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Hancock’s hands are lithe. Thin, long fingers, large knuckle bones. Sole wonders what they were like pre-ghoulification; if that was a a side-effect of the transformation, all the flesh and bits of fat stripped away. Maybe he used to have thick fingers, broad hands—
“Sole? You with me?”
Sole jolts, and blinks. Hancock’s hands are palm out, subtly trying to rub the sides of his fingers together to jostle what is in his hands while keeping them relatively steady. There are four white, oblong pills nestled in his palm. One rolls, catches in a divot in Hancock’s flayed skin.
Sole takes his wrist and ignores the way Hancock’s bare brows rise in thinly-veiled surprise. In comparison to his own hands, calloused from the kick of a rifle and the swinging of a bat, Hancock’s bird-boned, delicate; and Sole knows that’s not true, that things aren’t always what they seem. His own fingers, tanned and thick and wide, are not half as steady, but he grips Hancock’s wrist hard enough to keep his own tremors away.
Easier to lean in. Easier to meet Hancock where he is, and the noise he makes, a sharp inhalation from his nasal cavity, is just a treat on top of the four pills he closes his lips around. They’re acrid on his tongue, swallowed dry before they can dissolve. He’s used to it by now, but that doesn’t mean he loves the taste. Not like the taste of Hancock’s skin— human, in a way, but with some of that tell-tale radiation prickle, salt and bitter. He laves his tongue up the ruined lines of his palm; the life line broken by the divot that pill had rolled into, and he thinks it smart to dip the tip of his tongue in, just in case there’s any residue. Just in case.
Hancock’s exhale turns into a throaty hum. Sole glances up from his wrist bone. Enraptured, his eyes are endlessly dark pools, watching the red flash of his tongue against pale, radiation-mark skin.
He keeps his lips to Hancock’s palm a moment longer, an open-mouthed kiss. Hancock doesn’t pull his hand away. Instead he curls his fingers, brushes the pads against the underside of Sole’s chin, the rough feel of stubble there. His lips catch on the rough texture of his hand; Sole leans back, takes that crooked finger of Hancock’s into his mouth. First one, sucking down to the knuckle, then pulls back and takes another between plush lips. Hancock doesn’t look away. He curls them to his palate, strokes his tongue as Sole sucks. Soft, wet noises fill the room, spit dripping down Hancock’s ruined knuckles.
There’s a string of saliva when Sole pulls off; a spider’s thread of gossamer from Hancock’s fingertips to Sole’s lips. And with one hand Hancock takes off his tricorne, his jacket, the button of his pants. The other hand, he saves for Sole.