurt too much.

"Come on," he rasps, something thick in his voice. "Don't leave me behind for this."

He kisses her, hard and demanding and full of something else, something new, and she trembles. The alcohol makes her lightheaded, and for some reason, she's unsure as she gently touches his face. He smells a little of gunpowder, of blood and danger but also home.

When he pulls away gently, she looks down at her hands, at the white stripe where her wedding ring used to be. He won't let her dwell, gathers her into his arms and rests his chin on her shoulder with a sigh.

"I'm sorry," she whispers after a moment, because she isn't sure what to say and feels it's appropriate.

"No, don't be," he replies, and she feels the reverberation in her chest.

She crashes their mouths together, wanting him, knowing that they communicate better this way, and his fingers tangle in her auburn hair, snapping the frail band keeping it in a messy bun. Through her thin clothes, she can feel the daring heat of him, and he presses close, shoves her against the wall in an instant, tongue delving between her lips.

She closes her eyes, lashes fluttering against her cheeks, and feels rather than hears the groan against her mouth. Nothing about him is soft or forgiving—he is all hard muscle, sharp bones, sinew and scars, and his metal gun clatters to the ground as she pulls it from the leather holster. He pushes underneath her shirt, runs his hands over her tender, bruised ribs, her warm round breasts. She groans, kisses harder, feels out of breath and dizzy enough to fall down. The whiskey thrums in her veins, the pleasant haze coming back heady and intoxicating.

Hancock slides his hand down the back of her thigh, lifting her up to hook around his hip. She twists her fingers in the old flag tied about his waist, feels the soft fabric, so fragile, as the knot is undone and falls to the ground. He kisses down her neck, bites gently at her collarbone, hot tongue trailing after, breath puffing against her skin like a caress.

And he's more caring, more gentle than she thought he would be at first, always has been. The way he brushes his callused palms down her ribcage is reverent but reserved, mindful of the bruises left by her travels. There's a slight smile pulling on his lips, eyes blown wide with arousal, but he's sweet, respectful. He treats her like a lady, and it makes her ache in all the right places.

Their hips collide, his desire insistent between her slick thighs, and she gasps in delight, pulling him to her throat, knocking his relic of a hat to the dusty floor. Her shorts bunch around her milky thighs as he drives her into the wall a few times, teasing, and it makes her burn, an ache in her belly.

"Take me to the bed," she whispers in his ear, swept up, and he smiles, showing teeth.

They tumble onto the mattress, springs shrieking, and his hardness thrusts against her thigh. She pushes him over onto his back and slips off her shirt in one smooth motion, exposing her pert breasts and slender waist, dog tags resting on her breastbone. Her silky brown hair tumbles down her back and shoulders in luxurious waves, clean and sweet-smelling. With her cheeks flushed, lovely pink nipples hard from arousal, and her breath coming in pants already, she knows she's tempting, watches him devour her greedily with his onyx eyes.

He grabs her hips, thrusts up against her, and she moans, lips parting enticingly. The combined rush from the whiskey and his ministrations makes her light-headed and sensitive. She climbs off his lap and lets her shorts fall to the ground, pretty toes stepping out of the pile of cloth. She hears his growl, and he grabs her, forcing her down on the bed and beneath him. He's still wearing his red coat, prefers to stay dressed in times like these. She doesn't press him, locks their mouths together desperately and fumbles for the button on his trousers.

Then he's inside her, swollen and hard and driving toward her core, and she ties to breathe through the intensity. She digs her nails into the old coat, hanging on, feeling his ribs and smelling the salty sweat in his clothes. Each thrust sends her reeling, building an undeniable pleasure in the wetness between her legs. She's lost, gasping, and the end hits her hard as she cries out.

Hancock finishes inside her with sharp jerks of his hips, cradling her close against his chest and panting heavily. He whispers in her ear, but she can't hear him over the pounding of her own heart as he moves to lie beside her. She closes her eyes, feeling sated, tries her hardest to slow her breathing and feels the stickiness on her slim thighs.

"I do love you," she hears herself say, throwing her arms over her eyes so she can't see his reaction. But she's realized it's true, that through all of the bullshit she's had to put up with since awakening, Hancock has been her one and true friend. He's been her everything—strange and dangerous and scarred as he is.

"How could you not?" he chuckles easily, still a bit breathless, allaying her fears. "I know you do. Even if you don't."

She sits up, knees against her chest, and looks at him. "The Glowing Sea is a dangerous place, Hancock. Nick tells me there's all kinds of shit there—mutated things you don't see anywhere else."

He sighs and sits up, too. "The radiation is intense there. You're gonna need a suit and a hell of a lot of Rad-X if you don't want to end up looking like me."

"I'm ready," she says with determination. "I've been stocking up in Sanctuary."

He rests a hand on her bare back, "I can handle it, Sunshine."

"Maybe you can," she looks at him. "You really want to go this badly?"

He chuckles, a rumbling sound. "How badly? I want to watch your back. Want to meet your kid, too, if I get a chance. You've gotta learn to trust me more. Nick's about to fall apart. I can keep you safe."

"All right," she leans back onto the bed, his hand coming to rest on her flat stomach, pointy hip bones. "Let's go together, then."

He grins, pulls her close, "Let's get this freakshow on the road, then."

Thanks. Feel free to tell me what you think.