Remote Tour
Dec. 1st, 2010 06:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonora_conejaPairing: Hannibal/Face
Rating: pg-13
Warnings: none
Summary: I asked for something angsty, and I got this in response! Which was perfect, BTW...
I've been thinking for a while about prompting something where Face joins the army, meets Hannibal in Ranger school, falls in love etc, the typical stuff... and then he discovers Hannibal is very much unavailable. And he can't even hate the other guy cause he's not a big bad rival, he's just a nice guy and perfect for the boss. Cue angst. But I kind of want to see Hannibal/OMC for some reason and I didn't think anyone would want to do that.
So there it is if you're interested.
Years after the events of Early PCS, Face and Hannibal meet back up at a conference. Are the boys going to be able to kiss and make up, or are they going to lose their last chance at something good?
How many years had it been, now? Two, three? Face had lost count. How many years since Ranger School, since Bragg, since he’d left the States, since Hannibal, since he’d thought about Hannibal and now...
“You doing okay there, muchacho?”
He looked up. Shit. There was the last person - well, the second-to-last person - he wanted to see right now. What was his name? He couldn’t remember, and that must have been apparent, because the pilot was holding out a hand and smiling a weird, crooked little smile. His knuckles were bandaged up, just like Face’s left arm, bruises everywhere.
It'd all be good, except Face had seen them sitting together this morning.
“It’s Murdock, remember?”
He’d met him yesterday, out, down in one of those Roppongi back alleys, a couple Navy boys trying to pick a fight, the lanky Southerner’s attempts to extricate himself just pissing them off even more. God, he hated sailors. Who the fuck had scheduled a conference at the same time the USS George Washington was in port, anyway? He hadn’t exactly been thinking about walking away, but then he’d seen the tattoo, and what else was he supposed to do?
“Yeah, sorry, man. Peck.” He couldn’t use his first name, his nickname, not with this one. He didn't want Hannibal to know he was here. He couldn't deal with that. “You, uh, feeling okay?”
“You sure did a number on those guys last night,” Murdock said conversationally, a little glint in his eye. He’d asked around. Everyone said this guy was crazy. It’d be just like Hannibal to pick somebody like that up, and he wondered suddenly it they were... Face felt his stomach pinch up and he waved for the bartender.
“Yeah, well, you’re the one who went clubbing in a tank top and a cowboy hat.”
Murdock grinned and waved it off. “Hell,” he drawled, “you’d think those Navy boys would be a little looser about that. Hundred men go down on a sub, fifty couples come back up kind’a thing?”
That got Face laughing, which got Murdock laughing, and they were swapping gay jokes like lifelong friends. He’d learned not to get offended at those back in basic training, and besides, if it was in the service of mocking the Navy...
Then Murdock was saying something about his boss, excited, his accent getting thicker. Spooling up. Have you met my colonel, he’s batshit crazy, and he was suppos’d ta be comin’ down tonight.. Bet he’d like you...
Yeah, Hannibal would, he really would, Face wanted to say. Like Lieutenant Peck enough to let him PCS, let him leave without a phone call, an apology, a goodbye, a kiss... The asshole hadn’t even given him that courtesy. Why had he had to say those words, though? Even in jest or reference or whatever the hell it had been?
He’d spent a lot of time angry about that. Wasn’t really fair of him, Face knew, and he tamped the old fury back down. He was better than to start indulging in that again.
Hannibal couldn’t. He reminded himself of that. The colonel couldn’t do that for him, and he’d told himself he was okay with that. He’d been okay with that.
But he’d also been okay with never seeing him again. And yet here he was, at the same PACOM warfighters conference Face’s own commander had been called up for. Face had seen him this morning, coming back through the lobby of the military hotel, clapping Murdock on the shoulder, going in to breakfast. A glimpse. Nothing more. Just enough.
Shit. Shit. Shit. He should have figured.
Face had just sunk down in his chair, his commander and their chief giving him a strange look.
What the hell, Face?
Old commander, he’d explained, and they’d both nodded. Everybody knew there’d been some shit back when he first came in, and with Hannibal being as unorthodox as he was, nobody had ever really questioned his reasons for wanting to get out of there early.
“I’m just here for the free trip to Tokyo,” Face said, a little harsher than he’d intended. “I’m not real interested in the networking bullshit. ”
Murdock deflated a little and shrugged and left, and Face wondered how much a cab ride up to Roppongi Crossing would be.
Drinking in the hotel bar suddenly seemed like a very, very bad idea.
+++++
Fuck Roppongi.
Too many damn sailors. Too many other, better places to find bars in this city.
Which was why he found himself down in Shibuya, caught in its twisting neon canyons, the sweating crush crowding out of bars and game arcades and love hotels and clubs, a mass of humanity, the densest on the planet, in the midst of which he was completely alone. No eye contact, no shared language, adverted curiosity, inaction... nothing connecting him to anyone else at all.
It was one of the reasons he’d stayed in this part of the world so long, over here in Asia. Korea, Thailand, the Philippines, Okinawa, wherever the Army would send him, wherever the military had operations they couldn’t talk about. So many remote tours to volunteer for. And some men stayed for the sex, and there was so much of it if you knew where to look, and some for their own limited interpretation of the culture, and some for the missions.
Not him. He’d bored of all of that fast.
But it was peaceful here in Asia. A peaceful way to live, never having to deal with anything he didn’t want to deal with. Everything on his terms, and nobody else’s, picking and choosing, nothing ever forced, unwanted, unexpected...
Nothing like Hannibal.
Shit, he felt like he was sobering up. Not good right now.
Face didn’t get hangovers anymore. He didn’t get drunk anymore either. It was sort of an in-between state now, where he could tip a little to either side but generally didn’t, no matter how much he drank. It was an acquired skill he’d picked up during that year in Korea, one he wasn’t exactly proud of, but still, it came in useful. This occurred to him in the middle of his seventh beer in one of those faux-Irish pubs that the Japanese seemed to love.
This wasn’t going to do him any good, so he pushed back up into the light-soaked streets and headed back to the station. What the fuck was wrong with him? This was no time to be out, drinking alone, not with the conference still going on. And especially in a place with bars that didn’t close all night and trains that stopped running at midnight.
The trains.
He’d forgotten about that. It was 0130. Which meant he stuck here.
There was a coffeeshop, one of those local chains, up the main drag. 500 yen got him a gigantic drip and a place to sit down, sort himself out over the next couple of hours.
Hannibal.
It had been a shock.
But... was it really such a surprise? The Army wasn’t all that big anymore, and the Rangers were an even smaller component of that overall force. It made sense, it was bound to happen sooner or later, there was no way to avoid him forever, Peck, admit it, you’ve been wishing...
He pushed that away. Thoughts like that were unproductive. Distracted him from the real issue. The issue of being here, stuck in a relatively small hotel with a small group of people... that Hannibal was going to spot him eventually...
What was he going to do?
What was he supposed to say? I understand, I’m over it, over what? in fact, by-the-way how’s Jake doing...
How fucked up was this?
A stupid crush, the stupidest, one that had hurt him. All that pain, for no goddamn reason. Because Hannibal hadn’t cared enough to do something.
He was over Hannibal. He was. There hadn’t been anything, nothing at all that happened, nothing firm or certain. It had been easy. Stick it in a compartment and lock it away. Leave it behind. Forget. Forgotten.
You’ve been wishing...
Had he been lying to himself all these years?
And if that was the case... why weren’t those old emotions back?
Why couldn’t he feel anything at all?
He caught the first train back, canned coffee in hand, garnering himself some furtive, angry glances from the Japanese for drinking on a subway car. He ignored it. It was so easy to ignore things over here.
The hotel was right around the corner from Hiroo Station, not too far, five minute walk. He’d done it last night. All he had to do this morning was slip back in and maybe go for a short run, sweat it out a little, take a shower, be down in time for the 0900 briefing, no questions, maybe a chuckle from his commander, a joking when are you going to stop doing this crap, Face, spend the day avoiding thinking about...
He flashed his ID at the guard at the door. Tucked it back in his wallet, noticed he had at least three difference currencies in there, bumped somebody on the way back into the hotel, not really thinking about it. Hmm. Was that Euro?
Then he noticed.
The door hadn’t closed behind him.
“Face?”
He knew that voice. He knew that hand, right by his shoulder, holding the door, shaking a little, that strong body wrapped up in the still-clean gray PT shirt, those blue...
“Huh,” Face said, not really knowing what he looked like at that moment, shaking his head, smiling a little. Irony was a bitch sometimes, wasn’t it? “That fuckin’ figures.”
And he just kept going. He really needed a shower. And why in the hell did he have Euro, anyway, when he didn't have so much of a penny in US?
+++++
He was pretty sure he’d meant to go upstairs and hit the shower. That was the whole idea, right? He’d been out all night, he smelled like it, he needed to go put on a goddamn uniform... why was he standing here in front of the ATM? Why did he need cash?
How did this thing work, again?
“Face.”
Debit card. That’s right. He had a debit card in here somewhere, put it in the slot, enter his PIN...
“Face.”
That was louder.
What was his PIN? Three... seven... four... then what?
“Lieutenant!”
And there was a hand on his arm, pulling him away from the keypad, turning him around in the little alcove. It was tight, Face almost all the way up against the side wall. Trapped. No way to get around it. He sighed.
“It’s captain. I made captain last year,” he said, and let his eyes fall back to the machine. It was beeping, waiting for the last number.
“Oh, kid... I’m...I’m glad to hear...”
“You mind if I finish up here?”
“No, that’s...”
“Can you let go of my arm?”
“...sorry.”
And that single word, one Face never heard out the man before, cut straight through all the numbness that had been fogging through him since yesterday morning, straight down through it, opening up a little hole. A clear space he could actually look through and see who was standing in front of him, really look, really recognize...
Face couldn’t tell how he felt about it, what he wanted to do, where he wanted to go. Everything was lost in that fog. But he did know this was the first time Hannibal had ever gone out of his way to... do anything, actually, so he didn’t follow that instinct, screaming under everything else, to just walk the fuck away again.
Face let his back hit the wall as that hand uncurled from his wrist. “Thanks, Colonel Smith.”
“No problem, Captain Peck,” he said, and Face realized how soft they were both talking. How affectionate Hannibal sounded like that. The effort they were both making to not close that space between them, three and half years and a foot. Three and half years. A foot. If Face reached out his hand, he could have touched him.
He knotted his hands up. That wasn’t the way this worked.
How did this work?
“How you been, kid?”
The machine beeped at him again. Transition canceled. He pocketed the card as it was spit back out. What was he supposed to say? What the hell was he supposed to say? He needed to say something, wanted to... but shit, he couldn’t think...
“How’s Jake?”
It just came out. Blurted. Foot-in-mouth, like he was a fucking twenty-four year old again, right out of Ranger training, fresh into Hannibal’s unit, meeting him for the first time, that feeling, the way his stomach had flipped a little bit, like a light had been turned on, illuminating something he’d never known was there...
But this was nothing like that day. There wasn’t any pride or concern or interest or friendship or anything right now. Nothing. But Face did get to watch the man kind of crumple, see him sag back a little, take a few deep breaths, some inscrutable emotion clap back down behind his eyes, those perfect eyes... and push away.
Leaving.
Gone.
Face hit his head against the wall.
Mother.
Fucker.
+++++
The urge to follow came much too late, like his synapses had slowed down, gone on vacation, failing to pass information along like they should be. That little voice, for the first time in years, had nothing to contribute. No input on the situation at all.
Just a mild relief washing through him, cold and clarifying, that maybe this would be it, and Hannibal wouldn’t try anything for the rest of their time here, and it’d all be over again in a few days. Face could go back to Okinawa, sit around the unit until their next mission came up, throw darts at the chaplain’s dartboard and try to find the words to express to the priest, what, exactly, had happened here.
I saw my old boss for the first time in years on my TDY up to Tokyo...
Your boss? You mean the man you said you’d fallen in...
That’s the one. And yeah, I thought I had, but that was a long time ago...
When are you going to stop running from this, Temp?
Father Richards had proved exceptionally open about the whole thing, when Face had finally found himself in the man’s office about six months ago, unable to take the silence in his own head any longer. He’d been expecting that lecture about homosexuality, the one the nuns used to give, that love-the-sinner-hate-the-sin bull, but no. Nothing like that.
Chaplain Richards let him talk, let him cry, offered him a box of tissues and prayed with him. But there weren’t any answers in sympathy or the silence of his own thoughts, and that long-dead Catholic in him sparked once, right then, like a match in wet wood; maybe this was what he’d been given, maybe this was what he needed, and even if he didn’t want it...
Amazingly, that was what got him back to the surface of things and out into the hall, looking, but by that time Hannibal had either gone on his run or back up to his room or somewhere away from here, away from him, and he took the stairs up to the fifth floor instead. Keyed his room open, and it was all he could do to keep from collapsing before he stripped down and got in the narrow little shower.
Water sluicing over his back, too hot and too weak to do much more than give him the shivers, Face tried to think about what had happened downstairs. He desperately needed something to be pissed about, a way to be angry at Hannibal, a way to condemn him for something, but there was nothing there. Nothing like that anyway.
Something must have happened to Jake, he thought. That relationship over, six years down the tube, an old friendship lost. Had he been the cause? He didn’t know if he could live with himself, it that was the case. He’d tried so hard, given up so much, for that not to happen, and if it had anyway...
“Get a grip on yourself, Peck,” he sputtered into the light spray and switched it off. Clean enough. Time to get downstairs.
His commander was down in the lobbying, buying coffee, and gave the captain an appraising once-over as he slumped into line with him, yawning. “Had a good night, Face?”
“Something like that.”
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Evade, his brain was screaming at him. “Missed the train. What kind of fucked up country stops the trains at midnight?”
His commander gave a short little laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t give a shit what you do with your off time, Face. But you look like hell warmed over. What’s going on?”
Did he? He hadn’t even checked. He had grabbed his uniform off the floor, he hadn’t really done anything with his hair, which was getting too long again anyway, he’d missed a button... “Saw my old commander.”
“Hannibal Smith?”
“Yeah, that’s the guy.”
“Look, Face, I don’t know what happened between the two of you...”
And this, at least, Face had an honest answer for. “I’m really not sure either, boss.”
“...and I don’t really give a shit. You're a damn good officer. Shouldn't care what your first CO out of training thought of you. Need me to talk to him?”
What Hannibal had thought of him? Not much at all, evidently. Was that true? It was according to the narrative he'd built up over the past three years. Hannibal hadn't cared, hadn't cared enough, wouldn't step beyond himself, didn't love him...probably nothing he should vocalize right now. "...no, don't. He just bumped into me, sir.”
“Then stay the fuck away from the asshole. If you need the day off, take it.”
“I can’t...”
His commander mad a little snorting noise in the back of his throat. “It’s the fuckin’ chair force’s day anyway. Everything’s going to be drones and cyberspace. It’s bullshit. Enjoy Tokyo. What do you want?”
They were at the counter, and that was the end of that particular conversation.
Face swore to himself that there wasn’t going to be another. They missed their chance, he and Hannibal. And while he thought he might have caught a glimpse of him and that other guy, Murdock, as he was headed back to the elevators and his room and sleep and unconsciousness and none of this, he just kept his head down and didn't make eye contact.
What more needed to be said?
But the whole thing was no good and he should have known that was going to be the case. He had that dream again, the one he had sometimes still, the one he’d tried so hard to never have again. The one where he went in for one of those evening mentoring sessions, one of their chats, and instead of tossing him a beer or asking him what he thought of the latest Cowboys game, Hannibal just backs him up against a wall, fingers light on his arms, nothing really touching, all his nerves screaming approval.
He wants this. Wants it like nothing else.
Face hated this dream.
The one where they stared at each other for a moment, Hannibal smiling down on him with that strange, heady mix of wonder and affection he always had when he thought nobody was looking, Face starting to shake, and then the distance was gone. Noses brush accidently, he laughs a little and Hannibal’s lips seal down, tongue flicking out, hands soft now against his chest, pushing just a little, searching, tickling down for the hem, the pressure between them growing, hands wandering lowering, the buttons on his fly popping open, one by one, that first downward pull...
Face woke himself up, violent, very nearly hitting his hand against the headboard, thrashing for the light. He sat up, rubbed his hands through his hair. Afternoon already. He’d slept for ten hours. It was time to get up, before that dream ambushed him again.
That was Wednesday. The conference ended officially on Friday, after lunch and the senior leadership roundtable, a bunch of the brass clustered at one end of the room, answering questions about the future of joint operations and need for dialogue between the services, and a bunch of stuff Face didn’t care about. Special Forces worked differently. They corrdinated when they needed to, with who they needed to. Navy, SAS, the Gurkhas... fucking anybody. Why was he here, listening to this shit? Didn’t matter. It was over.
He’d asked for some leave and he’d kept his room and he had a couple things planned, but nothing serious or firm. Five extra days here. Instant cheap vacation. And the best part of waking up on Saturday was that he didn’t have to worry about running into Hannibal in lobby, at breakfast, in a briefing, during a small-group breakout... none of that. He was free from it. Free from him, and he cursed himself for being an idiot, for thinking any different, for thinking it was some kind of good thing that they were both magically together...
There was a knock on the door. Probably room service or something. He had slept in again, Friday night being what it was and all. “Yeah, hang on!” he yelled and grabbed a robe out of the closet. Tied it on. Opened the door.
“Kid...”
He sighed. So, Chaplain Richards had been right. He wasn’t going to get a pass on this, after all.
If Hannibal was here, for him and not by some stupid accident of fate...
Face was so tired of running.
He moved aside, and let him in.
Face took up a defensive posture on the wall, up against the little shelf where the coffeemaker and TV were. He folded his arms tight against his chest, wondering what the hell Hannibal was up to as the older man sat heavily down on the bed. Neither spoke, and Face was keenly aware of all the little details of the room. Uncomfortable. The whole thing, just fucking uncomfortable, and Hannibal must have felt it too.
“It’s good to see you, kid,” he said, and pushed off to leave.
Face held out a hand, desperation stabbing up like adrenaline in a firefight. “No, no... colonel, you don’t have to.”
Hannibal kind of nodded and settled back down, uneasy or something. Face realized he’d never seen Hannibal like this before. What was it? Then Hannibal ran a hand through that silver hair of his, followed it up to the ceiling as he stroked back. “Jake and I... we aren’t... we aren’t seeing each other any more.”
“Oh, shit, colonel, I’m...”
“It was sixteen months, the last time, Afghanistan, about a year after you left. Came back, there was somebody else in his apartment, no forwarding address, cell number not working anymore. He'd, uh, he'd left a letter with the landlord, said it would be easier like this...” and then Hannibal’s eyes snapped back down against his own words, not really focusing on anything, running one palm across the other, then back. “Sorry, it’s not your problem, kid. I just... I haven’t been able...”
Face felt something snap in his chest, deep down, below his heart. How long had Hannibal been dealing with this? Over a year? Alone, with nobody there, something like that, a decade, just gone? Unable to talk about, unable to even mention it, no choice but to choke it up and go blow things up on the firing range and do paperwork after and pretend like nothing was wrong? Nobody around he could trust...
It hit Face, hard and sudden, right there. That was what they’d had between them.
And wasn’t that really the essence of what they’d had, what they’d lost? A relationship, not that kind, but something more important, a friendship, a comraderie, a sense of belonging with somebody else, like they’d always known each other and always would, the kind of thing you might only get once or twice in a lifetime, something they’d both thrown away through their own fucking stupidity. Hannibal’s. His.
The captain swallowed. He could do this. “It’s good to see you, too, sir.”
“You can call me Hannibal, kid.” The tone was light, but the words were sad.
“I know, but...” and Face just shook his head. No, he really couldn’t. He couldn’t explain it. Rank was much safer right now, keeping him grounded. “It’s just that...jesus, why the fuck did you do this to me?”
It was whispered. It was unintended. So it hung.
He could feel the tension. He was grating across it, threatening to snap this apart. He couldn’t trust him. Hannibal would be gone again, Hannibal would let him leave, Hannibal wouldn’t...
And then, inexplicably, wonderfully, Hannibal was laughing. Laughing. Face looked up at him in disbelief, moisture clouding his eyes.
“Fuck, kid,” the colonel said, right in front of him now, those blue eyes fixed on his own. They weren’t touching. That was good. Face didn’t think he could handle that. But Hannibal was holding back, and that counted for something. “I assume you’re on leave?”
Face nodded. “You?”
“I moved my flight to Sunday. I was wondering... did you have plans tonight?”
“Drinking, fuck something, hit an all night bookstore afterwards,” he shrugged, and wondered at the little flinch in Hannibal. Had he gotten that careless, that callous? “Nothing important.”
Hannibal looked at him, like he was trying to figure out who was in there, who’d just answered him, and it occurred to Face that he’d changed in the last three and a half years. Changed a lot. Hannibal had to see it.
But it must not have mattered, or maybe Hannibal wasn’t concerned about it right then, because he smiled, and somehow, everything was okay for a minute.
“I heard about this place, I’ve been told I had to go see it. You got anything decent to wear?”
“I’m sure I can dig something up.”
And Face grinned back, despite himself.
+++++
When the elevator finally opened on the top floor of the Park Hyatt Tokyo, the sun was just starting to set.
Face had met Hannibal in the lobby of the hotel, the place full of military families from the local bases, kids running around in swimsuits, wives chatting over lattes, groups of young enlisted guys heading out, enjoying the weekend. Rowdy, and public, and Face was glad for that. It meant Hannibal just gave him a once over, and a little approving smile and that was it. They were out the door.
And now, one sweaty, crushing subway trip and a short cab ride later, they were here. Looking north over Tokyo, the lights just coming on, the sun low over distant, stunted mountains that marked the only end of the city, the sky afire. The walls were non-existent; everything was glass, floor to ceiling. Face allowed himself a slight grin, and he could hear it in Hannibal’s voice as he spoke.
“What do you think, kid?”
A pair of black-suited employees bowed to them as they turned right, east, towards the New York Bar, and led them to a small table with ridiculously nice leather chairs, soft gold lighting, right up against the glass.
The world laid out before them. A perfect view, the city darkening to cobalt blue, the neon smears of Shinjuku and Ikebukero and Shibuya against the dark splotches of park, the grids of gigantic apartment high-rises, the glow draining from the eastern horizon, the sky fading to black.
“It’s amazing.”
“Yeah. Seems to fit.”
They got their menus and ordered, Hannibal from the ridiculously comprehensive whiskey list, and Face going for one of their house specials. Live jazz in an hour. The colonel leaned back and smiled, like he was relaxing for the first time in a long, long time. The captain scanned the room. Nothing military, and hardly anybody this early. A few businessmen, a young couple, the girl dripping in diamonds. Nothing to worry about.
“What industry do you want to work in?” Face asked in a low, teasing voice. This was another thing he loved about Asia - plenty of practice for cons. He’d always been decent at getting what he wanted, but since coming here, he’d learned how much fun it could be, just sitting around and convincing people he was something and someone completely different that what and who he was. He’d gotten good, better than he’d ever been. It was one of his favorite hobbies.
Hannibal frowned. “What?”
“Just in case. I’m going to say diplomat corps. You comfortable with that?”
"Comfortable with... is this...” and then the colonel shook his head, staring out the window, thinking about what, Face didn’t know. Like he didn’t quite recognize the man sitting across from him. Like, somehow, he still expected Face to be that uneasy, unsure, stupid little boy he’d been. Back before all this, before the last few years of the Pacific Rim, of all the drinking and whoring and killing and forgetting... but maybe Hannibal understood that. He must have had similar experiences as a young officer. Face couldn’t be sure. They’d never talked about those. “A lot’s changed, hasn’t it, Face?”
“Three and a half years...”
“... it’s a long time, kid...”
“...yeah. It is.”
Hannibal turned back towards him. Almost dark. Rivers of light were forming between buildings, held in the elevated curves of freeway. “You didn’t have to...”
“No, I did. I really did,” Face told him, and felt a pang of guilt. He’d left. Jake had left. Left him. And Hannibal deserved more than that, didn’t he? Didn’t he deserve something better than that?
Could Face give that to him? Was he capable of it? Was he expected to?
Hannibal nodded. “Your remote in Okinawa’s up in what, five months?”
“I’ve already got a follow-on to Thailand lined up...”
“Fuck Thailand. Come back to the States, work for me. My team gets all the shit nobody else can handle. It’s a good time.”
Everything went very still in Face’s mind for a moment. Going back, going home...“Hannibal...”
And the older man’s smile at that, his name, was almost enough to make him say yes, right there.
Then their drinks came, effectively interrupting all of that, the scotch with just the right amount of ice, and his own...
“Pink martini. Nice choice, kid,” Hannibal said with a huge grin as the younger man fingered the icy glass and took a sip.
“It’s delicious.”
“And it’s pink.”
Neither man offered, and neither man asked. They'd already talk about it too much. Now, that issue was off the table, and they both understood it, understood the other understood. Too many things had been lost, too many broken, too many things dead between them. So for right now, they were exactly what they were, just a couple of Rangers, out enjoying themselves.
And Face could almost see it.
Maybe things would fall apart again.
Maybe nothing would happen, and he’d be left wanting, and Hannibal left denying himself and they'd both be no better off.
But maybe those things would rebuild, all the old connections regrow. They’d repair their friendship and adjust and adapt and overcome... and those feelings would develop once again. It would be slow and halting, there’d be set-backs and anger and fights and fuck-ups, but it would progress. It would be worth it. And it would run in the background, neither man acknowledging it, neither admitting to it, and one day, it would be there. Not blinding and blazing like it was before. No, it’d be calmer, deeper, better, for everything they’d put into it without even knowing it. And those words would apply again, and they could be honest with each other, they’d be able to speak it aloud.
And then he’d break, or maybe Hannibal would, and there’d be contact again, there’d be that kiss they never had, touch and sweat and warmth, all the things they were never able to let themselves have...
Things could still fall apart. Things could...
No.
Face could live with those possibilities. Even the worst case scenario, he could accept, if it meant taking this chance. He wanted it, and he thought Hannibal might want it too, and he had faith, fuck, for the first time since leaving Hannibal’s office for the last time, he had faith that something might change, something might be better...
It all passed through his mind in a flash, and Facce knew that something similar had to be going on in Hannibal. They were both watching each other, wary and hopeful, so they didn’t give voice to any of it. Didn’t discuss it at all. Somehow, that would ruin it, scratch off the scab that was growing over the wounds that had never really healed.
Wasn’t it time?
Face just smirked, and leaned back in his chair, martini glass in hand. “Sounds like a plan, Hannibal, you picking me up.”
“On one condition, kid.”
The captain froze. “What condition?”
The colonel started laughing again, clean and clear and quiet, a laugh that was just meant for him, and leaned over the table, plucking the half-finished drink away and sliding it out of reach. “You stop drinking the girly shit, Templeton Peck.”
Then the two of them were laughing, tension gone, watching the city go to sleep, watching it wake up, shifting from one state into another, swapping stories, things they’d done, seen, missions and pranks and ridiculous people from all their times apart, the mirth carrying higher, carrying them back to those evenings nearly four years ago, just him and Hannibal, hanging around after hours, drinking beer, wondering, wanting, not knowing.
They ordered food and another round, Hannibal trying what Face had and admitting it was pretty damn good, Face criticizing his choice of Highland Park over Jameson, picking at the bowl of wasabi peanuts. Talking, talking again, about everything and nothing, until the jazz kicked in and the evening smoothed out...
...and everything, just for a little while, was okay.
Rating: pg-13
Warnings: none
Summary: I asked for something angsty, and I got this in response! Which was perfect, BTW...
I've been thinking for a while about prompting something where Face joins the army, meets Hannibal in Ranger school, falls in love etc, the typical stuff... and then he discovers Hannibal is very much unavailable. And he can't even hate the other guy cause he's not a big bad rival, he's just a nice guy and perfect for the boss. Cue angst. But I kind of want to see Hannibal/OMC for some reason and I didn't think anyone would want to do that.
So there it is if you're interested.
Years after the events of Early PCS, Face and Hannibal meet back up at a conference. Are the boys going to be able to kiss and make up, or are they going to lose their last chance at something good?
How many years had it been, now? Two, three? Face had lost count. How many years since Ranger School, since Bragg, since he’d left the States, since Hannibal, since he’d thought about Hannibal and now...
“You doing okay there, muchacho?”
He looked up. Shit. There was the last person - well, the second-to-last person - he wanted to see right now. What was his name? He couldn’t remember, and that must have been apparent, because the pilot was holding out a hand and smiling a weird, crooked little smile. His knuckles were bandaged up, just like Face’s left arm, bruises everywhere.
It'd all be good, except Face had seen them sitting together this morning.
“It’s Murdock, remember?”
He’d met him yesterday, out, down in one of those Roppongi back alleys, a couple Navy boys trying to pick a fight, the lanky Southerner’s attempts to extricate himself just pissing them off even more. God, he hated sailors. Who the fuck had scheduled a conference at the same time the USS George Washington was in port, anyway? He hadn’t exactly been thinking about walking away, but then he’d seen the tattoo, and what else was he supposed to do?
“Yeah, sorry, man. Peck.” He couldn’t use his first name, his nickname, not with this one. He didn't want Hannibal to know he was here. He couldn't deal with that. “You, uh, feeling okay?”
“You sure did a number on those guys last night,” Murdock said conversationally, a little glint in his eye. He’d asked around. Everyone said this guy was crazy. It’d be just like Hannibal to pick somebody like that up, and he wondered suddenly it they were... Face felt his stomach pinch up and he waved for the bartender.
“Yeah, well, you’re the one who went clubbing in a tank top and a cowboy hat.”
Murdock grinned and waved it off. “Hell,” he drawled, “you’d think those Navy boys would be a little looser about that. Hundred men go down on a sub, fifty couples come back up kind’a thing?”
That got Face laughing, which got Murdock laughing, and they were swapping gay jokes like lifelong friends. He’d learned not to get offended at those back in basic training, and besides, if it was in the service of mocking the Navy...
Then Murdock was saying something about his boss, excited, his accent getting thicker. Spooling up. Have you met my colonel, he’s batshit crazy, and he was suppos’d ta be comin’ down tonight.. Bet he’d like you...
Yeah, Hannibal would, he really would, Face wanted to say. Like Lieutenant Peck enough to let him PCS, let him leave without a phone call, an apology, a goodbye, a kiss... The asshole hadn’t even given him that courtesy. Why had he had to say those words, though? Even in jest or reference or whatever the hell it had been?
He’d spent a lot of time angry about that. Wasn’t really fair of him, Face knew, and he tamped the old fury back down. He was better than to start indulging in that again.
Hannibal couldn’t. He reminded himself of that. The colonel couldn’t do that for him, and he’d told himself he was okay with that. He’d been okay with that.
But he’d also been okay with never seeing him again. And yet here he was, at the same PACOM warfighters conference Face’s own commander had been called up for. Face had seen him this morning, coming back through the lobby of the military hotel, clapping Murdock on the shoulder, going in to breakfast. A glimpse. Nothing more. Just enough.
Shit. Shit. Shit. He should have figured.
Face had just sunk down in his chair, his commander and their chief giving him a strange look.
What the hell, Face?
Old commander, he’d explained, and they’d both nodded. Everybody knew there’d been some shit back when he first came in, and with Hannibal being as unorthodox as he was, nobody had ever really questioned his reasons for wanting to get out of there early.
“I’m just here for the free trip to Tokyo,” Face said, a little harsher than he’d intended. “I’m not real interested in the networking bullshit. ”
Murdock deflated a little and shrugged and left, and Face wondered how much a cab ride up to Roppongi Crossing would be.
Drinking in the hotel bar suddenly seemed like a very, very bad idea.
+++++
Fuck Roppongi.
Too many damn sailors. Too many other, better places to find bars in this city.
Which was why he found himself down in Shibuya, caught in its twisting neon canyons, the sweating crush crowding out of bars and game arcades and love hotels and clubs, a mass of humanity, the densest on the planet, in the midst of which he was completely alone. No eye contact, no shared language, adverted curiosity, inaction... nothing connecting him to anyone else at all.
It was one of the reasons he’d stayed in this part of the world so long, over here in Asia. Korea, Thailand, the Philippines, Okinawa, wherever the Army would send him, wherever the military had operations they couldn’t talk about. So many remote tours to volunteer for. And some men stayed for the sex, and there was so much of it if you knew where to look, and some for their own limited interpretation of the culture, and some for the missions.
Not him. He’d bored of all of that fast.
But it was peaceful here in Asia. A peaceful way to live, never having to deal with anything he didn’t want to deal with. Everything on his terms, and nobody else’s, picking and choosing, nothing ever forced, unwanted, unexpected...
Nothing like Hannibal.
Shit, he felt like he was sobering up. Not good right now.
Face didn’t get hangovers anymore. He didn’t get drunk anymore either. It was sort of an in-between state now, where he could tip a little to either side but generally didn’t, no matter how much he drank. It was an acquired skill he’d picked up during that year in Korea, one he wasn’t exactly proud of, but still, it came in useful. This occurred to him in the middle of his seventh beer in one of those faux-Irish pubs that the Japanese seemed to love.
This wasn’t going to do him any good, so he pushed back up into the light-soaked streets and headed back to the station. What the fuck was wrong with him? This was no time to be out, drinking alone, not with the conference still going on. And especially in a place with bars that didn’t close all night and trains that stopped running at midnight.
The trains.
He’d forgotten about that. It was 0130. Which meant he stuck here.
There was a coffeeshop, one of those local chains, up the main drag. 500 yen got him a gigantic drip and a place to sit down, sort himself out over the next couple of hours.
Hannibal.
It had been a shock.
But... was it really such a surprise? The Army wasn’t all that big anymore, and the Rangers were an even smaller component of that overall force. It made sense, it was bound to happen sooner or later, there was no way to avoid him forever, Peck, admit it, you’ve been wishing...
He pushed that away. Thoughts like that were unproductive. Distracted him from the real issue. The issue of being here, stuck in a relatively small hotel with a small group of people... that Hannibal was going to spot him eventually...
What was he going to do?
What was he supposed to say? I understand, I’m over it, over what? in fact, by-the-way how’s Jake doing...
How fucked up was this?
A stupid crush, the stupidest, one that had hurt him. All that pain, for no goddamn reason. Because Hannibal hadn’t cared enough to do something.
He was over Hannibal. He was. There hadn’t been anything, nothing at all that happened, nothing firm or certain. It had been easy. Stick it in a compartment and lock it away. Leave it behind. Forget. Forgotten.
You’ve been wishing...
Had he been lying to himself all these years?
And if that was the case... why weren’t those old emotions back?
Why couldn’t he feel anything at all?
He caught the first train back, canned coffee in hand, garnering himself some furtive, angry glances from the Japanese for drinking on a subway car. He ignored it. It was so easy to ignore things over here.
The hotel was right around the corner from Hiroo Station, not too far, five minute walk. He’d done it last night. All he had to do this morning was slip back in and maybe go for a short run, sweat it out a little, take a shower, be down in time for the 0900 briefing, no questions, maybe a chuckle from his commander, a joking when are you going to stop doing this crap, Face, spend the day avoiding thinking about...
He flashed his ID at the guard at the door. Tucked it back in his wallet, noticed he had at least three difference currencies in there, bumped somebody on the way back into the hotel, not really thinking about it. Hmm. Was that Euro?
Then he noticed.
The door hadn’t closed behind him.
“Face?”
He knew that voice. He knew that hand, right by his shoulder, holding the door, shaking a little, that strong body wrapped up in the still-clean gray PT shirt, those blue...
“Huh,” Face said, not really knowing what he looked like at that moment, shaking his head, smiling a little. Irony was a bitch sometimes, wasn’t it? “That fuckin’ figures.”
And he just kept going. He really needed a shower. And why in the hell did he have Euro, anyway, when he didn't have so much of a penny in US?
+++++
He was pretty sure he’d meant to go upstairs and hit the shower. That was the whole idea, right? He’d been out all night, he smelled like it, he needed to go put on a goddamn uniform... why was he standing here in front of the ATM? Why did he need cash?
How did this thing work, again?
“Face.”
Debit card. That’s right. He had a debit card in here somewhere, put it in the slot, enter his PIN...
“Face.”
That was louder.
What was his PIN? Three... seven... four... then what?
“Lieutenant!”
And there was a hand on his arm, pulling him away from the keypad, turning him around in the little alcove. It was tight, Face almost all the way up against the side wall. Trapped. No way to get around it. He sighed.
“It’s captain. I made captain last year,” he said, and let his eyes fall back to the machine. It was beeping, waiting for the last number.
“Oh, kid... I’m...I’m glad to hear...”
“You mind if I finish up here?”
“No, that’s...”
“Can you let go of my arm?”
“...sorry.”
And that single word, one Face never heard out the man before, cut straight through all the numbness that had been fogging through him since yesterday morning, straight down through it, opening up a little hole. A clear space he could actually look through and see who was standing in front of him, really look, really recognize...
Face couldn’t tell how he felt about it, what he wanted to do, where he wanted to go. Everything was lost in that fog. But he did know this was the first time Hannibal had ever gone out of his way to... do anything, actually, so he didn’t follow that instinct, screaming under everything else, to just walk the fuck away again.
Face let his back hit the wall as that hand uncurled from his wrist. “Thanks, Colonel Smith.”
“No problem, Captain Peck,” he said, and Face realized how soft they were both talking. How affectionate Hannibal sounded like that. The effort they were both making to not close that space between them, three and half years and a foot. Three and half years. A foot. If Face reached out his hand, he could have touched him.
He knotted his hands up. That wasn’t the way this worked.
How did this work?
“How you been, kid?”
The machine beeped at him again. Transition canceled. He pocketed the card as it was spit back out. What was he supposed to say? What the hell was he supposed to say? He needed to say something, wanted to... but shit, he couldn’t think...
“How’s Jake?”
It just came out. Blurted. Foot-in-mouth, like he was a fucking twenty-four year old again, right out of Ranger training, fresh into Hannibal’s unit, meeting him for the first time, that feeling, the way his stomach had flipped a little bit, like a light had been turned on, illuminating something he’d never known was there...
But this was nothing like that day. There wasn’t any pride or concern or interest or friendship or anything right now. Nothing. But Face did get to watch the man kind of crumple, see him sag back a little, take a few deep breaths, some inscrutable emotion clap back down behind his eyes, those perfect eyes... and push away.
Leaving.
Gone.
Face hit his head against the wall.
Mother.
Fucker.
+++++
The urge to follow came much too late, like his synapses had slowed down, gone on vacation, failing to pass information along like they should be. That little voice, for the first time in years, had nothing to contribute. No input on the situation at all.
Just a mild relief washing through him, cold and clarifying, that maybe this would be it, and Hannibal wouldn’t try anything for the rest of their time here, and it’d all be over again in a few days. Face could go back to Okinawa, sit around the unit until their next mission came up, throw darts at the chaplain’s dartboard and try to find the words to express to the priest, what, exactly, had happened here.
I saw my old boss for the first time in years on my TDY up to Tokyo...
Your boss? You mean the man you said you’d fallen in...
That’s the one. And yeah, I thought I had, but that was a long time ago...
When are you going to stop running from this, Temp?
Father Richards had proved exceptionally open about the whole thing, when Face had finally found himself in the man’s office about six months ago, unable to take the silence in his own head any longer. He’d been expecting that lecture about homosexuality, the one the nuns used to give, that love-the-sinner-hate-the-sin bull, but no. Nothing like that.
Chaplain Richards let him talk, let him cry, offered him a box of tissues and prayed with him. But there weren’t any answers in sympathy or the silence of his own thoughts, and that long-dead Catholic in him sparked once, right then, like a match in wet wood; maybe this was what he’d been given, maybe this was what he needed, and even if he didn’t want it...
Amazingly, that was what got him back to the surface of things and out into the hall, looking, but by that time Hannibal had either gone on his run or back up to his room or somewhere away from here, away from him, and he took the stairs up to the fifth floor instead. Keyed his room open, and it was all he could do to keep from collapsing before he stripped down and got in the narrow little shower.
Water sluicing over his back, too hot and too weak to do much more than give him the shivers, Face tried to think about what had happened downstairs. He desperately needed something to be pissed about, a way to be angry at Hannibal, a way to condemn him for something, but there was nothing there. Nothing like that anyway.
Something must have happened to Jake, he thought. That relationship over, six years down the tube, an old friendship lost. Had he been the cause? He didn’t know if he could live with himself, it that was the case. He’d tried so hard, given up so much, for that not to happen, and if it had anyway...
“Get a grip on yourself, Peck,” he sputtered into the light spray and switched it off. Clean enough. Time to get downstairs.
His commander was down in the lobbying, buying coffee, and gave the captain an appraising once-over as he slumped into line with him, yawning. “Had a good night, Face?”
“Something like that.”
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Evade, his brain was screaming at him. “Missed the train. What kind of fucked up country stops the trains at midnight?”
His commander gave a short little laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t give a shit what you do with your off time, Face. But you look like hell warmed over. What’s going on?”
Did he? He hadn’t even checked. He had grabbed his uniform off the floor, he hadn’t really done anything with his hair, which was getting too long again anyway, he’d missed a button... “Saw my old commander.”
“Hannibal Smith?”
“Yeah, that’s the guy.”
“Look, Face, I don’t know what happened between the two of you...”
And this, at least, Face had an honest answer for. “I’m really not sure either, boss.”
“...and I don’t really give a shit. You're a damn good officer. Shouldn't care what your first CO out of training thought of you. Need me to talk to him?”
What Hannibal had thought of him? Not much at all, evidently. Was that true? It was according to the narrative he'd built up over the past three years. Hannibal hadn't cared, hadn't cared enough, wouldn't step beyond himself, didn't love him...probably nothing he should vocalize right now. "...no, don't. He just bumped into me, sir.”
“Then stay the fuck away from the asshole. If you need the day off, take it.”
“I can’t...”
His commander mad a little snorting noise in the back of his throat. “It’s the fuckin’ chair force’s day anyway. Everything’s going to be drones and cyberspace. It’s bullshit. Enjoy Tokyo. What do you want?”
They were at the counter, and that was the end of that particular conversation.
Face swore to himself that there wasn’t going to be another. They missed their chance, he and Hannibal. And while he thought he might have caught a glimpse of him and that other guy, Murdock, as he was headed back to the elevators and his room and sleep and unconsciousness and none of this, he just kept his head down and didn't make eye contact.
What more needed to be said?
But the whole thing was no good and he should have known that was going to be the case. He had that dream again, the one he had sometimes still, the one he’d tried so hard to never have again. The one where he went in for one of those evening mentoring sessions, one of their chats, and instead of tossing him a beer or asking him what he thought of the latest Cowboys game, Hannibal just backs him up against a wall, fingers light on his arms, nothing really touching, all his nerves screaming approval.
He wants this. Wants it like nothing else.
Face hated this dream.
The one where they stared at each other for a moment, Hannibal smiling down on him with that strange, heady mix of wonder and affection he always had when he thought nobody was looking, Face starting to shake, and then the distance was gone. Noses brush accidently, he laughs a little and Hannibal’s lips seal down, tongue flicking out, hands soft now against his chest, pushing just a little, searching, tickling down for the hem, the pressure between them growing, hands wandering lowering, the buttons on his fly popping open, one by one, that first downward pull...
Face woke himself up, violent, very nearly hitting his hand against the headboard, thrashing for the light. He sat up, rubbed his hands through his hair. Afternoon already. He’d slept for ten hours. It was time to get up, before that dream ambushed him again.
That was Wednesday. The conference ended officially on Friday, after lunch and the senior leadership roundtable, a bunch of the brass clustered at one end of the room, answering questions about the future of joint operations and need for dialogue between the services, and a bunch of stuff Face didn’t care about. Special Forces worked differently. They corrdinated when they needed to, with who they needed to. Navy, SAS, the Gurkhas... fucking anybody. Why was he here, listening to this shit? Didn’t matter. It was over.
He’d asked for some leave and he’d kept his room and he had a couple things planned, but nothing serious or firm. Five extra days here. Instant cheap vacation. And the best part of waking up on Saturday was that he didn’t have to worry about running into Hannibal in lobby, at breakfast, in a briefing, during a small-group breakout... none of that. He was free from it. Free from him, and he cursed himself for being an idiot, for thinking any different, for thinking it was some kind of good thing that they were both magically together...
There was a knock on the door. Probably room service or something. He had slept in again, Friday night being what it was and all. “Yeah, hang on!” he yelled and grabbed a robe out of the closet. Tied it on. Opened the door.
“Kid...”
He sighed. So, Chaplain Richards had been right. He wasn’t going to get a pass on this, after all.
If Hannibal was here, for him and not by some stupid accident of fate...
Face was so tired of running.
He moved aside, and let him in.
Face took up a defensive posture on the wall, up against the little shelf where the coffeemaker and TV were. He folded his arms tight against his chest, wondering what the hell Hannibal was up to as the older man sat heavily down on the bed. Neither spoke, and Face was keenly aware of all the little details of the room. Uncomfortable. The whole thing, just fucking uncomfortable, and Hannibal must have felt it too.
“It’s good to see you, kid,” he said, and pushed off to leave.
Face held out a hand, desperation stabbing up like adrenaline in a firefight. “No, no... colonel, you don’t have to.”
Hannibal kind of nodded and settled back down, uneasy or something. Face realized he’d never seen Hannibal like this before. What was it? Then Hannibal ran a hand through that silver hair of his, followed it up to the ceiling as he stroked back. “Jake and I... we aren’t... we aren’t seeing each other any more.”
“Oh, shit, colonel, I’m...”
“It was sixteen months, the last time, Afghanistan, about a year after you left. Came back, there was somebody else in his apartment, no forwarding address, cell number not working anymore. He'd, uh, he'd left a letter with the landlord, said it would be easier like this...” and then Hannibal’s eyes snapped back down against his own words, not really focusing on anything, running one palm across the other, then back. “Sorry, it’s not your problem, kid. I just... I haven’t been able...”
Face felt something snap in his chest, deep down, below his heart. How long had Hannibal been dealing with this? Over a year? Alone, with nobody there, something like that, a decade, just gone? Unable to talk about, unable to even mention it, no choice but to choke it up and go blow things up on the firing range and do paperwork after and pretend like nothing was wrong? Nobody around he could trust...
It hit Face, hard and sudden, right there. That was what they’d had between them.
And wasn’t that really the essence of what they’d had, what they’d lost? A relationship, not that kind, but something more important, a friendship, a comraderie, a sense of belonging with somebody else, like they’d always known each other and always would, the kind of thing you might only get once or twice in a lifetime, something they’d both thrown away through their own fucking stupidity. Hannibal’s. His.
The captain swallowed. He could do this. “It’s good to see you, too, sir.”
“You can call me Hannibal, kid.” The tone was light, but the words were sad.
“I know, but...” and Face just shook his head. No, he really couldn’t. He couldn’t explain it. Rank was much safer right now, keeping him grounded. “It’s just that...jesus, why the fuck did you do this to me?”
It was whispered. It was unintended. So it hung.
He could feel the tension. He was grating across it, threatening to snap this apart. He couldn’t trust him. Hannibal would be gone again, Hannibal would let him leave, Hannibal wouldn’t...
And then, inexplicably, wonderfully, Hannibal was laughing. Laughing. Face looked up at him in disbelief, moisture clouding his eyes.
“Fuck, kid,” the colonel said, right in front of him now, those blue eyes fixed on his own. They weren’t touching. That was good. Face didn’t think he could handle that. But Hannibal was holding back, and that counted for something. “I assume you’re on leave?”
Face nodded. “You?”
“I moved my flight to Sunday. I was wondering... did you have plans tonight?”
“Drinking, fuck something, hit an all night bookstore afterwards,” he shrugged, and wondered at the little flinch in Hannibal. Had he gotten that careless, that callous? “Nothing important.”
Hannibal looked at him, like he was trying to figure out who was in there, who’d just answered him, and it occurred to Face that he’d changed in the last three and a half years. Changed a lot. Hannibal had to see it.
But it must not have mattered, or maybe Hannibal wasn’t concerned about it right then, because he smiled, and somehow, everything was okay for a minute.
“I heard about this place, I’ve been told I had to go see it. You got anything decent to wear?”
“I’m sure I can dig something up.”
And Face grinned back, despite himself.
+++++
When the elevator finally opened on the top floor of the Park Hyatt Tokyo, the sun was just starting to set.
Face had met Hannibal in the lobby of the hotel, the place full of military families from the local bases, kids running around in swimsuits, wives chatting over lattes, groups of young enlisted guys heading out, enjoying the weekend. Rowdy, and public, and Face was glad for that. It meant Hannibal just gave him a once over, and a little approving smile and that was it. They were out the door.
And now, one sweaty, crushing subway trip and a short cab ride later, they were here. Looking north over Tokyo, the lights just coming on, the sun low over distant, stunted mountains that marked the only end of the city, the sky afire. The walls were non-existent; everything was glass, floor to ceiling. Face allowed himself a slight grin, and he could hear it in Hannibal’s voice as he spoke.
“What do you think, kid?”
A pair of black-suited employees bowed to them as they turned right, east, towards the New York Bar, and led them to a small table with ridiculously nice leather chairs, soft gold lighting, right up against the glass.
The world laid out before them. A perfect view, the city darkening to cobalt blue, the neon smears of Shinjuku and Ikebukero and Shibuya against the dark splotches of park, the grids of gigantic apartment high-rises, the glow draining from the eastern horizon, the sky fading to black.
“It’s amazing.”
“Yeah. Seems to fit.”
They got their menus and ordered, Hannibal from the ridiculously comprehensive whiskey list, and Face going for one of their house specials. Live jazz in an hour. The colonel leaned back and smiled, like he was relaxing for the first time in a long, long time. The captain scanned the room. Nothing military, and hardly anybody this early. A few businessmen, a young couple, the girl dripping in diamonds. Nothing to worry about.
“What industry do you want to work in?” Face asked in a low, teasing voice. This was another thing he loved about Asia - plenty of practice for cons. He’d always been decent at getting what he wanted, but since coming here, he’d learned how much fun it could be, just sitting around and convincing people he was something and someone completely different that what and who he was. He’d gotten good, better than he’d ever been. It was one of his favorite hobbies.
Hannibal frowned. “What?”
“Just in case. I’m going to say diplomat corps. You comfortable with that?”
"Comfortable with... is this...” and then the colonel shook his head, staring out the window, thinking about what, Face didn’t know. Like he didn’t quite recognize the man sitting across from him. Like, somehow, he still expected Face to be that uneasy, unsure, stupid little boy he’d been. Back before all this, before the last few years of the Pacific Rim, of all the drinking and whoring and killing and forgetting... but maybe Hannibal understood that. He must have had similar experiences as a young officer. Face couldn’t be sure. They’d never talked about those. “A lot’s changed, hasn’t it, Face?”
“Three and a half years...”
“... it’s a long time, kid...”
“...yeah. It is.”
Hannibal turned back towards him. Almost dark. Rivers of light were forming between buildings, held in the elevated curves of freeway. “You didn’t have to...”
“No, I did. I really did,” Face told him, and felt a pang of guilt. He’d left. Jake had left. Left him. And Hannibal deserved more than that, didn’t he? Didn’t he deserve something better than that?
Could Face give that to him? Was he capable of it? Was he expected to?
Hannibal nodded. “Your remote in Okinawa’s up in what, five months?”
“I’ve already got a follow-on to Thailand lined up...”
“Fuck Thailand. Come back to the States, work for me. My team gets all the shit nobody else can handle. It’s a good time.”
Everything went very still in Face’s mind for a moment. Going back, going home...“Hannibal...”
And the older man’s smile at that, his name, was almost enough to make him say yes, right there.
Then their drinks came, effectively interrupting all of that, the scotch with just the right amount of ice, and his own...
“Pink martini. Nice choice, kid,” Hannibal said with a huge grin as the younger man fingered the icy glass and took a sip.
“It’s delicious.”
“And it’s pink.”
Neither man offered, and neither man asked. They'd already talk about it too much. Now, that issue was off the table, and they both understood it, understood the other understood. Too many things had been lost, too many broken, too many things dead between them. So for right now, they were exactly what they were, just a couple of Rangers, out enjoying themselves.
And Face could almost see it.
Maybe things would fall apart again.
Maybe nothing would happen, and he’d be left wanting, and Hannibal left denying himself and they'd both be no better off.
But maybe those things would rebuild, all the old connections regrow. They’d repair their friendship and adjust and adapt and overcome... and those feelings would develop once again. It would be slow and halting, there’d be set-backs and anger and fights and fuck-ups, but it would progress. It would be worth it. And it would run in the background, neither man acknowledging it, neither admitting to it, and one day, it would be there. Not blinding and blazing like it was before. No, it’d be calmer, deeper, better, for everything they’d put into it without even knowing it. And those words would apply again, and they could be honest with each other, they’d be able to speak it aloud.
And then he’d break, or maybe Hannibal would, and there’d be contact again, there’d be that kiss they never had, touch and sweat and warmth, all the things they were never able to let themselves have...
Things could still fall apart. Things could...
No.
Face could live with those possibilities. Even the worst case scenario, he could accept, if it meant taking this chance. He wanted it, and he thought Hannibal might want it too, and he had faith, fuck, for the first time since leaving Hannibal’s office for the last time, he had faith that something might change, something might be better...
It all passed through his mind in a flash, and Facce knew that something similar had to be going on in Hannibal. They were both watching each other, wary and hopeful, so they didn’t give voice to any of it. Didn’t discuss it at all. Somehow, that would ruin it, scratch off the scab that was growing over the wounds that had never really healed.
Wasn’t it time?
Face just smirked, and leaned back in his chair, martini glass in hand. “Sounds like a plan, Hannibal, you picking me up.”
“On one condition, kid.”
The captain froze. “What condition?”
The colonel started laughing again, clean and clear and quiet, a laugh that was just meant for him, and leaned over the table, plucking the half-finished drink away and sliding it out of reach. “You stop drinking the girly shit, Templeton Peck.”
Then the two of them were laughing, tension gone, watching the city go to sleep, watching it wake up, shifting from one state into another, swapping stories, things they’d done, seen, missions and pranks and ridiculous people from all their times apart, the mirth carrying higher, carrying them back to those evenings nearly four years ago, just him and Hannibal, hanging around after hours, drinking beer, wondering, wanting, not knowing.
They ordered food and another round, Hannibal trying what Face had and admitting it was pretty damn good, Face criticizing his choice of Highland Park over Jameson, picking at the bowl of wasabi peanuts. Talking, talking again, about everything and nothing, until the jazz kicked in and the evening smoothed out...
...and everything, just for a little while, was okay.
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Date: 2011-11-25 06:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-25 09:14 pm (UTC)Glad to hear you enjoyed this! Thanks so much!