Party Hard.

[robotdick]

[On occasions where someone's celebrating, like tonight with Ellie's birthday, Nick usually makes a show of it. He buys himself a drink, maybe even downs some of it, but it's never really been all that appealing. Now, though, it ought to be easier to deal with. He's got full plumbing, which is novel and, overall, more convenient for the task. He doesn't think much of it when he orders that first few fingers of scotch.

He'd been stunned when he had his first smoke after Faraday rebuilt him. Taste wasn't exactly something he was used to, and his new lungs were a little delicate when it came to breathing in smoke. He'd worn them in quick enough, to the scientist's chagrin, and the taste of tobacco had quickly become a favorite of his. When he takes that first mouthful of scotch down, right after the toast to Ellie, it takes just about everything in Nick not to immediately spit it out.

Nick swallows fast, before he can do anything but. He's not about to ruin Ellie's party by being categorically unable to hold his liquor, after all. But that shit hit hard; it felt like it stripped the color out of his silicon. The after taste was fine, maybe even better than, but the shock of that first drink rattled him. He nursed the one in hand after that but, thankfully, the sips that followed were easier to keep down.

By the end of the first, where he'd usually call it, Nick found himself wanting a second. It was a novelty and he was having fun. The Third Rail was jumping, the band was playing, Ellie was flirting with Farenheit, and everything seemed...like smooth jazz. Nick decided he was going to get another and, with unusual ease, he dropped onto the stool next to Hancock and ordered another three fingers.]

Comments

[chem_break]

[ Not even God herself could have convinced John Hancock that there would be a silver lining to the Shipbreaker Massacre. But after the initial return to The Commonwealth, the resurgence of something like normalcy, the biggest missing pieces of their Relationship relationship restored, it becomes easier and easier to slip into comfortable complacency. A dangerous state, a tempter of fate, but a guy can't be full cocked for his entire damn existence.

Sometimes you gotta let yourself enjoy the chill. Tonight is an excellent example.

It had been Hancock's idea to do The Third Rail up 'special-like', but Evaris had handled the details of the execution. Through the sheer magic of his scrapping and junk hoarding, the vaultie has managed to produce a pair of truly massive speakers, each at least double the height of the bar. There's also a projector throwing the image of a terminal screen on the bar's back wall-- currently it's decorative color bursts of green, like eight-bit fireworks. Spools and spools of colored lights spider-web across the ceiling, blinking in a variety of shifting shades.

It's a very peculiar pleasure for Hancock, getting to see Nick experience all these Born Again First Times. A second First kiss is one hell of a consolation prize for edging the Reaper, but the prizes just keep pouring in. Watching the synth struggle to keep his liquor down is such a treat. Lookit him, taking it like a fucking champ. Loyal to his habits, like a good man. Hancock is irreparably charmed. Over, and over, and over again.

Someone else might warn the guy to go easy on the booze. Some rushes you can chase until you run outta juice, while others will just fuckin' catch ya back. Hancock still might depart some boozehound's wisdom, but not just yet. Nick's having fun. And if the guy gets himself sick, he'll learn. That's his experience to have. And it's less of a miserable experience when you've got someone there with you, which he would, if choice and impulse did so happen to lead the synth there. ]

Someone's havin a good time [ The ghoul grins, absolutely inside his element. Is he talking about Nick? Ellie and Farenheit? Evaris sizing up to take a bite out of a fistful of Some Kind of Meat handed to him by Strong? (Sorry for the Supermutant at your party, Ellie. Friends of Friends.)

Hancock slides sideways and lets his shoulder bump against Nick's, giving him a rather wild grin. ]

This is goin off pretty damn well, if I do say so myself. I'd tell Var he did a good job if it wouldn't go straight to his... head. Guess I'm just sit here and soak up all the credit [ He shoots Nick's a playful look, coded clearly as audaciously, Your Welcome and You May Thank Me Now. ]

[robotdick]

It's certainly worthy of a couple accolades.

[Nick answers, easy as you please, while his second drink is poured for him. He's no stranger to drinking, overall, but having it do something is a definite change. A voice in the back of his head that sounds shockingly like himself, but disapproving, warns him that public intoxication is a bad look on an officer of the law.

But he's not in public right now.

That extremely sound logic established, Nick picks up his refilled drink, leans against the shoulder bumped right up to his, and grins.]

Might be worth it to declare a few civic holidays. Get some real use out of all of this. Have a singing contest or something.

[Nick takes a sip of his new drink--the smokey, wooden flavor is growing on him--and cocks a brow. He's drifting from thought to unconnected thought and finds himself curious. If anyone could answer his current question for him, it's Hancock, so Nick just pushes straight through to it without so much as a pause.]

This how the good stuff is meant to taste?

[Not to impugn the barman or the stock at the Third Rail, he just doesn't have a point of reference.]

[chem_break]

[ Realistically, getting drunk at a town-wide birthday bash probably has better optics than being in bed with the Mayor. Plus the logic of not being in public? Totally tracks; this is Hancock's bar, so it's more or less like he's at Hancock's house, right? Logistics, man. ]

Singin' Contest? [ The ghoul slants a toothless look of suspicion across the room to their carnivorous associate; it's an impulse he follows without thinking, suspicious the chaotic vault dweller might have prompted the suggestion in Nick. He looks away faster than he needs to, having forgotten, yet again, about the not so delicate scarring staining the man's burnt bronze throat.

Yeah, no. This is a Party. Hancock waves Charlie over, gestures for the bottle he'd poured for Nick. His knowledge about the different classes of liquors is spotty at best, by the barren nature of the wasteland. Factories weren't pumping out the good stuff, people were making booze in dirty bathtubs. The surly robot promptly returns the bottle to the Mayor, and Hancock squints at the label through the low, multi-colored lights. ]

Dunno, let's see here.... Laga-vu-lin? [ He's pretty well-read (comic books count!) but that's not a word he knows. The rest is a familiar language. ] Johnnie Walker, Blue Label? Gotta tell ya, most of my guys cook in their basements or bathrooms. Not like I enjoy admitting to bein' outclassed, but I'll give ya three guesses who brought in alotta the booze and chems. Guys'a hoarder, but damn if his Stash ain't packed.

[ Thank you Hancock, that's called OCD. But yes, scrapper be scrappin'. ]

[robotdick]

[The bottle looks decent, and the name rings a bell but, at the moment, Nick doesn't have the capacity to remember what was and was not quality scotch. Or, well, he does, he's just not willing to exert the effort when he could be chatting up Hancock instead. He does have the good grace to tip Charlie for the assistance, slapping down a few caps on habit as the robot passes by.]

Oh, I know. [Nick laments. Every trip he's ever taken with the vaultie could have been a five minute walk through the park if it werent for the kid's driving need to loot every. Single. Thing.]

I lost count of how many desk fans he's had me cart around. We found a singing horse toy once and he was over the moon. You'd think the thing was full of ammunition, the way he lit up.

Suppose if it results in all this, I ought to stop complaining at him about checking every single desk drawer and cardboard box.

[Nick is...not going to do that. He will continue complaining because, honestly, who needs that many bobble heads, rolls of duct tape, and teddy bears? It's absurd. He appreciates the decorations and the booze and the ammo, but there has to be an upper limit, right?

He shakes his head a little and tips back another mouthful of scotch. The burn is practically gone but, weirdly, he's started to miss the sensation. Taste is a very strange sense. He hasn't much bothered with exploring it, beyond cigarettes and drinks at this party, but now that's got his gears spinning. He glances sidelong at Hancock again and cocks a brow. His flirting is obvious, weighed down by fondness, but he tries to keep a straight face.

Doesn't succeed, but he certainly tries.]

So, what's a ghoul like you doing in a joint like this?

[chem_break]

Heh. [ Hancock specifically does not glance back to their shared associate, as if that might light a fire in the vaultie's ear. It certainly has nothing to do with the fact that Evaris has turned (laughing loud, single bullet-fang flashing gold) to affectionately slap his mutant-buddy's elbow, and his black leather eye-patch becomes visible.

Okay, let's stop thinking about the guy he almost ate. By uh... checking out all the goodies brought to the party by the guy he almost ate. God fucking damn it. ]

Lucky that's the only thing'a his you've had to haul around.

[ Hancock will have that bottle back now, thank you. That's his bottle, and-- hey, this stuff kicks like a brahmin. It's a strange pleasured grimace that twists his expression as he swallows the scotch and tastes fire, wood, and smoke. Jesus does that ever sting something lovely. ]

Don't tell anyone, but I'm an under-cover operative. Heard the Mayor'a this place is dirty. Can't blend in without partaking, ya see

[ Speaking of. There's a shopping basket at the end of the bar, filled up with what appears to be multi-colored plastic tubes. Inside of those tubes are some very particular goodies.

Though Hancock has stumbled across cannabis more than once, the wastelands ain't exactly flush with it. But he's not forgetting a certain conversation he had with a certain synth; he promised to lean into the softer stuff, so that he intends to do.

Granted, it's not like he doesn't know a guy with a farm. Several farms. Several farms, a powerful chem habit, and a labor force to employ. Yeah so thank you again Evaris, there's weed items, too. Old World Know How at it's finest. ]

Hows that drink treatin' ya, Slick?

[robotdick]

Like an old friend with a penchant for arson.

[Which was an answer that made absolutely no logical sense. It felt fun to say. As if to prove his point and underscore his clever repartee, Nick downed the remaining third of his glass and set it aside. He didn't have a specific limit, not that he knew of, it had never been a problem before. Still, without the bite, drinking the same thing seemed like a waste, so he slid the glass over to where his caps rested on the counter.

Nick drew a deep breath as he finished.]

I wasn't too keen on tasting and feeling this sort of thing, not at first. Seemed messy. [His brows go up and Nick nods thoughtfully.] Can see the appeal now, though.

[Then Nick asks a question that he should not, one he knows he should not, but he does it anyway because he loves the look on Hancock's face when he smiles.]

Got any reccommendations for new and inexperienced antiques?

[chem_break]

[ 'It Burns', is what Hancock gathers from that slightly round-about statement. He speaks fluent Drunk and High Nonsense, Nick is in good company there. ]

Yeah, should say on the label: some level'a organic masochism required. Gotta recalibrate your penchants a bit, huh? Not too much I hope... still love when ya taste like smoke

[ Flirting is comfortable and familiar, even with the new depths of affection he's found layered beneath. Nick makes it too easy, making such an offer, like he knows Hancock needs something to sink his teeth into (to avoid thinking about what he's sunk his teeth into). ]

Thing about tastin' and feelin'... sometimes the mess is part of the charm. And recommendations, I got.

[ He barely needed the excuse; Hancock snatches the shopping basket across the bar and draws it in front of him. A bit of curious pawing and he pulls out a tube, squinting at the cramped writing. Evaris had grown, cured, and rolled everything from baby's first weed to Who Am I-- the ghoul is familiar with the guy's proclivity to let ya bite off more than you can-- ]

Here. This one looks good [ the plastic tube pops open, accommodating. The thing doesn't look much different than a fat wrinkled cigarette that got left in the rain. Sure doesn't hit like that though. The thing ain't pretty to look at, but even as Hancock sets the paper tip between his lips, he tastes something... sweet?

Eh, spark it up. Just in case it punches him in the frontal lobe when it shouldn't, Hancock takes the first drag. Feels right, like a softer mentats trip with a different tempo. And the ghoul could hand over the joint, he will, but first...

That single finger curling, beckoning. He wants to breathe the sweet-and-sour smoke into Nick's shiny (not so) new lungs. ]

The cannibalism puns are slaying me A++

[robotdick]

[Nick watches, tipsy interest written on his face as Hancock lights that up and takes a drag. The invitation is one he should have expected, but takes him by surprise in the moment. He hasn't attempted this yet, not since swapping hardware, but he's happy to give it a go. Ellie hasn't complained about his obvious infatuation with Hancock, or with their flirting in the new office; hopefully her party is distracting enough that this won't make any waves.

Nick leans in and seals his lips over Hancock's breathing in as the ghoul breathes out and--his lungs attempt to rebel, but it's not quite as ridiculous as his first cigarette in Acadia. He can shut that reaction down and he does, quickly.

The smoke definitely doesn't have the sting and even cool of tobacco, the flavor is off by a mile, but Nick's sensors trip left and right as it soaks into his new lungs. The feel of alcohol, the tipsy drifting that the world takes on, is not terribly unlike this. This seems sharper, though, and doesn't sit in his stomach so much as his head. (Well, it tries, but getting weed to short a computer is a tall ask.)

He breathes that lungful of smoke back for Hancock but, with new features come new drawbacks. Nick's exchange in this game isn't just rewarmed smoke, anymore. He's left the oxygen in, that's hardly something he requires, but he has definitely siphoned some of the material out of that breath.]

[chem_break]

[ Maybe in a different crowd, a ghoul and a synth-kenstein making out at the bar would turn a few heads; in Goodneighbor, it's a Tuesday afternoon. The scrape and drag of Nick's mouth is too damn good; the gratifying pleasures of bending to an addiction sliding down his nerves as he tastes smoke and Nick's tongue under whiskey.

A soft approving rumble stains their smoke-swapping kiss; Hancock can feel the tension of repressed, controlled coughs in the tension of Nick's muscles-- machinery-- in Nick, and the ghoul's thoughts purr good boy as he breaths back in the siphoned smoke, smooth.

And just because he really likes the way it burns in his chest, the ghoul stalls off his own need to breathe by sinking his teeth into Nick's bottom lip and pulling the silicone-flesh as he sits back. ]

Always such a good sport [ his voice matches the black velvet of his eyes. Hancock sits back with a lion's grin, feeling the focus of his senses shift like someone's fucking with the lenses on reality. It's delightful. Details become vivid and fascinating, finely etched. Textures swallow up his perception wholesale, tastes gain depth and layers. ]

Here [ He offers the home cooked hella joint, paper tip facing Nick. ] Your turn. Lemme watch you pop this cherry.

[robotdick]

[Nick has an ease when it comes to smoking. When he takes the joint, the rough shape forces him to change tactics, hold it between different fingers, but the principle is the same. He draws a breath off it like he would a cigarette, unthinking, and drops a few frames as his sensors try to catch up with the nature of this unfiltered smoke. This has the knock on effect of making him hold his breath, which only makes those sensors trip harder.

He hangs a couple seconds and then, as he snaps out of it, has a prompt and dramatic coughing fit. He covers his mouth with his fist and holds the joint back out to Hancock. Hopefully the ghoul will take it before he drops the damn thing.

Nick's tempted to just, turn those sensors off and spare him the built in reactions, but there's no fun in that. And besides, he likes feeling like real person and real people? Well, they smoke their first joint and double over coughing because they took an overzealous hit. All in all, he's doing a bang up job.]

[chem_break]

[ Muscle memory is a common mechanic of addiction; can Nick's mechanics have memory? Or is it all a leftover neurological path from the part of Nick that had been human? Hancock wonders about it but he's not sure if there's a point in asking, not sure if it's something that could even be explained.

It's fun to watch though, the familiar motions taking Nick through the new experience. In the ghoul's experience, weed smoke has a different weight than cigarette smoke; it clings inside your lungs and the tastes it leaves are lighter, and more intricate. It also hits the cortex different, at least in an organic brain; Nicotine is cleaner focus, THC is sprawling inspiration and rapid-fire interests.

Aaand there's the coughing fit. Yup, that tracks. At least the guy knew enough to pull deep. Some smokers just try and taste it, the real buzz hits when the Mary-Jane settles in the bottom of your lungs. ]

Yeah, there you go, take it all in, and let it all out [ Hancock is all congratulatory praise, and aims a slap between Nick's shoulders. Who knows if that actually does anything, especially with Nick's lungs not being organic, but slapping someone on the back when they are having a coughing fit is just the Thing you do. Stoner Etiquette, man. ]

If you're coughin', means your alive. Don't worry about tryin'ta look cool, just keep gulpin' air

[ Hancock sets the joint in the corner of his mouth like a real professional, taking a pull and really feeling the smoke across his tongue. Yeah, this is some kinda sweet. And a little bit... pine-y? The smoke slithers out of his nose-hole in coils. The hand that had slapped Nick's back settles and traces small sympathetic circles. ]

I would literally kill a man for an edible. ALAS.

[robotdick]

That sticks to the ribs.

[Nick says and it's impossible to tell if he's impressed or complaining in that hoarse whisper of his. A few more sputtering coughs and his lungs calm down trying to expel the various new forms of tar. It's a wild experience, the way all those complex organic resins set off his sensors and make his system jump and skitter. He has to assume it's analogous to what humans feel, otherwise series 3 synths wouldn't be so convincing, but he hasn't the faintest.

The feeling he gets makes him hyper aware of all the resgistrations from his skin, but then shunts that data aside in favor of Hancock thumping his back, then shunts that aside to enjoy the lights, and again, and again, like he's drifting casually through a river of thought. It hits with his tipsiness and Nick's smile goes easier, more friendly, and he has to abruptly make sure he still has his hat.

He does.]

Alright, fine: that's not bad.

Cop in me can't stand that I'm enjoying reefer, but he can shut up. This is a party.

[Does he still have his hat?

He does.]

WISH I COULD SHARE BB! Usually got gummies stashed somewhere

[chem_break]

Ah, but don't it? [ The ghoul sounds fond, and puts a little more obvious affection into rubbing Nick's back. He can see the moment the synth's senses start to skew, and just watching that is enough to widen his own smile. ]

Looks like you're feelin' that. You feelin that, Slick?

[ Admittedly, Hancock is a little jealous. He's going to have to devour half of this fattie just to feel a fraction of the effect Nick's getting-- or so the ghoul can only guess, by the look on Nick's face, by the way his smile blooms like a plant unfurling to sunlight. The effect is extremely catching, though. ]

Hey, don't sweat it Lawman. Reefers not illegal here-- I know the guy who makes the rules. He says it's all above board. Taxes go to charity, you don't even gotta feel bad about it.

[ The second time watching Nick check for his hat is enough to goad the ghoul into doing something about it. Feeling impulsive and chemically silly, Hancock quickly reaches up and swaps hats with his companion. In a mere moment he is wearing Nick's hat and Nick is wearing his. ]

IT'S ALL GOOD, I am just jelly of Nick as well. Lightweights man.

[robotdick]

That the same guy who thinks stabbing is due process?

[Nick asks, and stares at Hancock in his fedora. That's a good look on him, but he's got it askew. Nick doesn't think anything of it, reaching to tweak it so it sits right. Once he's done that, he checks to see if he's got his hat--he does.

He does?

The shape's wrong, and the wool is warmer than his hat. Damn replacement hats. He pulls it off and stares at the tricorn for a long moment before just putting it back on his head. His sensor feed is keeping his processors busy, switching through brief threads one after another after another. It's hard to hold on to thoughts for longer than a few seconds.]

I'm feelin somethin--not sure it's the same's you, but I like it the same.

[It's so good that Hancock speaks drunk'n'high because Nick doesn't and he's mystifying himself here. That and he really just cannot stop staring at Hancock in that dashing hat.

Does he still have his hat?

He does.]

I'm gunna sleep */takes a hit and does the tag*

[chem_break]

Hey, that was totally on Finn. Guy was askin' for it. If he just bent over and kissed my boot like he was supposed to, his corpse wouldn't be feral food

[ It's a statement that could easily be extremely vicious, but it isn't. At least, not as much as it could be. Hancock plays the whole thing quite laid back, for the penchant for violence required even to form the words. The Commonwealth sure churns out some colorful kinds of people. Adapting to violence isn't an uncommon survival mechanism. ]

Don't get me wrong though; I ain't all about blood-lust, and I ain't afraid to try new things

[ He can try out a brig, why not. Worst case scenario, he'll just kill the other guy a little later. No big deal. Or hell, maybe the universe will surprise him and someone will actually smarten the fuck up after some time cooling off behind bars. Really unlikely shit happens all the damn time. Letting Nick Cop how he likes is the least he can do in service to the Synth's good heart and intentions.

Hancock realizes he's been sitting in introspect mode starring at the lights. He blinks, the colors leaving imprints on his shut lids. ]

I mean... yeah, but it's always like that. With everyone. Gunna be differences in the space between Me and You. Don't mean we can't still try to enjoy the ride together. Also, you look damn cute in my hat. Gunna take a polaroid when I get a second.

[robotdick]

[Unfortunately, Nick can't manage suave in a tricorn. He tilts it like he would his own hat but the effect is just not the same.]

Got to say, I don't hate you in that one. [If he thought Hancock would wear it, he'd let him have it, but it wasn't entirely in keeping with the rest of his threads. That train of thought dead-ends there, though--Nick's not a fashion icon, himself. After a brief, considering pause, he lets the thought drift away and another drifts up to occupy the space.]

Getting cuffed and thrown in the tank makes people contrite real quick, but then again so does a knife.

[Nick, as it happens, is the sort of person who gets high and just lets things and thoughts happen to him. Or maybe that's the combination of scotch and mary jane. He can't figure out which and when he tries he just keeps coming back around to the start again.]

Could always do ghoul-cop/bad-cop.

[chem_break]

[ The hat swap feels strange, like his scalp is super-aware of how off the fabric feels on his skin. It's nice though, seeing Nick smiling crooked and sporting the ghoul's tricorn. Satisfying, in the way of seeing your beau in your coat when it's cold. It's an affection laden, fun-and-light shade of claim-staking.

Wait hold on, should they switch coats, too? What would Nick look like in so much red? He'd look like he's Hancock's and the ghoul likes that, enough that the absent grin almost makes him drop the joint from his mouth. A hand darts up quick to catch it though, and the motion sends a pretty ribbon of smoke upwards to coil under the brim of Hancock's (Nick's) hat like a balled snake of silver air. ]

Some folk. Some folk have... other reactions. [ He's not chained to a table with his legs over Nick's shoulders, he can afford to be a little snarky about it. Also, what the hell was that booze? Hancock is not a lightweight, not by a damn long shot, but whatever that (Johnny Walker?) drink had been, it outclassed all the bathtub booze Hancock had ever choked down in his life. It hits like clean jazz fusion with the Mary Jane vocals.

The following suggestion Nick makes knocks and extremely old gesture out of the ghoul; one hand points jubilantly at Nick while the other turns to tap the spot his nose would have been. He hasn't done that in-- decades, at least, but Cross-Fading is funny business; does all sorts of interesting, unexpected things to the mind. ]

That, that's a good idea. Who the hell could keep up with both you and me goin' at 'em? You're an evil genius, Valentine-of-mine

[ That was stupidly fun to say. Valentine-of-mine. ]

[robotdick]

[Nick thought his other nicknames were over the top but that one had his heart all aflutter. Or, his metaphorical heart, he still didn't have a real one. Why--that is why this nickname, not why his heart, but he did pause briefly to wonder about the latter before the former.

It was the second half, obviously. It was a shame Hancock's name didn't lend itself to nicknames like that. Nick had to be a bog standard old man and just call him sweetheart. Nick realizes, after a beat, that he's been staring.]

Not many, I'd imagine. [He takes the question too seriously for a moment, tries to think if anyone might keep up. There is a short list of folk who physically could but who would never consider it and Nick strikes them off as he thinks.] Cait, probably, though she'd probably punch the law in the nose before answering a question. Vaultie's could, not sure he'd play along either, though.

[chem_break]

Okay, so we got like... two, three people tops who could keeps thier hats on thier asses with you and me grillin' 'em? Outta the whole damn Commonwealth? Not bad numbers. Couple less people might end up stabbed. Though if someone takes a stab at you? They're gettin' a stab back. That's just good karma.

[ He feels... chatty. And light, and dizzy, and damn are those lights pretty. The music feels like a heartbeat. All it takes is focus and will to slip in and out of the party chatter around them. For half a moment, Hancock hears Ellie laugh and someone crack a bottle (Hissss) and now he's thirsty and oh look, he already has a bottle, too.

Bottoms up. Oh but wait-- joint. Hancock takes a hasty pull and hands the thing over to Nick. Funny how a natural inclination like thirst led the ghoul to, instead, imbibe more chemicals and alcohol. You can lead a Ghoul to booze, but you can't... something. Nick's mentioned Var and that brings up a nagging thought from earlier, like an obnoxious pop-up.]

Speakin'a Var. He put you up to mentioning the singing thing?

[robotdick]

[Nick takes the joint and, without thought, draws a long breath. This time, he doesn't break into coughing fits which...results in him just absorbing more. His sensors trip in a brilliant waterfall of alerts and Nick lets his gaze track, trying to keep them in sight, despite them being behind his eyes. Hancock takes a pull straight from that bottle of scotch and, as Nick exhales, he considers trading the joint back in exchange.

Then Hancock throws him for a loop--the way Nick reels back and then immediately turns to look for Evaris is worth a thousand words. He can't find him (he's currently eclipsed by Strong), gives up, and then whips back to Hancock.]

Vaultie can sing? Since when?

[chem_break]

Since... I dunno, whenever the hell he came from?

[ Hm... somehow the thirst is still... thirsting. Hancock frowns at the bottle of scotch like it betrayed him. He thinks about asking Charlie too-- you know what? Nah. Charlie's busy, place is bumping. Hancock just melts over the barcounter like he's a fucking liquid, and pops up on the other side with all the ease and audacity of a guy who owns the whole damn town.

There's water hooked to a spray-hose, for dish-cleaning. The water is usually decent, as long as the filter isn't borked. Hancock does not grab a glass for a testing squirt. Instead he just pulls the trigger and fires the thing into his mouth, swallowing greedily by demand of the pasties.

Then he's standing there looking at Nick with the equivelent of a squirt gun and he doesn't think, just fires a quick shot of water straight between the Synth's eyes. ]

[robotdick]

[Nick watches him but it doesn't click, what he's about to do, until Hancock does it. That water hits him square in the face and Nick jumps like a startled street-cat. He jumps hard enough to knock his stool over and nearly tumble after it. For quite a long time, a shot like that? That would have been a decent risk, could have locked up part of his face if he took it wrong. After Acadia, well, it--

Doesn't do much.

It gives him a shock as it glances a raw edge on his face, but he doesn't have holes for it to drip into anymore. That all takes Nick a moment to process, longer than usual given all the consumables he's just had. When it finally ticks over he stares at Hancock, expression incredulous. A grin cracks over his face and then he's wheezing a laugh as he takes another (celebratory) hit off that joint.

Because he's Nick, he rights his stool rather than just moving to the next one over.]

You tryn'a give an old synth a heart attack? Cheeky little shit.

[Does he still have his hat?

Yes, he does. Once he's sat he pulls it off and swats the ghoul with it.]

[chem_break]

[ Hey, it was a small squirt of water-- certainly much less moisture to the face than Hancock has taken in the name of a good time. Hopefully he would have thought better if Nick had the typical damaged openings, but he has seemed more water-tight since Acadia.

The way Nick is caught completely off guard by the impish little splash already has the ghoul biting down laugher, but it does come with some concern as the stool goes toppling. ]

Shit-- ya alright? [ he manages to ask amid jailbroken snickers, and Nick's laughter frees up some more of his own. He's still shaking slightly at the shoulders when Nick swats him with his own hat. ]

Don't talk so sweet at me, we're in public. Gunna be me who has a heart attack. You'n your sexy voice sayin' words at me and expectin' me to just... live with the side effects. Unreasonable, is what it is.

[ Nooooo Nick don't smoke too much you're a newbie. Here, Hancock will take that back after your adorable victory puff. He's so responsible. How did he end up on this side of the bar. He frowns at the counter like it betrayed him. ]

[robotdick]

[Fine, if you're taking the joint, he's reclaiming the bottle of Johnny Walker.]

Oh please--[Nick snorts and pulls back his glass from before. He pours himself some amount, he isn't sure what, just it fits the glass okay and sets the bottle aside. With his refilled drink (and it is certainly very refilled) in hand, he gives Hancock a dry look (hah) despite the water on his face.]--as if I ever refused to help with those side effects.

[That's...a lot more explicit than Nick tends to get in public, especially at a party. It's good that nobody seems to notice them, save perhaps for Ellie who is markedly not looking in their direction. Nick settles for some feeling between embarassed and flustered and takes a drink of scotch about it. It doesn't help alleviate that but it does give him more scotch, so there's that.]

Suppose I could start doing that. [He adds, thoughtfully, more to himself than to Hancock.]

[chem_break]

No, you don't, but you don't got like... an organic dick. You lucky fucking bastard. You know how stressful it can be tryin'a keep your cool and then I hear somethin' like a camera and that's it, I'm done, I'm out, game over

[ How the bloody hell did he get over the counter like this? Sorcery, is what it is. He tries to do the liquid-morph thing he did to get over here in the first place, but it's not happening. He's just reversing a step, and going forward again, bumping into the counter like a confused roomba. ]

Think you just like seein' me all flustered. I'm on'ta you, n'your... wiles? You're really charming, it's noteven fair.

[ Charlie floats over, and without a word, lifts the part of the bar that swings open so Hancock can toddle on through. The ghoul gives his bartender a grateful tip of the hat in thanks. What the hell, where did this joint come from? ]

... I got stuck for a sec [ he reports to Nick, just in case he didn't know. ]