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yaoihancock · 19 days ago

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Masked Soul Unmasked (pt 2)

Request: How would the companions react to a Sole that kept their face covered, and when the companions ask to see their face, they realise just how attractive they are? (small lore dump of my Sole, if I may? I do this with him 🥲 his face is covered so people don't see his scars... not that it matters really, because he's blind :') (loved the character creator for the scars<3))

Part One

Word Count: ~5.2k

CW: Blood, wounds, pining, etc

The Scenario (Hancock, Haylen, Mac):

It’s a close fight at first– raiders having come out of nowhere in an ambush that nearly knocked both Sole and their companion off their feet. They weren’t known for nothing, though, and it was a quick comeback that had them picking off raiders from the outskirts of their gang. Sole is all strong lines in their stance and a practiced confidence that came from years of fighting the Commonwealth’s worst offerings. Their companion is able to jump into combat alongside them with an instinct born from fighting alongside Sole until their actions were as familiar as their own.

The pushback is a success until one lucky fucker gets a hit off on Sole. The raider drops to the ground immediately after, Sole’s companion firing off a shot that’s purely mindless reaction, but so does Sole. The hard shell protective helmet that their companion has never seen them without– no matter the injury, no matter the time of day, no matter the circumstance –ricocheting off of them. It must’ve been a fault in the armor or the pure force of the bullet, but it hits the ground before Sole even does, hunched in on themself with a hand over their temple.

Their companion sees a shock of hair first, something they’d only glimpsed at before when Sole had adjusted their helmet to wipe away sweat or grime from their face and it’d tumbled loose. Sole’s cowering away from them, a sight new to their eyes, head bowed fixedly toward the ground below them. Their companion rushes forward, but stops just short of them— unsure of the correct path forward. It’s obvious Sole’s injured, blood coating parts of their hand that touched whatever wound they’ve gained, but their helmets laying useless beside them, now firmly out of commission.

Hancock:

Hancock was never the one watching Sole get hurt– it was always the reverse. The ghoul had been knocked on his ass more times than he could count; stabbed, beaten, shot, you name it. But Sole was just good at what they did. He just didn’t have to worry about them. Until he did the moment he saw them drop and thought it was all over. The gravel of his voice was particularly harsh as he shouted, “Sole!”

“Alright– ‘m alright. It’s fine.” Sole’s voice was somewhere between groggy and distressed–not promising.

“Like hell you are. C’mon, sunshine, lemme see how bad it is.”

Sole shook their head, pivoting further away from him as they tried to brush the blood gathering on their brow bone away. The sticky warmth clung to their fingertips and proved the efforts futile. Distantly, they wondered how long and just how much of a pain in the ass it was going to be to get cleaned up. They brushed upwards with the back of their hand and pushed themself, insistent on the idea of trying to get to their feet. “Sole, you’re gonna hurt yourself even more. Let me help you.” This was foreign territory for him, this pervasive sense of worry over them.

The image of them pushing him away was cruel at best. Again, this was always something he was on the other side of. It was always Hancock telling them nothing was the matter when the earth was shattering and his body was failing him, giving them one of his easy grins and the flirtiest eyes he could manage. It was Sole that pushed after him and tried to unwind his network of lies that kept him protected, took the smokes from his hands and demanded his undivided attention to pull out the threads of truth from wherever he was hiding them.

But as much as Sole tried to last, just the way he did, they couldn’t manage for long. Their crumpled form folded forward to rest the side of their skull against the dirt, breath coming out in sharp pants. “Sole. Sweetheart. Let’s be reasonable about this.” Now he never thought those words would ever come out of his mouth.

Sole groaned and pushed away from the ground; it very obviously took considerable effort from them as they turned, hands slipping through the loose, powdery ground. When he placed a hand on their shoulder they crumpled toward him, their willingness to give up the gig more out of an instinctive desire to be reassured than a genuine, conscious resignation to their state. He slid his hand down their shoulder blade and hooked it under their armpit. “We gotta move, Sole, c’mon. I gotcha. Always do.”

Maybe he’d regret the vulnerability in his words later, when the urgency of their situation had dissipated–because it would dissipate, there was no world in which he would lose Sole after how long they’d spent with each other–but that was a problem for far later, when the reality of their situation wasn’t pressing anxiety into his ribs and preventing him from inhaling properly. The weight they were leaning against him was far more than they'd ever allowed him before, forever stubbornly in denial of the severity of their injuries until now, it seemed. “Can’t really see John, gonna need your help gettin’ anywhere.” They muttered.

“Shit, okay. Don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

He hauled them toward the nearest shelter he could find to properly take a look at them, an old ramshackled building that had collapsed and been patched by scavs that had long passed on from the shoddy shelter. Of all of the available surfaces, the most steady seemed to be the remnants of some old, pre-war cabinets that had somehow withstood the immediate and ongoing aftermath of nuclear war. “Gonna be a bit of a hop, but you can do it. C’mon, sunshine, up y’go.”

Hancock gave them enough of a boost to leverage them onto the surface of the counter. They continued slouching forward to hide their appearance, the instinct to protect themself still prominent in their mind even as it was clouded with the pain and disorientation of the trauma of that bullet ricocheting around in their helmet. Hancock spoke again, voice low and warm in a fondness that he only reserved for Sole that they never spoke about. “Alright, lemme see. We’ll get you right as rain before you know it.”

He knew what he was asking for them, that the level of trust he was asking was unbearable, only made worse by the fact that they didn’t really have a choice. And they knew it judging by the way they’d asked him to help them to another, more private location, and hadn’t continued to push him away afterward. Sole knew what was coming and so did Hancock and he couldn’t be sure if he would ever be worthy of it. He swallowed. “Got some stuff that’ll help fix you right up.” He knew he was talking too much, filling the silence, but it was a nasty habit of his he’d never learned to kick. “Got a small suture kit and a stimpack to jumpstart that healin’.”

Sole nodded, but they still didn’t lift their head. Hancock wasn’t going to push, even as the blood dripped from their forehead into their lap. This was something they’d have to navigate in their own time. They reached up carefully, fingertips skimming the edge of the wound to try to flick the blood away from the rest of their face. They sighed. “Really, uh… didn’t wanna do it this way.” They muttered, the laughing undercurrent in their tone wry at best.

“Do what, Sole?”

“Just… y’know, I was always gonna take the helmet off some day. And I trust you, y’know that. But it’s just somethin’ I’ve done for so long, I–” Sole shook their head. “Guess it’s just comfort in the familiar. Don’t really have the choice to accept the unknown right now.”

“Aw, c’mon Sole. I’ll forgive you if you’re ugly.”

Hancock thanked the world every day that he was able to weaponize his humor for the better in any situation, because the laugh that came out of Sole was the purest form of relief for him. Unfiltered by the mask they always wore, clear like bells over churches in the night sky. When they lifted their head to look at him, really look at him in a way that wasn’t filtered through by the obscuration of their vision, he knew he’d never stop repeating that moment in his mind. The silence that followed their laughter was overwhelming for the both of them. Sole waited, foggy but patient, for him to say literally anything. “Well. No, uh, forgiveness required. All clear on that front.” He was too busy trying to commit their face to memory to form words properly.

Sole huffed a breathless laugh. “High praise, comin’ from you. Means a lot.”

“Anytime. If you need me I’ll be going to kick that helmet into the glowing sea.”

This turned their laugh heartier as they rolled their eyes. “Need’y to patch me up b’fore you take off anywhere. Gettin’ a little dizzy here.”

“Sunshine, don’t you even worry about blood loss. You could flash that pretty smile to anyone and you’d have a crowd lined up around the block waiting to give you blood.”

“Awh, c’mon, Hancock. ‘d never let anyone near these veins but you.”

Something about that struck Hancock a lot harder than he was sure it was meant to. There was a quiet possessiveness that stirred in him both at their joke and the fact that he knew for a fact that he was the only person who’d seen Sole’s face since they crawled out of that icebox and wound up fighting to change the wasteland. Maybe letting their comment hang in the air was just perpetuating the tension, but he didn’t mind. Wanted them to think on it, maybe reconsider the playful flirting when they were trying not to bleed out and somehow still looking like the most awe-striking thing since the bombs dropped.

They both let the silence permeate as Hancock numbed them and began the stitches; they weren’t the neatest, not something he really had to worry about for himself considering radiation was his cure-all, but he really did try to keep it as clean as possible for their sake. Sole’s eyelids were heavy as he finished up and injected them with a stimpack, which barely made them flinch. They groaned when he began to clean their face. It was soft, careful in a way that mirrored the way Sole had often cleaned grime off his own face at the end of a day that left him incapacitated and sprawled out on one of the couches in his office.

Hancock had removed most of the blood from their face and was working at a particularly stubborn spot that had begun to dry when they reached up, shaky, and wrapped their fingers around his wrist, holding his hand to their face. “Tired.” Was all they managed to get out.

“Got your ass kicked out there. Not really surprised. C’mere.”

Hancock stepped to the side to set up one of the bedrolls they carried before he returned to Sole’s side. They leaned their weight forward into his hold and let him ease them off the counter before he guided them to the bedroll to rest and let the stimpack do its job. The vulnerability of them choosing to rest, whether or not they slept or just laid with their eyes closed, with their face uncovered in his presence choked the breath out of him. He resisted the urge to dance his fingertips over the skin of their cheekbone, and instead brushed the hair lightly against their face before returning his hand to his side. If they chose to return to covering their face again, so be it, but they’d just unlocked a world of longing for him that he never knew possible.

Haylen:

Haylen may have been a field scribe primarily, but Brotherhood medical training had been drilled into her until she could recite practices in her sleep. The instinct nearly left her when she saw Sole hit the ground, choked out of her genes by panic. Instead, she forced the terror down and crossed the distance between them before Sole could even realize what had just happened to them. Sole was forcing a palm over their wound to stem the bleeding when she approached, hesitant but determined. “Hey, Sole. I know you’re not gonna like it, but I’ve gotta check it out.”

“No can do, Haylen. You know how I am.” The way they tried to brush her off was lighthearted, but the undertone was as firm as they could manage with the disorientation of a near-miss.

“Don’t think you’re going to win this one. Could kill you if you keep trying.”

“You or the wound?” Sole laughed at their own poor attempt of a joke, still trying to find a way to stop the blood.

“Either. Pick your poison.”

“Oh, Haylen. You know it’s always you.”

The heat that rushed to the tips of her ears frustrated her in a way that only Sole could. They had that habit, getting under her skin. “Shut up and let me see the damage before I actually do kill you.”

Sole’s posture stiffened the moment they heard her step closer. She tried a quieter approach, like maybe it would quell both of their panic. “Sole. Let’s be realistic here. If I don’t address it and you somehow get back to the Prydwen without passing out from whatever combination of injuries you’ve got going on right now they’re gonna send you directly to one of our doctors. And they don’t care much for maintaining privacy if they’re afraid they’re gonna lose one of their best soldiers.”

The thick silence as Sole processed what she was saying clued her in that she was winning that game of tug-of-war. “Let me help you, please. Couldn’t bear to sit around and watch you struggle.”

“Isn’t it obvious that I’ve got a real handle on everything right now?”

Haylen tried not to snort. “Totally. Real clear. ‘Bout as clear as the glass on the Prydwen after a radstorm.”

“Feels pretty similar to whatever the hell my eyes are doing, then.” They muttered.

Haylen stepped forward again, willing to test their luck now that there was a sense of feeling lost seeping into Sole’s tone. “We can get you fixed right up in no time.” Her voice was warm, a reprieve from the red-tint to their vision and the ringing headache rattling their brain.

Sole reached up to the hand she offered, grimacing at the fact that there was blood on their hand. They apologized under their breath, something Haylen didn’t even bother to acknowledge; it wouldn’t be the first time another soldier had bled on her and it surely wouldn’t be the last. It simply happened in the field, usually under much worse circumstances. Because even though the bullet whizzing near Sole had scared her half to death, the fact that they weren’t dead from a bullet to the head was enough to reassure her into keeping her sanity intact. The weight of them was reassuring as she guided them to safety, their arm over her shoulders, her own clutching the strap that held their longer weapons over their back for convenience. “We’ll get you fixed up in no time and then we can be on the move again. How’s sleeping in your own bed sound, hm?”

Sole laughed. “Love the encouragement, but we both know we’re not getting back to that damn ship tonight.”

“Not with that attitude we’re not. Keep your head in it. We’re not done yet.”

Sole gave her the sharpest nod they could, a playful gesture in reference to the way they responded to Danse’s orders when he was around. Haylen recognized it and groaned. The joking formality they gave her on occasion was notoriously poorly-received by her, which gave Sole all the more reason to do it. The few times she pushed back with more than a roll of her eyes or lighthearted groan it was, “I’m not even a higher rank than you, Sole. We’re the exact same.” to which Sole would respond with a shit-eating grin and a, “Awh, but I just look up to you so much. Can’t help it.”

The banter was something that kept her grounded as she tried not to acknowledge just how much blood was coating their skin. It was hard to see past the hair that covered their face, and out of respect she didn’t try looking all that hard. She knew that head wounds bled a lot–it was one of the first things the Brotherhood taught in their medic classes to avoid panic at the sight– but there was no world in which she could just shrug off Sole being covered in blood. She was sure it would haunt her.

Easing them to sit on a long-abandoned tire was a feat in itself in the way they were struggling to manage their own balance, relying on her steadiness to lower themself to sit. Sole tilted their head back and away, obscuring their injury from view as they tried to redirect the blood flow. The effort was futile, however, and they quickly realized exactly how the cards were falling. “God. Alright. Might have to bite the bullet, but you gotta promise not to let this spread around the Brotherhood.” Sole breathed out.

Haylen crossed her arms. “You do realize who you’re talking to, right?”

They laughed quietly. “Yeah, yeah. Well aware, otherwise I wouldn’t be conceding. It’s just… a lot for me.”

“I know.” Her tone was immediately gentler in a way that ate at them. “I’m sorry you haven’t been left with much of a choice.”

Sole shrugged halfheartedly, trying not to move too much lest it make them dizzier. “Mm. Was probably always gonna turn out this way. Y’know me, can’t stay away from a good fight.”

Haylen groaned in lighthearted annoyance, desperate to pull some of the tension out of the air. “Trust me, I’m well aware.” then “Alright, Sole. Let’s get you figured out so we can get back to base sooner rather than later.”

The mock salute they gave was decidedly ignored the moment they looked up and Haylen caught a good look at their face. Maybe the wasteland was desperate times and therefore she wasn’t capable of the best judgement, but God above it shouldn’t have been possible to look that good covered in blood. Their own, nonetheless. It was as if she had conjured them from her own imagination, those eyes with a spark of all-knowing and the slant of their cheekbone creased from the weary smile of reassurance they gave. She had only caught glimpses before–they often ate back-to-back in the privacy of their quarters and on occasion Sole would forget themself, pulling their helmet-mask situation back on just as they turned back towards her–and it certainly seemed to be for the best. Putting features to the name and personality was going to send her into shock. “Ready to add to this ever-growing collection of scars?” They asked. Their intention was to come across as confident as ever, but a slight lilt to their voice gave them away.

Haylen paused, still taking them in. It was harder, with this confrontation of their visage, to mask the weak spot in her armor that she held for them. “I’ll take care of it, Sole.” was all she could muster, and with the way the creases under their eyes softened, it felt like the right words after all.

Sole resisted the urge to throw out quips as she got to work, agreeably tilting their head back into the light so she could do what she needed. It was awful and unfamiliar, the vulnerability that came with her cupping the back of their head to hold them still. It was a privilege they never wanted to give up, but would die the moment she stopped her work and they found another way to obscure their identity. The familiarity of hiding from the world was a habit they weren’t sure they could kick, even if the temptation of metaphorically meeting Haylen on her level of exposure was overwhelming them at that moment. The skin of her hand skimming their face was a gentleness so painfully foreign to them, something they wanted to beg to bask in. Even the sharp tug of the stitches, hardly numbed by whatever Brotherhood-issued meds had been in her pack and swiftly given to them, barely influenced the contentment they were fighting.

When she finally finished, hesitant to interrupt the silence that had fallen between them as she took care of them, it was with a no-nonsense snip of the thread and a firm nod, not unlike the one Sole had given her earlier. “Should hold, but you might wanna get a Brotherhood doctor to take a look at it when we get back.” She advised.

“Not happening. You and some Brotherhood doctor are two entirely different situations. I can keep it clean if you don’t mind taking out the stitches in a few weeks.”

There was a flood of warm satisfaction at her at the prospect. Not just the acknowledgement that on some level she was held above the Brotherhood doctors in their eyes– and yes, she knew that, considering how much they worked together– but also the idea that they were willing to reveal their face again for her to check and take care of the wound. ”Yeah, I can do that.”

They reached up and gave a warm squeeze to her arm, still overwhelming her with that blinding smile. “Thanks, Hay’. Knew I could count on you.”

MacCready:

It was pure, overwhelming panic that choked him at the sight of them hitting the ground. All those moments they had reassured each other that they’d never die a gruesome death, never leave the other to die brutally, and he’d never once considered the fact that watching them drop in any circumstance would put a fear in him so visceral it felt like he was witnessing the end of the world. Their name ripped its way out of his throat before he could even feel himself reacting. “Sole!” He cried, charging forward, forgetting himself–and frankly, the state they were in, mask abandoned.

He was pushing their hair back, trying to get a good look at their face, unable to register that that was their face just in front of him for the first time. The haze in Sole’s eyes was tangible, some side effect of the way they’d been shot. MacCready used the end of his sleeve to wipe at the blood pooling and trickling down their face, a wound bleeding so greatly he couldn’t imagine that there wasn’t some sort of damage he wasn’t seeing, something that would have them six feet under before he could even think to do something about it. He was so focused on clearing the space around the gash it had created in their forehead to get a better picture that he didn’t feel Sole tugging at his arm, pulling away.

It was only when their hands came up to grip his shoulders, firm despite the adrenaline and pain in their veins, that he stopped and looked at them. Really looked at them.

And oh shit.

Despite the fact that it was so blatantly too late to do anything, MacCready looked away. “F–crap, sorry. I don’t– I don’t know why I panicked. Jesus. I thought you just–” He was shaking his head, like doing so would wipe away both the images of them dropping and their face from his memory.

“It’s alright, Mac. I’m okay. Everything’s fine. Just–” Sole reached up and touched their hand to the wounded area, a hiss leaving their mouth. “A real lucky shot that could’ve been a lot worse.”

“You, uh. Your helmet.”

They snorted. “Yeah, I noticed that. Bit late now, I think.”

“Sorry.”

They laughed, even as a myriad of feelings about the situation–distress, confusion, panic, relief–crawled up the back of their neck and settled on their shoulders. “‘s alright. Glad to know you worry.”

MacCready barked out a dry laugh at that, shaking his head as he kept his eyes to the ground. “Thought you were a goner, for sure. I didn’t even think past that.”

“Color me surprised. I really thought you had your head on your shoulders, kept so calm and collected.”

MacCready gave a half-hearted punch to their shoulder, face lit up red with the shame and embarrassment of the way he had reacted. Not from the concern that Sole had definitely warranted, but the way he had so blatantly and unintentionally invaded their privacy. If he was honest, with the way the adrenaline and fear overwhelmed him, he couldn’t even really remember their features. Just all that blood and the way they’d looked at him–which he now realized was their own realization of what was occurring as he fought to make sure they were okay. “If it helps I think I just blacked out a little.” He exhaled.

Sole laughed. “Me too.”

It was a ridiculous sight, one that you would only catch in the Wasteland, of the pair of them in the dirt, laughing, weary and now both covered in Sole’s blood. Sole bumped their shoulder against his, sighing once they finally got themselves together. “Gotta get somewhere better than this. Need to stop the bleeding, but I’m not eager to attempt another fight in this state.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Without further discussion, MacCready rose to his feet, bringing them up with him. They stumbled a bit, bumping into him as they fought for their balance. MacCready took on their weight readily, just glad that he could still do so– that they were around to lean against him, that the burden of their weight was something he could still take on without it being dead-weight. Once they were steady on their own he merely hovered his hands around their frame. Just in case. The idea of separating from them after what he witnessed was sickening; the reassurance of sticking close to them was for each of them, not just Sole.

Sole’s progress toward the nearest shelter–an old shed that had long ago crossed the line into dilapidated–was slow, but it was steady. They grunted in discomfort as blood dripped into their eyes, an annoyance they couldn’t deal with with their arms clinging to MacCready as he guided them forward. “Almost there, Sole.” He reassured, kicking the door open and cringing at the cloud of dirt and dust that beckoned them in.

There wasn’t much in the way of adequate seating, so the ground would have to do. He pushed the door shut behind them, begging the light from the cracks in the walls to be enough to figure out whatever was causing them to bleed so much. When he finally let them go, resting on the withered floorboards, he was quick to lower himself to crouch next to them, still not looking at their face. “Alright?” He asked.

“Best as I can be.” They worked up enough saliva to spit out the blood that had streamed into their mouth. “Probably gonna need stitches.”

MacCready let their words hang in the air for a moment. “Don’t think I have a mirror.”

“I know.”

Ah. That was permission, something he hadn’t had the chance to ask for before, but given freely nonetheless. MacCready nodded slowly, busying himself with digging into his pack to figure out what supplies they had. He knew they were long overdue to re-up their supplies, something easily dismissable when the pair stuck to stealth most of the time and hardly got injured. He shook his head at their own carelessness. “Gotta make sure we stock up when we finally get out of here.” He muttered.

“Yeah, one thing at a time, Mac.”

He snorted, appreciating the pushback as reassurance that they were still fully conscious. “Not sure we have anything to numb you. I’m sorry.”

Sole groaned. “My own fault for not thinking about it. This is gonna fuckin’ suck.”

MacCready couldn’t really argue with that, but he could make his stitch-work quick. “Ready?” He asked, spreading out what he’d collected from the bag.

“As I’ll ever be.” Sole gritted out.

When MacCready turned to look at them he knew he would never forget their face again. The fire in their eyes was just as bright as the way it shone through in their personality, a direct translation of their mannerisms that he had gotten to know so well straight into their appearance. Their eyebrows were creased in pain, but even through the stinging pain of the bullet-graze on their forehead, their gaze was unwavering on his. He was stunned once again. Slowly, the corners of their mouth lifted– he would not be staring at their mouth, he was better than that–and they let out a breathy laugh. “Gotta focus if you’re gonna be putting a needle in my face.”

“Yeah. Of course.” MacCready shook his head and began to ready the needle.

Like he had figured, it was quick work. While he tried not to make it a habit, he wasn’t a total stranger to the methodology– there was a deep scar on his thigh from a fight that left him in an alley outside of Diamond City digging a bullet out of his thigh and sewing himself up. It was more distracting every time Sole winced in pain than when he had to stop his own leg twitching in response to the sutures. When he finished and began packing up the supplies, he handed Sole a rag to began mopping up their face. “Be careful.” He murmured, averting his gaze.

It no longer felt his place to be looking at their face now that the necessary task had been completed. Invasive, even, especially considering the first time he had looked at them, whether he remembered it clearly or not. Sole allowed him to spiral into his thoughts for only a moment as he worked on cleaning things up and they held the rag to the wound, pressure to stop the persistent blood-flow. “Mac.” They said, quiet.

“Hm?” He didn’t look up, focused on getting their stuff together as quickly as possible. He wanted to get Sole somewhere safe so they could get busy healing.

“Mac.”

The urgency in their tone was what made him raise his head and meet their eyes again. Their returning gaze was searching, trying to use eye contact to dig into whatever was going on in his mind. “We’re alright. Everything’s alright.” They said simply, earnest in their sincerity.

MacCready looked over their face one last time, slightly blood stained but soft and genuine regardless. “Alright.” He agreed, unaware of the smile that was spreading across his face.

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