Choices

[sonora_coneja]

Pairing: Hannibal/Face
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Summary: A fill for this prompt on the kink meme.

Just had this thought - what if they're on the run, and suddenly, Face gets approached secretly by someone who maybe has the capability to get their names cleared (I haven't thought that part through, really, but something along those lines), and theoretically, that should be awesome, except now they're not held back by regs Face and Hannibal have been having a really good thing going, they're totally sexing and in love and this will end it. I'd like to see the conflict this causes and what Face ultimately decides to do - does he ask the guys for their opinion or brood sexily in silence, and what's his decision?!

When Face gets an offer to have the team testify at Lynch’s trial, something that would earn them clean records and re-instatement, he can’t decide between being with Hannibal and giving his one true love back the life he lost.



If he’s being honest with himself, Face knows he’s been expecting something like this to happen.

Face only got done an hour ago, the team meeting going a little longer between him and Hannibal, concluding it over the workbench in the back of the garage they’re using this week, both of them too needy to head up to the office, to a couch, to anything more comfortable. He’s stretched and bruised and sore - just perfect right now - and was really looking forward to getting a quick nap before heading out to the bar for the meet with the client.

But that’s not going to happen now.

His fucking bed’s gone.

Actuslly, everything is.

His apartment’s empty. Like, completely empty. All the furniture, the forks out of the kitchen, bathroom soap dispenser, his goddamn wall charger for the pay-as-you-go cellphone, dirt off the floor. The fuckers vacuumed.

Completely, horrifingly empty.

And he’s only been out four hours.

Face runs through the list of possibilities as he starts disassembling the cell phone with a paperclip from his laptop bag. It’s not exactly comforting. They’ve been to Vegas, Boston, Phoenix and Seattle in the past six months, which means it could concievably be one of a number of different organized crime syndicates. But he doubts that. Creative killings would be involved. That leaves private citizens - who’d probably just hire local thugs, leading to less creative but equally effective killings. And from what Face can tell, there aren’t any assholes with guns in his apartment. Just stuff missing.

That leaves some government organization.

They haven’t been arrested yet.

So, not the DoD or FBI.

Probably the CIA.

He checks the apartment again, and that’s when he finds the note taped to the back of the door. Plain white paper, typed, Helvetica font, probably printed up at Kinko’s or some shit like that. Untraceable.

Cute.

CIA. Definitely the CIA. He is so sick of those people...

Face reads the note twice, tears it up, flushes it down the toilet. The cell battery he tosses out the window into the street six stories below, followed closely by the phone. Shoulders his bag. Shoves his feet back in his shoes.

He leaves the key in the lock, and doesn’t look back.

+++++

Of course it would be a fucking ice cream shop.

He didn’t get the address wrong. It really is an ice cream place, one of those ones where you pick out your own toppings and they paddle the lot up for you. If you tip, they sing. Murdock loves it.

Face doesn’t need to look twice to know who he’s supposed to be talking to. It’s not hard to figure out. Screaming kids, a couple of teenagers on dates, bored adults, and then there’s the guy in the back.

Wasn’t he supposed to be under arrest?

Professionalism, his ass.

He should have called Hannibal. He feels naked here without that reassuring presence, those strong hands...

“Lynch,” the former lieutenant says, pulling out a candy-colored chair and sitting down. His heart rate is jacked, but there’s no way he’s going to let this guy see that.

The CIA agent grins. “Tropical Breeze,” he replies, holding up a spoonful of pale yellow. “Did you want one? My treat.”

“We on a date or something here?”

Lynch shrugs. “You that pissy about the apartment that’s not even yours, sweetheart?”

“Didn’t like the color scheme, baby?”

“Hmm, what you did with that cream sofa and the sage accent wall was just criminal.”

“I guess I don’t have your flare for green,” Face snaps, and it takes Lynch a moment to start laughing.

“That’s good, lieutenant, I almost didn’t catch that one,” Lynch snorts, going back to the paper cup in front of him. “Hee, good with green. The CIA wants to extend its deepest thanks for those plates, by the way.”

Face wants to hit this guy. Right over the table. Fist to face. It’ll break every bone in his hand. It’ll feel great. “Aren’t you supposed to be under arrest or something?”

“Or something,” Lynch says, his expression suddenly serious and he taps the table, indicating down. “We have a, uh, an unusual discipline process.”

Face looks. There’s a ankle bracelet under the man’s jeans, sleek but unmistakable.

“They need you all to testify at my, er, trial.”

“For you? Fuck this,” Face says and pushes back from the table.

“Not for me,” Lynch tells him sharply. “Not against me. Just... testify.”

His expression’s unreadable, but Face has run enough cons over the years to know when somebody’s lying to him. Lynch is hiding some legitimate discomfort. This could be real.

“Why would we do that?”

“What, Peck, you don’t love me anymore?”

“Fuck you, Lynch. You hurt Hannibal,” Face shoots back instantly, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind, the pain on the boss’s face, after the container blew, during the trial, that horrible moment in Germany when Hannibal didn’t have a plan and the way he’d looked...

“Interesting,” Lynch says, smirking again. “They’re willing to offer you reinstatements. Former rank, pay, jobs, everything.” He slides an envelop over, watches as Face opens it with a finger. “Back in the Army. How do you think Hannibal,” and he really lays some weight on that name, “will feel about that?”

The letterhead’s right, the signatures... “From the Joint Chiefs?”

“And the Secretary of the Army. Oh, and the Sec Def.”

Face stares. Things are slipping away, out of range. Back to the Army. Back to their old lives, purpose, rules, denial, hiding...

“They really want to see me executed,” Lynch explains blandly, and pushes back. The bastard straightens his collar and hands Face his ice cream. The cup’s sticky. “I’m up in four days. You and the rest of the Ninja Turtles have until then to get to Washington.”

“You’re lying.” It’s the best Face can manage. His mind is reeling. This can’t be real

“Make some calls. I know Hannibal’s still got his connections. It’s his decision anyway, right? You and your adorable chains of command.”

That’s true. Hannibal's word is law for then. Face would walk through hell with a gasoline can if Hannibal ordered him to do it. Secure in the knowledge that he'd be doing it for the man he loved...

His senses return for a moment. “Why you? Why come to me with this?”

A knowing little smile and Lynch is gone, Face left with nothing but a few sheets of paper and a horrible sinking feeling that no amount of ice cream is going to fix.

+++++

Face feels like he’s floating, and it’s not just the caffeine.

The first thing he should do is go straight to Hannibal. He knows this. It’s the only course of action. Go right to Hannibal, tell him about this insane little plan, get him to place some calls, work out a plan. Act.

Simple. Easy. Definitely the right answer.

“More coffee?” the waitress asks him.

But then, that wasn’t really his style. Lynch knew this.

Lynch is a total bastard for knowing this about him.

Face doesn’t feel like answering her, but she’s still standing there, black-handled pot in hand, looking sideways down at his overturned placemat. It’s one of those chain breakfast places, the kind that’s open all night, and Face has no idea what time it is, or how long’s he’s been here.

“What is that, shorthand?” the girl asks, nose crinkled, gesturing at the scrawls on the paper.

What was he doing?

Oh, that's right.

Face is trying to think. Nothing’s working. He was trying to map out his options, weigh the pros and cons.

Going back to the military.

Going back, and all that entailed. Everybody’s felt it, the loss of it, parts of them left behind in courtrooms and prisons. The cool toys. The best missions. Worthwhile bad guys and crazy plans and high explosives and satisfaction of a job well done.

And that's just it, isn't it? What they're all missing?

That illuminating sense of purpose, sense of being right where they were supposed to be, doing what they were supposed to do, what they were meant to do. Watching the sun set over foreign lands, team together, plans laid, everything simple and clear and true.

But that’s gone.

A year now. Nothing’s clear. Nothing’s certain. It’s more than being hunted - that they can all handle just fine, thank you very much. They’ve all been trained to evade capture from far more determined adversaries than a bloated, underfunded and overtasked organization like the DoD. It's more than the betrayal of Morrison or Lynch’s schemes, because in the military, you get used to that kind of bullshit pretty fast.

Nope, this is beyond all those petty inconveniences.

It’s a kind of grief, one that they don’t talk about but one they're all experiencing.

For Murdock, it offered a kind of freedom he otherwise could never touch. Provided BA an outlet, a way of channeling all that violence and strength and passion into something decent and good and useful. Gave Face a home and a family and a sense of belonging he’d never had before. And Hannibal...

Hannibal's taking the worst of any of them.

Face has had a long time to think about this, and he thinks he's figured it out. His lover is one of these guys who was born to the wrong time and place. Hannibal doesn’t belong here, not here in this soft age that hides from death, scorns sacrifice, lacks his sense of honor. He belongs on some ancient battlefield, in some past age, sword drawn and bloody and bright, honest, in a time and place when men like him were valued beyond measure.

Hannibal's military, through and through. Born to command. Born to fight. Dedicated to something greater than himself.

And he's lost all of that. What they're doing now barely sustains him. The money's decent, but who gives a shit about money?

What terrifies Face, more than all else, is the thought that Hannibal's slowly starving, wasting away. That one day there won't be anything left.

The lieutenant knows it’s happening.

Hannibal doesn’t talk about it, but Face knows. He can see the pain in the older man, the stress, the exhaustion and the worry and the uncertainty. He never relaxes, not really, barely sleeps, fights nightmares when he does. On those nights, curled up beside him, waking him up, soothing him asleep, holding him, Face would do anything. Anything at all, to see him whole again.

So here it is. That anything.

Going back. It’s really the only solution, the only one Face has ever been able to think about, the only thing they can’t do.

Rules. Going back means rules. Rules that don’t approve.

Rules that will make him give Hannibal up.

Face is a big boy. He knows can’t have both. This is a zero-sum game. Sooner or later, the military would find out, and then where would they be? Investigated? Discharged? Face won’t have Hannibal disgraced again, he just won’t allow it. So he’d have to give him up.

But...

Losing it all? Every stolen moment, every little brush of hands or touch of lips, the spontaneous explosions and slow, sweet explorations, learning every inch of Hannibal’s skin, the taste of his mouth, the feel of him, buried deep, Face’s real name, whispered like a prayer against his neck, telling him to come, telling him he’s beautful, that there’s never been anyone else, that there never will be, that he’s loved...

Face hates himself for his uncertainty, his selfishness.

Was somebody talking to him?

“Hmm?”

The girl’s smiling at him. “I asked what that was.”

“Oh, hmm, kana,” he tells her, looking down at the neat lines of Japanese. “I didn’t think I was that out of it.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Lots of time to study,” he says, and flips the mat over. He’s not exactly sure what he’s been writing. He doesn’t want to have to explain it.

“Relationship problems?”

He gives her a rueful grin. “That obvious?”

“There are only a couple reasons why I get customers at three AM.”

“And I’m not drunk or high, right?”

She laughs and refills his cup. “Can’t hide from ‘em forever, cutie,” she says. He notices her choice of pronoun. God bless San Francisco.

“If you had a chance to give somebody the one thing in the world they wanted most,” Face asks her slowly, because he desperately needs to hear some other voice in his head besides his own right now, “but it meant you were going to lose them...”

“Like...?”

“How about telling them to go take that job opportunity out of the country, watching them leave?”

“Oh, okay.”

“Would you do it? Would you let them have it, even though you’d never see them again?”

“I’ve never loved anybody that much,” the waitress says seriously, and pats him on the shoulder as she walks off.

It’s that touch, a simple gesture of solidarity, of sympathy, that finally undoes him. His eyes sting, and there’s no goddamn way he’s going to start crying in public, even if that public is pretty private.

It’s almost dawn anyway. He’s expected back at the staging location at seven, so Face leaves her a twenty dollar tip and pushes his hands ddep in his pockets as he leaves the little diner.

It’s cold outside.

Feels about right.

And, walking back down the street to his car, Face realizes he still has no idea what to do.

+++++

Face hits the brakes so hard the seat belt jerks him back into the seat. He lets his head hit the steering wheel.

He is so fucked if Hannibal sees him like this.

Hannibal won’t go for it if he sees Face upset, distraught. Hannibal won’t even hesitate to say no. But the boss needs this, needs his options to be clear and unconfused, free of emotion. Objective.

Face has to tell him. Because he loves Hannibal. Face has to tell him.

That thought snaps him back up, makes him tuck the letters into his jacket pocket, against his heart, rub his hair down, get out of the car, start towards the back door of the garage.

The back door. He fixes a smile on his face, hopes to hell it’s not too similar to the smile he uses on marks, and then he’s inside.

It’s a chop shop, one that puts armor in cars or something like that, having trouble with some motorcycle gang from up north. BA is over in the corner examining some giant-ass piece of equipment right next to a hydraulic lift. The big man’s in heaven, Face can tell, occasionally batting off Murdock, who’s equally excited.

Probably for different reasons.

Over there, there Hannibal is, talking with the client. Face draws a deep breath and squares his shoulders, and he’s going across the room and he’s going to tell him about last night, tell him they should take the deal and go put that son-of-a-bitch in jail or the electric chair or in an African anthill, or whatever happens to the CIA’s problem children. And he’s doing it, he’s really doing it.

“Hannibal, we, uh, might need to talk about something,” he says, and the boss looks at him with those steel-blue eyes, and isn’t that the workbench, right behind him, the one from last night?

They exchange a look.

Face knows he should have gone home with the boss last night, but whenever he can, he still likes to grab his own space. He’s tried to explain it, the need for privacy made sharper by a lifetime without. Hannibal supports it, but he doesn’t like it.

The boss nods, “just a second, kid,” and goes back to the client and Face tries to climb back on top of his anxiety as Hannibal excuses himself and walks them away.

“Boss,” Face begins, bracing himself for the inevitable, and he can handle it. He really, really can.

But then Hannibal has to go and ruin everything, grabbing Face by the arm and yanking him off to one side, around a wall that gives them the illusion of privacy and his fingers are playing along the edge of Face’s ear, his belt, sliding back into hair, around his waist, drawing him in.

Not this. Not this, not right now. Please...

Lips close around his own, and Face opens in response, and there’s Hannibal, doing that thing that he does and making Face feel like he does and as his knees go weak, it’s not fair at all, how Hannibal holds him a little tighter, presses in a little closer, taking his weight like he always does.

“Good morning, lieutenant,” Hannibal whispers when he finally pulls back, eyes half closed. Face can feel the words rumbling in his lover’s chest, and he clenches a fist between them, trying to not. He’s got to try to not feel this, get them back to where they need to be.

“Good morning, boss,” he replies in kind, and bites gently at Hannibal’s jaw. The colonel pinches his ass through his pants, enough to tease but not to hurt, and lets him go.

“Been looking forward to that all morning,” he says, breath hot along the nape of Face’s neck, and the lieutenant can hear the smile in his voice, and then it’s gone. Back to business. “So, what’s the problem, kid?”

“My apartment...”

Hannibal’s eyes furrow a little.

“What about it?”

“It’s a funny story, actually, um, I came home last night and the place was...empty...”

“My bed’s open,” Hannibal says softly, traces a cheekbone. “If you’re ready.”

Shit.

It’s Hannibal’s fault that Face doesn’t tell him about the meeting or the letters. Hannibal’s fault he nods instead of speaks. Because Hannibal jumped to conclusions, and Face can’t disappoint. Not now. Not like this. Not if there's so little time left between them.

He holds it in, leaves the letters in his pocket, the events in his memory. Because he loves Hannibal.

Because he's a selfish bastard.

"So, motorcycle gangs?”

+++++

And biker gangs it was. Gun running. Drugs. Intimidation rackets. The usual. It’s scary and sad, the way these jackasses are able to just run roughshod over little towns up north of here, how they’re starting to move down. The local and state police are underfunded and out-gunned, the feds already stretched too thin as it is, nobody around to stop them.

The client’s been having trouble, ever since one of the gangs started coming in for free repairs, alterations, that sort of thing. It’s escalated into helping with the cocaine business. There’s a shed on the property, filled to the eves, warehousing space, distribution to a city gang. Face suggested just torching it, but Hannibal’s got a plan.

Face didn’t push it. The drugs are incidental. The client’s more upset about other stuff. Like his daughter, still in the hospital.

“Would have been allowed to shoot these fuckers in Afghanistan,” Face mutters, staring down his rifle sights towards the gang’s clubhouse, a bar on the outskirts of a little town about two hours north of San Fran. He and Murdock are tucked behind a high, dusty hill. He really should start using binoculars, but that’s just more stuff to lug around. Not really a good thing, the way they’re living these days. And Murdock’s got the camera anyway.

“True...” There’s a note of concern in Murdock’s voice.

A couple members of the gang are walking around outside. He wishes he had his whole set up. “Shooting somebody would feel so good right now.”

Murdock grins. “But facey, this is ‘M’rica, and we gots our rules” he says, slurring the country’s name down to more of a sound than a word. Used to be a popular joke around the barracks. “Rules, buddy.”

BA’s at the garage with Hannibal. The big guy, well, Face suspects he’s thoroughly happy with his undercover assignment. The colonel’s planning. Leaves him with Murdock. Face isn’t exactly happy about this. Especially when Murdock’s as talky as he is today.

Face desperately needs some alone time. He needs to be able to think. But the pilot’s done nothing but babble for the last four hours, and there’s no space for it. Memories keep surfacing in the heat of the day, all the things he’d hoped for, demanding an answer, fleeing from the sound of the other man’s voice, taunting him. It’s maddening.

“Rules, right,” he grunts in response. “If there were rules, we’d be out of business.”

“Facey...” and a hand comes up to his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

Of course Murdock would notice. Damn. “... nothing.”

“Somebody shit in your cornflakes this morning?”

And Murdock doesn’t sound angry. Just curious.

“Get the photos?”

Murdock scrolls back through. “Looks like.” His eyes are wary as he looks back up at Face, like he’s not sure what to expect when he doesn't see a smile.

“Nothing’s going on,” Face tells him, and starts sliding down the hill. “Let’s get out of here.”

They don’t talk on the drive back to the city. Murdock tries, but Face doesn’t answer him, so he falls silent and curls up against the window. The former lieutenant looks over at him every once in a while, more as traffic thickens and they roll out of the dust and their pace slows.

His friend’s been more unhinged since the incident at the LA docks. He hides it well, he does, but he took Morrison’s betrayal hard. He’s been getting bad, bad like he never got when they were in the Army, bad to the point where Hannibal’s made a deal with one of the local psychiatric clinics for the occasional week of in-patient services. Face tries to get him in the air as often as he can, but there’s only so much he can do.

Would he be better, if they were back?

“You ever think about it, Murdock, about before?”

The pilot’s playing with the glass. The sun’s going down, the temperature’s dropping, and he’s fogging it with his breath, drawing little stick-figure dogs. “The military?”

“Yeah, the military.”

“Gave those Yanks a run at Yorktown, didn’t we?” Murdock replies, the British accent sneaking out. He doesn’t make eye contact. It’s impoosible to tell what he’s thinking. That’s always worrisome.

Face tightens his hands around the steering wheel and doesn’t reply.

+++++

Face may have gotten himself an apartment, but Hannibal’s always more comfortable in a house, so that’s what Face had found for the rest of the team. In this part of the city, it barely raises eyebrows, three or four men living in the same place. He’d tried to talk Face into staying, like he always did, and now he was waiting out on the front porch of the white townhouse.

Waiting.

For him.

And, in this neighborhood, it doesn’t even matter if Hannibal grabs him up like he does and kisses him soundly, right there, arms tight and low and fucking great, in clear view of the street, where anybody can see. It’s exhilarating, this sense of freedom, the way he’s able to have this, like this, right here...

He closes his eyes, and slides his hand down, under Hannibal’s, peeling it off his hip. Their fingers twine and the older man pulls back. “How was your day, honey?” he asks, a forced little tease in his voice.

“Long and pointless, darling,” Face replies in kind, and gives Hannibal one last little peck on the cheek. It’s the way he normally does it. It’s hard not to do what he normally does, move into Hannibal’s space and let his hands run over every inch of him, reveling in the feel of him, the warmth. But it would be too hard to do it. Too easy, and too horrible. Everything feels hollow. But he’s got to say something. “What’s for dinner?”

“BA ordered pizza,” Hannibal says, expression unreadable, and Face tries to smile.

“Let me get my bag.”

+++++He drops it at the foot of Hannibal’s bed, the one he has to share for the next three nights while he figures out what to do. He can hear the others downstairs, laughing and joking as the pizza delivery guy leaves two floors below. It’s only one bag, but it holds everything he owns, his whole life. Face likes it that way. He picks up what he needs as he goes, leaves behind what he doesn’t. Easier to move that way. He knows what it says about him, that he’s an orphan, that he’s a military man, always was, always will be.

The the last few months, though, that reality has seemed far away.

Because he’s had Hannibal.

He tucks the damn letter deep into the black duffle, snaps a clean shirt out.

Every nerve in his body is screaming the same thing. He’s got to tell Hannibal. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.

He’s just coming when Hannibal runs a hand down his back. Face starts, which for him means throwing an elbow, and Hannibal ducks, which for him means pinning the younger man to floor with a simple, painful twist. Reflex, all of it just reflex, and neither man apologizes to the other.

“Is this really that difficult for you?” Hannibal asks sadly, settling down on his heels over Face’s legs.

“Boss, I...”

“I don’t want to force you, kid.”

“It’s not like we can move in together,” Face says with a little laugh, going with it, and realizes it’s true. They can’t have anything normal. Not like this.

“I’m okay waiting, if you want to head out tonight,” the older man continues without any conviction at all. “Face, it’s whatever you want.”

What he wanted?

Face realized something the day Sosa walked out on him. He’d never have the dream most officers chased, the house and two-point-three kids and a dog and guest china for the holidays. He’d never be able to make it work, if he couldn’t make it work with her. He was incapable, somehow. Broken. Suited too well for the military and nothing else. It had almost killed him, having to face the truth of that, because it meant there was only the job, only the mission, only the Army.

The only thing that had kept him sane through that breakup was the fact that Hannibal was right there with him. All they had, they had in coomon. Even if Hannibal was there because he was the stronger man and made those decisions, that choice, for himself, instead of being driven to them by some career-climbing bitch. And he’d needed Hannibal’s strength then. Needs it now.

“I want you,” he says honestly.

So he can’t bring himself to say it

Hannibal stands and helps Face to his feet, holding him chest to back. “Let’s see how it goes,” he says, and there’s a twinkle in his eye. “We should probably get down there before BA eats all the pepperoni off the tops.”

“Let me change my shirt?” Face asks, and Hannibal nods, leaving, giving him space. Which he needs, but not for the reasons the boss thinks. “I’ll be down in a second,” he adds, and the door shuts.

He finds the pre-pay cell rolled up in a pair of socks, sits down on the floor and dials from memory.

“Hey beautiful... yeah, I know you’re on the East Coast and it’s late... come on, sweetie, I need you to verify something for me...”

“What do you know about this?” he’d asked.

“They asked me, too,” she’d told him.

Sosa was surprisingly convivial, missed him, been thinking a lot about him, and when he teasingly promised to come visit her if he was in town for this thing, she quite seriously offered a plane ticket as well.

It makes him sick, sure, but it gets him thinking. Thinking about a plan.

“Can you get one of them in touch with one of them?”

“Sure. This number?”

Face thinks that’s the right move. Right? He has to know its real, right? Wouldn’t that be what the boss would expect of him? Cover every base, every angle, have a solution in hand when he brings him this problem? And it is a problem, it’s a big problem, and Face hates it and hates himself and hates that nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he needs to do something else, something more.

But downstairs, over dinner, Murdock and BA fighting like six year olds and Hannibal laughing and plenty of beer and everything so damn good, Face couldn’t bring himself to bring it up. He got up and took his paper plate, soggy with delicious and tasteless cheese-grease, out onto the back step. It’s sitting on a knee, probably getting on his jeans, and he doesn’t care. The damn things are filthy from earlier anyway.

“Care for some company?” Hannibal asks, the slider half-open. Face nods a little, and then Hannibal’s settling down next to him, holding away, just enough so they’re not touching. The boss, giving him space... Face feels a burn down inside his chest and tries not to let it well up. “You’ve been quiet today, kid.”

He shrugs.

“Lot on your mind?”

“Hannibal,” Face blurts out, turning, and Hannibal sets the half-eaten slice of pizza aside before it falls, leaving his hand on a knee.

“What is it, Templeton?”

And that very nearly undoes him. His name, on Hannibal’s lips, the only place it’s ever sounded right. “I... I need to know. What is this, going on between you and me?”

Hannibal chuckles a little. “I thought that’d be obvious.”

Face, despite himself, feels a flush coming on, and Hannibal laughs harder. “No, that’s not what I mean. I guess... where’s it going?”

Hannibal sobers and takes a deep breath. Then another. His gaze falls. “Where do you want it to go, Face?”

His name, locked away again, something special Hannibal only breaks occasionally, like the magic goes out of it with overuse. “I don’t know,” he says, trying to figure a way to talk about this without talking about it. “I keep thinking about the service, and...”

“You miss it. Murdock said you asked him about it today.”

Why the hell would Murdock mention something like that to Hannibal? “Don’t you?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer right away, goes for a cigar, plays with it, doesn’t light, stares up at the sky, clouds smeared with light from the city around them. That’s okay. But he’s still not answering, and Face can’t take that silence.

He brushes Hannibal’s hand off his knee. “I’m going inside.”

“Face...”

“It’s okay, boss,” he says, trying to keep it light. “I just need a shower. It was kind of gross out there today.”

“You and your hygiene hang-up,” Hannibal says, the warmth in his voice almost enough to get Face to forget the whole thing ever happened, lean down and let those hands pull him in for a long, leisurely kiss in the cool of the evening, letting it deepen, pulling him in, pulling him under...

He bolts through the still-open slider, past BA and Murdock and upstairs into the shower and back out, as fast as he can. He stares at himself in the mirror for a minute when he gets out, trying to figure out what’s in there that he’s feeling right now, but then the water starts to dry on his skin, and he’s just cold.

Face curls up under the covers of Hannibal’s big bed, traces of the man’s scent lingering, comforting. He’s always felt safe in bed and now, wrapped up and warming, every other consideration far away, bobbing in that delicious half-state of sleep. And he’s expecting to hear Hannibal come in at some point, expecting to find the man’s arms wrapped around him and a chin buried against his shoulder and the heat of that, stealing into him. So when Hannibal doesn’t come, and doesn’t come, long after midnight, Face finally gets up the courage to get up.

Feet creak on the stairs so much louder at this hour, when everybody’s asleep, it seems to Face, as he tries to stay quiet, not knowing what he’s walking into. Old habits and all that.

Back outside, where Hannibal’s still sitting, staring up at the sky, cigar glowing bright red with every inhale. He watches him for a minute, leather holster stretched tight against the tension in his shoulders, hunched over. Brooding. Hannibal never broods.

“Boss?” Face asks. “What are you doing out here? It’s almost midnight.”

“I know, kid.”

“I thought you’d be in by now.”

“Thinking.” Ash scatters off the end of the cigar, bright for a second and then fades to nothing. “About me and you. About this. About what you said...”

“About the military?”

“Nothing’s simple about losing that, is it, kid?” Hannibal replies with a huff that’s not quite a sigh.

Why was Hannibal still out here, when he’d been so eager earlier? Giving him space, Face realizes, and won’t that just make this easier? He walks out onto the patio, realizing he’s still naked from the shower earlier, and gives Hannibal’s shoulder a little squeeze, which the man meets with his free hand. Face holds on a little too long before letting go, that sensation welling up in him again, and he almost makes it to the door without it exploding outward.

“Temp?” Hannibal says tentatively as Face starts opening the slider.

“What, boss?”

“You know I ... I...”

Everything in Face seizes up. Hannibal hasn’t said this to him yet. If Hannibal says it now, it’s going to ruin everything. It’s going to ruin his plan.

“...I understand, this is a lot to take in right now.”

“Hannibal,” he says because he’s tired and its late and who knows how more of these he’s going to get, “Hannibal, come to bed.”

“You enjoy it, kid,” Hannibal says, still not looking at him, turned. “I’m going to finish this off.”

Face barely sleeps at all that night, and when he wakes and comes down to start the coffee pot, he finds Hannibal’s long, lean frame tucked awkwardly onto the narrow sofa.

He doesn't have the heart to wake him. What can he possibly say?

+++++

And that’s the way it is for the next forty-eight hours as Face waits for his answer. Annoying days full of surveillance, nights of difficult conversation and forced laughter. BA asks Face at one point what’s going on. Murdock retreats deep into his current little fantasy world, this one involving Billy and police dog training school. Tense. Things are tense. And when Face gets a call, cell phone vibrating in his pocket and walks out as they’re giving the client an update, he knows he’s only making things worse.

“We can accomodate that.”

“I’m going to need it in writing.”

“It’ll have the fucking Presidental seal on it, Peck. Good man.”

Hannibal doesn’t say anything to him as BA drives them back to the house. Doesn’t say anything as Murdock fakes a yawn and goes to bed, and BA heads back to the garage to tinker with his van. Doesn’t say anything as he and Face go over the shots from the day and discuss the best way of handling this gang.

He doesn’t say anything until Face remembers his own plan and mentions that maybe he shouldn’t be included on the breaking and entering that’s going to happen the day after tomorrow.

Hannibal practically snaps his pencil in half and looks up. Face is expecting anger. There’s nothing like that on his lover’s, his commander’s, face. “What’s going on, kid? You don’t have to be here, if you don’t want to be. I told you when we started...”

“...that we’d go at my pace, I know.” And he does remember that, Hannibal’s whispered promises against the skin of his ear that he’ll never hurt him, that he’d never force him, that this is going to be good for both of them. He swallows, trying to keep those memories down where they belong now.

In the past.

Light pressure on his back, grows heavier, Hannibal covering the younger man’s body with his own. “So, if you aren’t ready, there’s no shame in it. I’d wait...”

“Ready’s got nothing to do with it,” Face chokes, somewhere between laughing and sobbing, and lets himself fall back into that embrace.

“Talk to me, Temp.”

Face closes his eyes and leans his head back against that shoulder. Always stronger than him, Hannibal. Always knows exactly what his men need, always willing to give it to them. Dedicated to building up his subordinates, making them more than what they were when he got them in. It’s why he made it to colonel. It’s why he stayed, through the bullshit and the long hours and the failed leadership and the bad decisions that got them cut up. That clear and present purpose. Face can’t keep taking it for himself like this. It’s theft.

If Face can give that purpose back to him, he has to do it.

He has to follow through on his plan.

“Take me to bed, John.”

But one more time can’t hurt, right?

Hannibal pulls him around, nudges his chin up, staring right at him and something breaks in the colonel’s eyes. Face can’t stand to see that, not right now, so he pushes up and captures Hannibal’s mouth in a long, slow, sweet kiss. He puts everything he has into it, brushing the backs of his hands down the boss’s arms, pleading without words for Hannibal to let him in. It doesn’t take much, really, before the colonel’s grabbing him a little harder and backing him up against the nearest wall and taking control of the kiss, taking control of the situation, commanding, doing exactly what Face fully believes this man was born to do.

They don’t make it upstairs, fumbling with clothing and bumping walls and stumbling through half-broken kisses until Hannibal gets them both to the couch and takes Face fully in hand. He bucks and shivers under that skillful grasp, callouses rough on the smooth skin of his belly, his cock, straying around his balls and further back until a finger slides home.

He gasps and breaks the kiss, unable to stop his spine from arching up off the soft leather. Face is caught by Hannibal’s hands, fore and behind, and Hannibal’s weight, only barely held off him. Hannibal’s power, barely held in check, begins to shake free.

“Temp...”

Face doesn’t let him talk, just rolls onto his belly, not wanting anything but this, right now. He doesn’t want to see Hannibal as he does this. He doesn’t want Hannibal to see him.

It'll break his resolve. Because he's selfish.

They don’t have lube or anything resembling time to go get any from Hannibal's pack right now, so it’s spit and pressure and burn and perfection as Hannibal takes him, tears leaking out of his eyes from pain or regret or pleasure or one of a hundred other emotions that don’t matter as soon as the boss comes and he spills himself all over that strong hand for the last time and they’re fitted into one another on the narrow space, Hannibal holding him close, fingers tangling in his hair long after the older man falls asleep.

Face waits as long as he dares, longer than he should, really, until the sun’s an hour or two away. Only when he has to does Face disentangle himself and call a taxi and get himself ready to go.

Dressed and packed, his bag slung over a shoulder, he stops for a moment in the living room, watching his former lover sleep. It’s a beautiful sight, one he never thought he’d get tired of, one he covers up now with a light blanket from the chest by the media center. He kisses a scar, just behind Hannibal’s right ear, a token from their one mission in Nicaragua, before BA and Murdock became part of the team, their last together, alone.

They said they'd honor his testimony for all four. It's better this way. It's a solution, not a problem, and that exactly what a captain's supposed to offer his colonel. Face can do this. He knows he can.

“I love you too, boss,” he murmurs, and then he’s out the door, waving at the taxi that’s starting to pull away, and what he doesn’t see in his rush to make the first flight to Washington DC and Lynch’s fucking trial is Hannibal, standing in the window, fist clenched against the glass, watching him leave.

+++++

It’s a few minutes before Hannibal’s able to peel himself away from the window. At least, he thinks it’s a few minutes. And it’s not exactly him who’s doing the peeling. It’s more Murdock, coming up and asking where...

“Gone,” he mutters, still not able to believe it. His brain rebels at the very notion of it.

“The peanut butter, boss?”

The kid had his bag and everything. His one bag. Everything, packed and gone. Not a word, just the kiss that had woken him up. He’d been so disturbed the last few days, the worst he’d been since they’d first... hooked up was wrong word, wasn’t it? Hannibal hadn’t wanted it to be like that. He hadn’t wanted it to be like this.

He’d just wanted him.

“Face,” he grunts and his forehead hits the glass above his hand. He tries to tell himself that the kid’s not gone for good, that he needs his space, needs to feel like he’s still free - which has always been that boy’s problem - and that he’ll be back. Waiting at the chop shop. Back here tonight. Ambushing Hannibal with one of those deep kisses that leave him weak, begging for everything that Hannibal wants to give him anyway.

That’s it. Has to be. He’ll be back, when he’s ready. He will come back, won’t he?

Murdock nods and leans up against the wall next to the window and gives him a little smile. “But where’s the peanut butter?”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“You feeling okay, boss?”

His hands are leaving prints on the glass. He’s going to need to windex that. He’s going to need to do a lot of things, like push back and check on the pilot and get BA up and get everybody in position and redraw the plan, so Face isn’t in it, because he’s gone...

“Did he say anything to you, captain?”

“The peanut butter?”

What? Oh. Right. “Face.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

Hannibal can’t figure it out, so he certainly can’t bring himself to say it, and he doesn’t think he’s crying until the pilot wraps an arm around his shoulders and stands there with him, watching the empty street.

Face has to be coming back. He can’t accept anything else right now.

It’s going to happen.

It has to.

But it doesn’t. Doesn’t happen that day. It doesn’t happen the next. Or the next, and pretty soon a week’s gone by, ten days, fifteen, almost a month. Almost a month.

The job ended a few days ago, a fantastic mash-up of a car chase and a couple of shoot-outs and arrests and BA gets a little plaque from the guys in the shop and a kiss from the girl who keeps the books - they’re going to miss him, the client laughs and includes a few extra hundred in their payment.

And BA’s got a boxing tournament he’s helping out with at one of the YMCAs down in LA and Murdock has to get back to the clinic for a week or two, so Hannibal’s left alone. He doesn’t have anything lined up. He had been looking forward to a week or so with Face, alone, just the two of them, maybe down in Santa Barbara. He’d kept the reservation at the hotel as long as he’d dared, but Face wasn’t coming back, so there was no point. He’d cancelled yesterday and stayed in San Francisco.

There didn’t seem much point in leaving. Especially if Face didn’t know where to find him.

Under any other circumstances, Hannibal would be enjoying this. The house has a decent little library in it, all the classics, things he hasn’t picked up since college suddenly comforting, sleepless mornings bleeding into long afternoons spent in stories from other worlds, taking him back to before any Templeton Peck had existed and he didn’t have to keep asking why? when? how in the hell? and everything was easy. He pulls one and just starts reading, puts it back when he’s done, and goes for another.

But this evening, halfway through a volume by John Stewart Mill, right in the middle of the part about physical happiness verses greater purpose, his fingers went to his pockets and his feet took him to the kitchen, because he’s thinking about Face again.

Hannibal’s no idiot, and he knows, he knew, his boy better than he’s ever known anyone. There was something wrong that first night, when he’d assumed Face had wanted to take the next step. When he’d assumed that Face was ready to let Hannibal give the kid everything he deserved, everything he wanted to give him. There’d been something haunted in the kid’s eyes, anguished, but Hannibal ignored it instead of pressing it, dismissing it as some lingering fear of betrayal or hesitance to commit, always a problem for Face. He’d been selfish, letting himself indulge in the pleasure of it all, never thinking about the deeper issues, not worrying about what Face was dealing with.

Because he’d underestimated the kid. Because, at some level, he’d thought the sex was probably enough for him.

He’s a little relieved to know that it wasn’t.

Hannibal knows now he misinterpreted whatever was going on. The kid had been talking about the military. He hadn’t talked about the Army since, well, since they’d broken out of jail. Hannibal had always believed that it was a relief for his boy, not being in the system any more. Face has always chafed against the rules.

And what Hannibal had never told him, what he should have told him, was that he had too. He knew when to play the game and knew who to talk to when he needed to, but he’d also known what rules to break and when to follow his own best judgment and screw the standard-issue answers. Twenty-three years of saying fuck it, we’re doing this instead, retirement looming, the end of the fight both beautiful and horrible, low on the horizon. He should have told Face about those things. Maybe it would have made a difference.

But there's no way to know now.

Hannibal failed him.

He never got a chance to really mentor the kid the way he should have. Hell, if Face hadn’t thrown away any hope of further promotion in that bar fight six years ago, Hannibal would have been grooming him for major by now, his own command. Maybe the kid would have worked things out with Sosa, cause that all happened about the same time, and there’d be adorable little baby Pecks running around at the battalion picnic, stealing candy and starting fights, muddy handprints on the walls of some nice off-base house, Sosa laughing as Face pinches her ass and gets drinks and asks Hannibal how his new lieutenant is turning out.

Not as good as you were, kid.

What'd I tell you about trying to replace me?

Hannibal smiles at the thought. He’d have been so proud.

But he took that future away from the kid, just like he'd lost it for himself, all those years ago, when the one and only woman he'd ever loved had divorced him during a deployment and he'd come home to an empty house, ring taped to the fridge with a note he's kept with him since but hasn't ever had the courage to open. Some variation of I love you but I can't do this anymore... like so many of his buddies.

He hadn't warned Face about it, any of it. He’d left the kid dependent on him and dependent on the system, and it wasn’t really a surprise that it was such an adjustment for him, being out of the only stability he’d ever known. Is that why he’d left? Because Hannibal can’t give that to him now and he needs it?

All he had to was ask, Hannibal reflects gloomily. He'd have done it. He'd have done anything not to lose that. But the chance is long past now. Sometimes, most times, there aren't answers. Things just happen.

The coffee in the pot’s cold from this morning and bitter from sitting too long, but he’s had worse and there’s a microwave anyway. He watches the mug turn on the glass plate, slow and halting in its rotations. He can’t figure it out.

Why did Face leave?

But the microwave beeps and he gets his coffee, and the front door rings, and he finds his question answered.

And his heart falls faster and shatters more completely than the coffee mug as it slips free from a nerveless hand.

One Templeton Peck.

Back in uniform.

+++++

The black lieutenant bar on the digi-print hat gets folded away neatly into one of those cargo pockets as Hannibal moves out of his way. His involuntary smile at seeing Hannibal again fails him as he passes inside. Boots lift easily over the mess on the tile, familiar weight somehow increased. Neither man does anything to clean it up. Eyes lock, expressions are read, and Face resists the urge to go crawl into a closet and hide.

Hannibal’s furious. That has to be what he’s seeing. He’s not sure what the boss sees in him.

“Sit,” the boss finally growls, pointing at the sofa where, barely a month ago, Face kissed him for the last time. He hesitates. “Grab a seat, soldier!”

The conman, lieutenant, whatever bites his lip, drops his bag and lets himself fall back into the sofa, not breaking eye contact with the boss. This is part of it.

Face has no idea what’s coming. He’s half-expecting Hannibal to start yelling. Or something. Anything. Not this.

Hannibal rolls his sleeves up and sits down opposite Face on the coffee table. So close their knees are almost touching. Face resists the urge to bump into that. The ACUs are new, a little stiff. He feels a little awkward and this wasn’t entirely necessary, but he wanted to make a point.

“You want to start, lieutenant?”

The boss is drumming his fingers now, and Face clears his throat a little and reaches into a pocket. Hard, remembering where all these pockets are. Where’d he put damn things... oh, there it is.

He pulls out a little envelop and rips it open, watching Hannibal’s face the whole time. Something changes in that stony expression, like the foundation underneath is cracking apart, and Face has no idea what’s going on. He knew the boss was going to be pissed at him - he’s been gone for a month, which wasn’t his plan and certainly not what he’d intended - but he was thinking...

The little silver pins tumble out into his hand and he puts them down on the table in next to Hannibal’s thigh. He doesn’t touch. He wants to, but he doesn’t. “Had to go get these back, colonel.” This ought to cheer him up, right?

“You’ve been gone for a month, looking for a set of rank? If you’re feeling sentimental, kid, you can order that shit online.”

Face shrugs and smiles a little. “One of the generals at the trial kept them, so those are actually yours.” The look on the Lynch’s face when Face had insisted that be written into the compensation package had almost been pay enough. Utterly confused. Of course that man would never understand what loyalty was, trying to manipulate him so baldly into not coming, asshole...

“What am I supposed do with these?”

“Oh, that’s the cool part,” Face says and retrieves a thick folder from the outer pocket of his bag. He’s got the order secured between stiff board, so they wouldn’t bend, snaps the tape with a flick of his pocket-knife and hands the top one proudly to Hannibal. “I found some papers while I was gone, too.”

His... his commander takes it, setting the silver oak leaf clusters aside, brow knitted as he reads.

Face waits. There will be a response.

That Presidential letterhead is unmistakable.

Hannibal’s thumb traces over the signature block, reading it for a the third time. “Full pardon?” he asks, voice thick with emotion.

“Reinstatement, rank, privileges, pay, retirement, completely clean records, monetary compensation upwards of half a mil apiece... yeah, full pardons,” the kid says, some repressed emotion trying to get to the surface. “Just need to sign the paperwork.”

“Face,” and he looks up, “how did you do this?”

“Helped ‘em find Lynch guilty.”

“Who? DoD?”

“CIA.”

“How...”

“They found us, about a month ago. Found me. Emptied out my apartment, stupid message-sending bullshit of theirs...”

Hannibal did the math. “That’s the day you went weird on me, wasn’t it?”

“I didn’t get much sleep that night,” he says, and there’s a rueful little smile.

“This wasn’t your decision to make for the rest of us,” Hannibal growls. Face hangs his head and doesn’t answer him. He softens a little. “Is this what you want, kid?”

He licks dry lips but still doesn’t meet Hannibal’s gaze. “I want what you want, sir. Always have.”

“And you think this is what I want?”

“Isn’t it?”

Was it?

Hannibal sets the pardon aside and picks up the rank. He remembers the day Morrison pinned these on, everybody packed into the O-Club, spilling out onto the lawn and into the parking lot outside, beer heavy in the air, cheers and applause and laughter as another colonel recounted old war stories over the club’s crappy AV system.

Lieutenant Templeton Peck had been snugged into a corner of the bar, so different from how he usually was on drinking nights, sipping slowly at a beer, not flirting with anybody’s girlfriend, just watching the proceedings, eyes bright, full. Kid had been here four months, fresh out of Ranger school, and Hannibal hadn’t seen him like this yet. Open. Vulnerable. Happy.

You enjoying yourself, lieutenant?

Never been to one of these before, sir.

We’ll have one for you soon enough, kid. We’ll make sure of that.

And he’d smiled a little, like he finally understood that he was part of what was going on here. It’s the same smile he’s wearing now. He was smiling at Hannibal. Smiling because of Hannibal, and Face has no idea how long that one little gesture haunted him afterward. Years. Because Hannibal knew the score on this one.

They couldn’t be together then, there, and they can’t be together anymore if they go back, and the former colonel’s heart breaks a little, thinking about his boy, carrying this burden alone, thinking that Hannibal would, that he actually would, but he just...

The rank hits the floor.

“...I can’t, Face.”

There’s a questioning look, but in Hannibal’s mind, there’s no question at all.

“I want you, kid,” he says, pushing into Face’s personal space, bracing himself against the back of the sofa with one hand. The kid even got the haircut. It’s been years since Hannibal’s seen in him that haircut. Hannibal wants it gone. Immediately.

“I... it’s not enough, boss. They took your life away, Hannibal...”

“You boys are my life, kid,” and Hannibal brings his other hand up to play in that too-short hair. “You’re my life, Face, you. God, Templeton, I love you...”

And then his arms are filled. Warm, wonderful lieutenant, clinging to him like his life depends on it.

“John, I’m so, I’m so sorry...”

“Shh,” Hannibal murmurs against his ear, and pushes back a little, wiping a silent tear away from a perfect cheekbone and kissing it softly. “Don’t worry about it, kid. I’ve always wanted to take one of these off you, anyway.”

That gets Face laughing, which lets Hannibal pull him up off the sofa and upstairs, shirts hitting the floor on the way, hands finding bare skin and all the little familiar places (that spot on Hannibal’s hip, the ticklish patch under Face’s ribs, the way they both gasp when Hannibal does that thing with his tongue) and it’s been too long, so it’s not going to be slow and sweet, like it will be after they’ve both taken the edge off here. After Hannibal’s restaked his claim and let his boy know exactly who he belongs to. He growls, and attacks the kid’s throat.

Face lets Hannibal tear the rest of the uniform off, relaxing even as kisses turn into bites and the boss sucks on his neck, leaving marks. He fumbles for Hannibal’s belt, with no success, the older man slapping his hands away and doing it all himself, somehow getting them naked. Face isn’t too worried about the particulars of it, because he ends up on his back, that strong body moving against his, erections against one another with a friction that’s threatening to shake his very soul loose.

Face goes with it, enjoying the way Hannibal’s body is responding to every brush, every discreet slide of contact, arching up into him and not being quiet at all.

The boss has the bottle of lube in his hands, rolling it to warm it. Face smiles up at him. Hannibal smiles down. Face spreads his legs. There’s no time for anything fancy tonight. They both just need to reconnect. The conman’s desperate for it.

It clicks open and there’s a delirious slide of fingers down past his balls, circling that tight ring of muscle and Face gasps as he’s breached, eyes rolling back in his head. One finger, then two, stretching and then gone.

“John...fuck me...” he hears himself panting.

“Won’t leave you, Temp,” comes the whispered response, and the hand on his face, and it’s all surprisingly gently compared to the force with which Hannibal pulls him up and drives into him a second later.

It hurts, but in the best possible way. Face thinks he hears himself scream out, but Hannibal’s being just as vocal and that’s good, too. The boss doesn’t give him any time to adjust or anything, just pulls all the way and slams back in. Repeats. Bruising.

The pace is punishing, and Face knows he’s going to be sore in the morning, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t care at all, because it means it’s over, that Hannibal’s decided they aren’t going back, that this is how things are going to be from now on, that they’re going to be together, that he doesn’t need to worry anymore, Hannibal’s there, Hannibal’s always going to be here...

His cheeks are wet and he doesn’t care, as the boss eventually slows, makes his strokes longer and easier, taking the force down but somehow ratcheting up the intensity, the heat between them growing, mouths meeting again to heighten that sense of connection.

Face sighs at the transition, letting himself drift up into that sensation as Hannibal takes him higher and higher. It’s nice to be here, far from fighting himself anymore for something he can’t, shouldn’t, have. Hannibal told him he doesn’t have to worry about it anymore. Hannibal’s telling him that right now. Hannibal’s taking the burden away.

Hannibal’s making love to him.

And then everything but this a dim memory.

He’s not really sure how much time passes as they move with one another, perfectly in synch, nothing forgotten, new things learned, until there’s a warmth inside him that can only mean one thing and his own release pooling on his stomach and he catches Hannibal as the man slides off him, snuggling in against him, both of them still touching, playing, nothing serious. They’re both utterly exhausted. There won’t be any second round tonight.

Face nips at Hannibal’s ear, when he’s recovered enough to talk. “I love you, John.”

“I know you do, baby.” There’s an affectionate slap on his ass that makes him shudder a little. “But don’t you ever do that to me again, Face.”

A sudden thought chills him. He’s being selfish again. “What about BA and Murdock?”

“Shit, kid, Murdock fucking rules that clinic, and BA only came back in for the team. They’ll be fine.”

A moment more goes by, and Face has another thought. “Can we at least keep the money? That’s like, what, two million? I’m sure the CIA wouldn’t mind after what I did for them...”

Hannibal pushes himself up a little, yawning. “You are going to get us all killed, you know that, Face?”

Face grins devilishly and kisses the middle of Hannibal’s chest, letting his fingers play with a soft nipple as he does so. “We could buy an island, warm sand, cold beer, you could fuck me every day...”

“I can do that here, kid,” Hannibal grunts and smacks him again. “If you don’t run off on me again.”

“Yessir.”

“Face?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Go to sleep.”

“Fine,” he grumbles with mock anger, and presses himself full length against the other man, wrapping a leg between Hannibal’s. “You’re the boss,” he murmurs, and lets the sound of his lover’s heartbeat take him away into the night.