“The guy got what he deserved, sunshine,” Hancock grunted as you tended to his wounds.

Bruises coloured his face, and a busted lip and a black eye decorated his already-marred skin. He turned his gaze up to you, “Come on. He had his damn hands all over you! He got what he wanted— you shoulda seen the guy. His face when I socked him right in the jaw… oh boy.” He huffed out in laughter, but when he saw the disappointed look in your eyes, he softened, his voice sweetening up, “Oh, sugar, c’mon…”

He took hold of your hips, lowering you down into his lap and pressing gentle kisses to your neck, “I won’t do it again… you don’t gotta worry about me so much, baby doll, really…” He popped a chem, what looked to be a mentat, into his mouth. It was a way to numb the pain of his busted-up lip, and his wounds. None were fatal, but they hurt like hell.