Daylight Part II
Mar. 6th, 2011 02:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonora_conejaPairing: Hannibal/Face (implied)
Rating: R
Warnings: mentions of rape, possible attempted suicide
Summary: A sequel to Daylight
Umm, so I got this in the comments for Daylight...
That's a great story but I like happy ends. Can I request for a sequel where Face finally can't take it anymore and breaks down in front of them resulting in a lot of comforting and a non-rough relationship between the four?
I feel kind of bad about this story and I don't want to give anybody the same kind of nightmares I get sometimes from these things, so... fill!
Face doesn’t really care about the bleeding.
He doesn’t tell the doctor that. Doesn’t tell the doctor that he’s not worried. Doesn’t tell the doctor that the only reason he’s here is to get this taken care of before Hannibal notices. Just fix it up, doc, and I’ll be on my way.
Nope, can’t say that, so the lieutenant has to put up the small, probing questions that burn him right to his core.
“Who did this to you?” the clinic doctor says as he tugs the last stitch into place, cuts it loose. Face has never seen him before. He never goes to the same place twice on the rare occasion that he has to get... sewn up. It’s not as common as the lieutenant had once feared, back when Hannibal misread his preferences, started all of this up. The colonel’s surprisingly careful. So Face isn’t worried about the doctor. He’ll never see him again.
Doesn’t mean he’s going to talk to him, though.
“Nobody,” he says, forehead crooked into his elbow, splayed out on his belly, pants off and shirt shoved up. The numbing sensation of the local doesn’t really cancel everything out. The doc’s done, but Face can feel his body fighting to regain control of the nerves down there, and those stitches starting to spark with pain. “Nobody.”
“I know you don’t have to answer me,” the doctor says and snaps off his exam glove, wheels his little stool over so that he can look Face in the face. “But I see prostitutes in here, men who get a little too frisky in the clubs, guys who like the pain...”
“I’m not a masochist,” Face says softly, looking up, feeling like he’s betraying Hannibal by saying that. Hannibal thinks he does. Why's he talking about this at all? Must be the drugs...
The doctor smiles, sad. “I know, son. I know.”
What’s safe? What’s easy? What can he say, without giving it all away? Something’s there, quick, and Face grabs for it. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“Son, you don’t have to put up with the abuse.”
“I love him,” the lieutenant whispers. It’s in character, right? Something battered wives say in television movies. Something somebody says when they're being... and don't stop it. Right?
But... something hot and horrible is flooding into his brain, spreading to every nerve, and Face buries his head again, realizing what he just said aloud. Realizing again exactly what he’s lost, what Hannibal took from him, what he’s been too scared to stand up for, all this time. Realizing what he’s just let himself admit to.
“He doesn’t know,” he repeats, desperate. Those fucking drugs...
“That he’s ripping you apart? Kid, there’s years of...”
“No, he doesn’t k-know I... that I...” And the heat surfaces, stinging and bright, blinding him, eyes leaking, and Face feels himself start shaking under the force of it. Words shaken right out of him. There’s no going back from this, not now that he’s... motherfucking drugs...
The doctor lays a hand on his shoulder, sitting with him, letting him lay like that for a while, until silent tears turn into wracking sobs and then back again. Face can barely feel the pat on his back, barely notices the little murmured question in his ear, do you need a place to stay tonight, and like an idiot, like the weak idiot that he is, Face nods back.
When he leaves in the morning, way too late to get to base on time, it’s with a handful of literature he dumps in the trash and a business card with neatly printed numbers for the doctor, the clinic, the nearest church, the abuse outreach program, a psychiatrist, suicide hotline... Face hates himself for keeping that.
But goddamn if his car doesn’t have a parking ticket on it, from being left in a daily parking lot overnight, and it’s not small. Rather big, in fact, and motherfucker, Face knows, this is one of those things he has to report up to Hannibal, if the police haven't already done it for him. No goddamn privacy in this man’s army, he thinks. Hannibal’s going to know.
He tries to shake that off and gets in, turns the key in the ignition, tells himself to focus. It hurts this morning.
But he knows it’s only going to get worse.
+++++
In Hannibal’s office, three hours after he was supposed to report, the smell of the downtown clinic showered off of him, the lieutenant scratches one foot with the other through his boots.
Hannibal’s pissed.
Face has always managed to hide these little medical fixes before. He’s usually the one who cleans them up, after, so Hannibal never sees the blood. Usually, he can get away with nothing but oral for a while. That’s bad, but in its own way. and not nearly as bad as a Big Reveal with the boss, with Murdock and BA, would be.
Not as terrible, as world-ending, as Hannibal learning that he’s actually hurting his...
“Goddamn it, kid, where were you last night?!”
Face flinches. Damn. Hannibal’s got that look, the one that usually precedes one of... and he he knows he can’t lie his way out of this. He says a silent prayer. Not this, not today, please... “I wasn’t fucking around on you, Hannibal. You know I’d never...”
“Don’t lie to me, Face!”
“Hannibal, no, I...” but he can’t think of another reason why he wouldn’t have been back at the house last night. He spends more nights there, at Hannibal’s place, than he does at his own little studio, which he mostly just maintains for appearances’ sake. And Hannibal doesn’t expect Face to sleep with him, has never asked and Face will never offer, but he does expect his lieutenant to stay where he can keep an eye on him.
The word abusive flashes up in Face’s mind again, and he knows he could stop this with a single sentence, a single word, no, but that's no answer. No answer at all.
So Face, hating himself, not knowing what else to do, lets Hannibal wrench him about, throw him against the edge of the desk. The lieutenant barely catches himself, palms under his abs and gripping that blunt corner, and Hannibal’s covering him, holding him by the shirt, the neck, like the alpha wolf dealing with some recalcitrant puppy. Complete with growling. “You forget about us, Face, about me? Just want to give you what you need...is it not good enough?”
It’s genuine, and it always has been, and it’s only that, his love for this man, that’s kept Face from action this long. But there are two fingers in his mouth, asking for spit as his ABUs are tugged down, and he knows what’s coming.
A staking of a claim, and if Hannibal does that, he’s going to notice, he’s going to feel, and it will all be over. The unsteady illusion Face has fought for years to maintain. Sacrificed everything to protect his commander from this ugly little truth. It’ll destroy the man...
So Face does the only thing he can think of.
Jams back into Hannibal’s body as hard as he can, twists around and lets his momentum carry a fist forward, a punishing hook that lands square on Hannibal’s jaw.
Not quite enough, evidently, and Hannibal launches.
Face knows he’s wouldn’t normally win this. Not in sparring. Not in foreplay, which guessing from the expression in the older man’s eyes, a little aroused, a little confused, focused, like he always gets focused, lik he doesn’t quite enjoy it either, that’s what he’s assuming this is.
But the lieutenant doesn’t have a choice. He lands a few good blows, tries to stop Hannibal from taking it to the ground. It’s hot and fast and angry, years of grief somehow informing his movements, and pretty soon, they’re not just grunting, and Face chokes as he feels those stitches rip from the force of it, and he’s got to stop this before it starts bleeding again...
“What the fuck?” the unit’s first sergeant roars, slamming the door open with a loud bang, BA right behind him, and Hannibal’s eyes are narrowed to slits as he’s forced to disengage.
Face pulls himself up, blocking the pain away, and storms out, past the first sergeant, who’s already talking to Hannibal in low, clipped words, pissed himself. Past BA, whose face flickers with something the lieutenant doesn’t take the time to read.
Fuck all of this, Face is thinking.
So he breaks his own rule, after that.
Goes back to the same clinic.
Same doctor, as last night, and the man just purses his lips and insists that Face take off his shirt this time, too. He changed, so everything’s clean. But, the doc thinks, “you might have cracked ribs,” so off it comes.
Then the doctor’s gloved hands are cold on his chest, ribs, shoulders, and he doesn’t say a damn thing about the tattoo on Face’s arm, but he’s looking at it, Face can feel him looking at it, and he bites his lip. It's bubbling up and he can't stop it. Doesn't really want to, anymore.
“It’s my commander.”
And goddamn, those tears are back.
+++++
Some time later, Face’s cell phone buzzes in his jean pocket, cast over a chair a little ways out of reach. The lieutenant shoots the doctor a pleading look, and the other man shakes his head.
“I can’t ignore that.”
“It your commander?”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not still expected to turn up when we get orders.”
“Do you really think that’s what this is about?” the doctor asks, laying the needle, the forceps, aside. He’s determined that nothing’s broken, nothing sprained or twisted or cracked. Nothing I can physically heal for you, he’d said right before he’d started fixing last night’s handiwork. But he’s pissed. Face can tell. His exterior’s studiously non-judgmental, but Face prides himself on reading people, the team relies on it and... yeah, the doctor’s pissed at Hannibal.
But not answering would be... “Not an option,” Face snaps, and the doctor throws his gloves in the trash and grabs a fresh pair, before handing the thing over.
On the screen, it’s the name of the clinic, a question mark. It’s BA’s number.
He sighs, hits the n key, sends.
The doctor takes the phone away from him and goes back to work. “Was it him?” he asks.
“No,” Face says, knowing damn well that it could have been any of the three of them using BA’s phone. “Just a friend.”
But still, two hours later, after the doctor tells him he really shouldn’t be driving but grudgingly admits he’s probably okay to do so if he stays off the painkillers until he gets home, Face isn’t really surprised as he pushes out into the dingy, crowded little waiting room, going for the front door with a filled prescription of Vicoden.
At what he sees.
There’s BA, sure.
But it’s Hannibal’s steel blue eyes that meet his own first, wide and full of confusion, and despite himself, Face feels his knees buckle, just a little, but there he is and there's where he needs to go, the door. Out. Away. Fuck, let this all be a bad dream...
“Kid,” Hannibal says in a voice that very nearly shatters the younger man apart. He reaches out a hand, lays it on Face’s arm to stop him, and he jerks away.
The doctor notices it immediately, and he’s right there, moving Face away and pulling them all into a slightly more secluded corner. It’s subtle, but unmistakable, the way the doctor puts himself between Face and Hannibal. Not the first time he’s done something like this, Face thinks.
“If you’re not off this property in five minutes, I will call the police,” the doctor says, low and steady.
BA tenses up. Hannibal’s eyebrows draw together and he blinks, still watching Face, clearly not understanding. “Why?"
"John..." Face mutters, wishing he could stop this. Perversely glad he can't. Hating himself for all of it.
The doctor's just watching. Very guarded. Obviously ready to step in. BA's on edge. This could get ugly...
"Kid, it’s not like we haven’t had fights before. Haven't hit the sand before. Why didn’t you go to the...” and he kind of trails off, not wanting to commit to anything military, but Face knows what he means.
Why didn’t he go to the on-base clinic?
“Sexual assault and battery is a crime in this state, sir, and I’m well-acquainted with the military’s rules on this sort of thing. I’d rather not force him into an unrestricted reporting situation...” the doctor replies, and the blood starts draining from Hannibal’s face, “... should he choose to finally do something about this.”
"I would never..." Hannibal tries to says.
“Temp, what’s he talking about?” BA asks softly.
Face pinches the bridge of his nose. No, goddamn it. This has to stop. Right fucking now, this has to stop. “Doc,” he says, “really, I’m fine.”
“You need to stand up to this."
"Stand up to what, Temp?" Hannibal asks faintly.
The doctor glares at him before continuing.
"I don’t think your body’s going to be able to handle much...”
“I’m fine!” he snaps, not wanting this to happen, not wanting this to happen here, not wanting Hannibal to have to endure the shame of being labeled a sexual offender in a room full of junkies and hookers needing STD tests. God, he’s fucked this up, fucked it all up, and he starts backing away, back towards the door. “Everything’s... fine.”
“Temp,” Hannibal says, as if he’s going into shock, reaching out again, swaying, and BA’s holding him steady on his feet, “Kid, come on, let’s get you home...”
“I’m not letting him leave with you,” the doctor says, putting a hand on the colonel’s chest and pushing him back. He turns to Face, who’s still backing up. “You sure have a place to stay?”
“I’m fine,” he whispers again, brain still rebelling at the very thought of this, of all of this, of everything, crashing down around him as he pushes out the door and back to his car.
There's a crazy thought playing in the back of his mind. That all of this is going to be over, all of it. He’ll wake up in morning, have this day again, his own little personal Groundhog Day, a big do-over, and none of this will ever be out in the open. They’ll never know what's happened. He'll never be hurting Hannibal like this...
But there’s Murdock, sitting back against the driver’s side door of Face’s Corvette, face red and sniffling into his sleeve a little, and he looks at Face, just for a second, and then Face shrugs, not knowing what else to do, and Murdock’s got two handfuls of his shirt and banging him back on the door of his car.
“What the hell, Face? Why, why didn’t you tell us!”
He looks up at the sky, just starting to burn with sunset. Goddamn, of all of them, of course... of course Murdock would figure it out... “Tell you what?”
“Don’t you fucking lie to me!” Murdock yells and rattles him a little. He could be doing a lot more damage, and Face could be getting loose, but that’s not the point here. Not right now, not with this. “Don’tcha dare!”
“Okay, okay, buddy,” he says, taking a risk and pushing a hand up into Murdock’s hair, running fingers along his scalp. It always calms him down, doesn’t it? “I’m not lying. No lies.”
“Butcha have been! You been lying, all this time, haven’t ya? Sayin’ you liked it like that! Sayin’ you... you... wanted...”
Murdock’s loud, too loud, and Face wants to point this out. About how screaming about gay sex in a downtown parking lot is not a good idea. About how he’s never said he liked it. About how this is a situation where the lies are been better. “...yeah, buddy, I lied.” Face swallows, his mouth like a desert, and it only comes out in a whisper, what he says next. “I... the pain, I’m not a...what Hannibal thinks, it's not... I... I’m sorry, HM, christ, I’m sorry...”
“Sorry don’t cover it!” Murdock’s starting to shake, and he slams Face into the door again. It hurts, but all he can feel is the other man’s grief, exploding out of him. “Sorry don’t mean we didn’t... I didn’t... you let us, all this time, hurtin' you... oh, god, faceman...” It dies into a whisper, then silence, and there are tears there now, shining bright in those sea-blue eyes.
Face uses that hand in soft hair to pull the pilot closer, pulling him in, until he can feel the warmth of his friend against him, gentle and comforting, fingers exploring in light touches, like he always does when he’s trying to calm the man down. Like he gets to do sometimes after their sessions, if Hannibal falls asleep first and there's no-one to stop him, no notion betrayed, if he cuddles with Murdock for a few minutes. But the pilot always remembers, smiles a little sadly, Hannibal said you don’t like that, don’t wanna be selfish, and Face is alone again.
He hates that.
And pretty soon, that’s all he’s going to have. The loneliness. He’s just lost it all. Lost them. He didn't want them like that, never has, never will, but he does want them. Can't stand the thought of losing them.
He’s the one who’s fucking selfish. The lieutenant knows he's not, but he can't stop thinking it. Being relieved that it's over.
Selfish.
So Face kisses the top of Murdock’s head and gives his sobbing friend what he needs, telling those bruises on his chest to shut the fuck up with the protesting already, goddamn it, and holds him in close. “I love you, buddy,” he whispers desperately, and lays his cheek on the spot he just kissed, rocking them both a little bit. “Everything's okay. I love you.”
Murdock sniffles again, and looks up at him. Shakes his head, and pushes away, regards him for a moment. “Don’t wanna hurt you no more, Faceman,” he says sorrowfully, and then he’s gone.
Face doesn’t remember the drive home.
+++++
Face doesn’t bother going in to work the next day. He’s a mass of pain, probably worse because of the additional tearing or the thick feeling in his head every time he tries to think about Hannibal or maybe something else. And screw it, Hannibal knows what the hell’s going on, right? He eats a pop-tart when he wakes up in the morning, takes four of the Valium, and sprawls out on his bed.
His, he thinks with a giggle right before he passes out. No, his bed is at Hannibal’s place and he wants to be there instead, and this entire apartment is just an illusion of normalcy, something’s he’s dreamed up right now to protect himself from the truth of his own sexual depravities...
And that’s not a dream he wants, he knows dimly, wandering through the halls and caverns of his own mind, finding himself in the lowest place he’s ever known himself to have, naked except for a collar, waiting on his knees with downcast eyes by the edge of some great able, yearning up into a heavy hand and its careless petting, fawning by this man who decides everything for him now, everything but this touch, this life stripped away from him, burned out under his own failed stewardship of who he once was, who he might have been, what he really wanted, what he’ll never be able to have, this the only, only option...
There’s a knock on the door, and Face blinks a little, cursing painkillers and pain in the same thought, trying to shake the nightmare. His stomach’s screaming, he feels completely dehydrated, his stomach pulled up and tight. The light’s shifted, probably early afternoon, then, and who the hell would be knocking?
Oh. That.
“Shirt, BA.” He acknowledges them with a nod and an unsteady voice. Stupid fucking military. Just because Hannibal’s got his little hand-picked team in them doesn’t mean he still doesn’t have to handle an entire company, where Murdock’s only loosely attached and Face is one of four chalk leaders and BA’s just a corporal. And their first sergeant likes to play things by the book. “I’m sorry, I mean to call in on leave, but... I had kind of a rough night, and...”
“Good. You’re not dead,” BA grunts.
The sergeant peers at Face, bites the inside of his cheek. “Can we come in, el-tee?”
He pushes the door wider, silent, and tries to forget the nightmare. He doesn’t want that from Hannibal. Was that where he was headed? Is that where they were going to end up? Is that what was going to happen to him, if he hadn’t...
“You don’t have much in your fridge,” the first sergeant observes, shutting that particular door. He comes back over to Face with a glass of water and holds it out. “Or your cabinets. Spend much time at home, lieutenant?”
Face takes it, plunking down at one of two chairs in the apartment, the table shoved in a corner, and doesn’t look him in the eyes. He can hear BA arranging himself somewhere unobtrusive and out of the way, just like he’s supposed to be. “You know me, shirt, always out.”
“Yeah, you’ve got quite the rep with the ladies,” the sergeant says, still looking around and picks up the bottle of Vicoden. “What would I get, if I ran this label with the med clinic?”
Face groans internally. It’s not that he can’t trust the first sergeant - he’s a good guy, really, does a bang-up job of taking care of the enlisted guys, compassionate, tough, good listener, good advocate - but he’s obligated to report certain things.
Things like homosexuality.
Things like rape.
He looks at BA, though, feeling all those internal structures start to collapse again, and the big corporal just shakes his head.
“I’m not going to talk to you about it, if that’s what you’re asking,” Face says, and kills the water.
“Then go talk to a chaplain, or mental health, or fucking somebody, Face. We haven’t seen you around the unit in two days...”
“I was asleep for two days?” No wonder he feels like shit.
The shirt leans down over him and puts his hand over Face’s. “What’s going on?”
“What about Murdock?”
“Oh he been in. He fine,” BA interjects, just a little too fast. “Why?” And that last bit’s lying. Big guy’s never comfortable with lying.
That chills Face to his core. Murdock’s probably blocking again or something. Hiding under all those skewed little layers of himself, away from the harsh light of day. “Well, you know how he gets when..."
“What’s going on, Face?” the sergeant asks, and holds up a hand to stop any further conversation that’s obviously off-topic.
“What do you mean?”
“Bossman’s gone,” BA grunts.
“What?” Face asks, blood turning to ice. Oh god, no, not that. Anything but that...
“I can’t get in touch with Hannibal. Nobody can. He’s not answering his phone, he’s not at home. Face,” and that hand squeezes down on his own, “we haven’t seen him in two days.”
“Is he on a mission or something?”
“Talked to Morrison about that,” BA says, a little faster now, and Face realizes that’s why the corporal’s in on this. He’s one of the only ones in the unit with clearance to know what the boss is up to. Face is the other.
His head shoots up. “Nothing?”
“Nothing,” the shirt replies quietly, compassion in his voice. “I know better than to ask, and you don’t have to say anything. In fact, don’t. I’m not worried about it, your business is your business. But I need your help with the boss. I need you to get off your ass and help BA find him.”
“Shirt...” he groans, the protest welling up. Fuck, he doesn’t want to be the one who finds... but BA’s mouth flattens and Face can see his hands starting to ball up, and he looks square at his teammate. Soldier. Ex-lover. Whatever. “Were all his guns there?”
“And his hunting knife,” BA confirms.
The lieutenant runs a hand over his face. The nightmare’s still there, coursing through him, trying to tell him something. Not scary, then. Terrible, but not scary. Letting him know something, really. It’s not him, that man. Can’t be. Won’t be, not now. He doesn’t want to lose himself, doesn’t want to go back to being what he was being, mutely accepting such a compromised state. And this whole situation, so goddamn fucked up...
But Face can’t deny it. He still wants Hannibal. Still loves Hannibal. And Murdock, and BA, leaning against the wall of his apartment, all his fear and worry stuffed down behind that stoic facade he always wears.
“Got any ideas, corporal?”
“One or two, el-tee.” BA’s eyes are haunted.
“Good. So do I,” he says, and stands up, managing to not wince as he does so. “Let me get dressed.”
He hauls a set of clothes into the bathroom, the first sergeant and BA talking in low murmurs. Clean t-shirt, clean boxers, clean jeans, clean socks. He can feel those stitches. The shirt waits until he comes out, shakes his hand, tells him to bring the boss back, and leaves.
BA and Face stare at each for a moment, too many unsaid things richoceting off the walls until Face can’t take it any more and has to say something. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.” The corporal closes his eyes. “It’s better, man, you know, you not actually likin’ that kinda treatment, and...”
“Opposite of what I normally like,” Face says, trying to laugh, it coming out dry and humorless.
The big black man winces. “I gotta know, though...”
“I go both ways, so that part, don’t worry, you, he, we... we didn’t do anything I...” Face answers before BA has to ask the question, trailing off. How is he supposed to say this, resolve it with himself? Is that what he was dreaming about? How Hannibal hurt him, hurt them all, like this? How he himself can still love them, after all that? How does resolve all of that?
BA still needs an answer, though. Simple. Direct. True. “I’m not mad about it,” Face says. And that’s good. That's the truth. He’s really not. And he need BA to believe, know, understand that.
“Better man than me,” BA grunts and kind of shakes himself. He looks like he wants to do something, like clap Face on the back or give him a hug or punch a wall, but he doesn’t. Just gives a nod that Face returns. “Let’s go grab crazy. Find the boss...”
“...fix this mess,” Face agrees.
There’s another little moment, and then Face grabs his Beretta in its shoulder holster and jacket and BA holds the door open for him on their way out and neither one of them brings it up again for a while.
+++++
Hannibal’s house is empty, abandoned. Devoid, Face thinks as Murdock slides in next to BA, keeping well clear of him, having just checked the basement for the third time.
BA and the shirt were only looking for evidence. Where Hannibal was, if his weapons were secure, and god knows what lie BA had to pull out of his ass on that one.
But Face isn’t looking for the obvious. He’s looking for the subtle, for the clues. Hannibal’s credit cards, his bank numbers, fake IDs, the fake IDs the government doesn’t know about, that gun he keeps in his side drawer that BA hadn’t found, receipts... anything to indicate where he might have gone. What he might be doing.
But fours hours online, a comprehensive examination of all of Hannibal’s stash, all his bank records, reveals nothing, and Face lets his head let hit the table. It’s getting dark again.
“You okay, man?” BA asks, and Face curses silently, knowing BA wants to touch him and won’t. It’s awful. He could use one of those big, reassuring touches right now.
“No, fuck, BA, come on. I’m not okay. Hannibal hasn’t touched any of his accounts in at least a week, and the last cash withdrawal was ten days ago, six hundred dollars. That’s not enough to...” He feels his stomach go cold again. Whispers. “He would have left a note, wouldn’t he?”
Murdock hits the table. “No.”
“Murdock, you gotta admit, it’s a possibility. You saw him in the van, man,” BA says slowly. “Ain’t never seen him like that.”
“No, he would never...”
“Buddy, it’s Hannibal,” Face says, struggling to put this into words. “He’s the most honorable man I’ve ever met and...”
“Nothin’ honorable in that, Face.”
“You think this started when you two showed up? Fuck, he’s been at years! Since our first mission together! The guilt in that, you guys... it's been piling up long before you two were around,” Face says, low and measured as he can manage. Trying to not think about it, that first time.
One of their men had been killed on the mission, and his stupid little second-lieutenant ass had gone out, gotten wasted, gotten in a bar fight, gotten fucked. Stupid. Came back to the safehouse reeking of liquor and blood, fresh wounds under his ripped shirt, and Hannibal had cleaned him up. Told Face he didn’t have to do this any more, that he’d take care of him, that he’d give him what he needed.
Face hadn’t understood. Just nodded and smiled and said thanks.
And then, after getting back to base, after the debrief, after they’d gone back to Hannibal’s office, there it had been. The boss, rough and fast, bending him over the desk, lips on his ear.
I know what you want, kid. Let me give it to you...
Face rolls his head onto an ear to look up at Murdock and BA, trying to forget, hating himself for his weakness back then, still afraid Hannibal would throw him away, like everyone always had. How long it had taken him to realize that the sex wasn’t the reason Hannibal kept him around. That there really was something there. Or had been. Could have been. Should have been. “Why do you think I never said anything?”
“Not even to us?”
“Years, guys. Fucking. Years. How do you think he’s taking this?” Face says, feeling the anger start to rise now. "How do you think I fucking feel?!"
“You should’a said somethin’,” BA said. It wasn’t accusatory. Just a statement of fact.
“I didn’t want this to happen!”
“It hasn’t. He wouldn’t,” Murdock says again, a little more desperate, rocking on his stool. “He won’t. He won’t, he won’t, he won’t, he won’t...”
When did he realize, that Hannibal cared about him? Actually cared, actually valued him as a member of the team? That the boss wasn’t all that comfortable with his therapy sessions.
A few months after the first time, a camping trip, far out in the wilderness, near the sky, both of them a little more than drunk, Hannibal asking if wouldn’t it be okay if he took it slow that night, if he took him slow...had Hannibal’s gear been in the garage?
Yeah.
It hadn’t.
Face pushes off his own stool, despite himself, and wraps around the back of his friend’s quaking shoulders, running his hands down that chest, pressing up against his back. “It’s okay, Murdock. You’re right. I’m wrong. I know where he is.”
BA arches an eyebrow, and Murdock nearly hits the floor, trying to get out of Face’s grasp. Trying to keep away, when all Face wants to do it touch. “Whadda ya mean?”
“There’s a place, maybe... we, the one time he didn’t... he’s probably there.”
“You sure he wouldn’t...”
Face closes his eyes against that possibility. He can’t see Hannibal ruining his one good memory of them, together, like he might have wanted. Like Face had always wanted. “He liked that place.”
“Well, let’s go, fool,” the corporal grunts and jingles his van keys in his pocket.
Face shakes his head. “No way. It's a hike. We can’t get there in the dark. Can’t even get to the trailhead in the dark. We’ll have to wait until morning.”
“How far’s the drive?”
“Maybe an hour to the dirt,” Face says, reaching back out for Murdock, who just keeps shying away.
“Zero three hundred, then,” BA growls. “I’ll scrounge. You get some sleep.”
Face shakes his head. “I don’t think...”
“Sleep, fool! Or you useless tomorrow.”
It’s a fifteen mile hike. Not bad, but still... he looks over at Murdock, who shuffles behind BA completely and BA nods, and Face just turns out of the room.
He can taste it again now, the memory rising hard and fast, the woodsmoke from their little fire dying away, something new and stinging and wonderful, bedrolls zipped together, Hannibal spooned into his back and hands wandering, so slow.
Warmer this way, kid.
Yeah, boss, warm.
Face, I know...would you mind if...if I...
No, boss. Anything you want...
Face knows he should be going to his room, the bed Hannibal’s got for him. Stands for a long, long time in that doorway, lights off. But he doesn’t want to sleep there tonight. Can’t. The reminder of it... so he goes where he’s never been welcomed, never been asked, where Hannibal thought he never wanted, never needed to be. Never would come.
And how terrible was that for the older man, he asks himself. All those years, wanting something he thought wouldn’t be reciprocated, wouldn’t be accepted, wouldn’t be...
“You fucking idiot,” he mutters to himself, and tells that goddamn inner monologue. He’s had enough self-flagellation for one day, hasn’t he?
He slips into Hannibal’s room instead, the big mattress where Murdock and BA usually sleep when they stay over. He can hear Murdock now, wuffing softly. BA probably insisted. He strips and gets in next to the pilot, not touching, figuring that they had just as much to think about, work through, as he did, almost as if he’d been the one violating them.
So Face stays in the area of cold sheets that smell, oh god, that smell like him. Curls up on his own side and hopes to hell that he hasn’t lied about this. That he’s right. That Hannibal will be there.
That what he sees in his dreams that night isn’t what they’re going to find.
When he wakes in the morning, still dark, BA shaking him lightly on the shoulder, Face realizes there are tears on his cheeks. But Murdock’s wrapped around him and he’s wrapped around Murdock.
And the pilot doesn’t pull away.
And BA’s hand stays on his shoulder for a moment more.
And then it’s time to go.
+++++
Face hasn’t been here in five years, but he remembers the way like it was yesterday Hannibal woke him up with a nip and a little whispered I’ve got a surprise for you, kid.
Camping.
His surprise had been camping. Not Ranger camping, not going out into the fucking wilderness with nothing but a knife and the clothes on your back. But real camping. Old tin coffeepot, worn sleeping bags fixed up with duct tape, beer, shotguns, hot dogs, s’mores, no showers, slow sex. Camping. And he'd loved every damn second of it. Maybe if he had said... but no. By then, it had been too late.
“Whatcha smilin’ at?” Murdock asks, fingers tickling under Face’s sleeve. He’s crosslegged on the floorboards right between the driver and passenger seats in BA’s van, right where BA never lets him ride. But after he woke up, panicking that his arms were thrown around Face’s shoulder, after the lieutenant hadn’t let him squirm away, after he’d calmed a bit, he’d asked if it was really okay, if Face really liked being touched. If it was really okay.
Face had said yes. And now Murdock doesn’t seem to want to let go.
“I’d never been camping before.”
“City kid, right?” BA nods.
“Orphan, orphanage. The nuns weren’t big on camping,” he says, and they both look at him. He shrugs and burrows back in the bucket seat. How much of each other have they missed over the last few years, with his supposed sadomasochism kink between them? Informing what they asked, what they thought they could know, what Hannibal would say, what knowledge Face himself felt safe volunteering? How much don’t they know about each other? How many other accidental secrets have to be dug out and brought to light? Goddamn, so much missing time, so much lost, Face thinks, and tries to shake it off. “Hannibal never told you?”
The Chattahoochee National Forest is dark in the predawn, as BA guides the van into the park, and it’s only just getting light as they get to the dirt road. Off the pavement, a few miles, then the trailhead’s there, the little open parking lot.
Hannibal’s car. Or a car that looks like Hannibal’s car. Or maybe...
“It his,” BA states, cutting all of that off, and stands off a little bit, hands in his pockets, workboots dirty in the light mud of the lot. “Come on, man. Let’s go get him back.”
“Yeah,” Face agrees, and Murdock hands him a pack.
The trail’s easy, almost too easy for a group of Rangers to be messing around with, Face thinks. How many miles have they traveled together in the mountains of Afghanistan, Bhutan, Pakistan? Ten thousand miles above sea level, being shot at, no clear way ahead, no clear way out... yeah, a trail through the low-lying Georgia woods is nothing much more than a stroll.
A very, very fast stroll.
Fifteen miles goes fast.
The sun rises, playing through the trees, turning everything bright and green. Spirits lift. Murdock’s singing a little, like he does sometimes, and BA’s telling hi to shut the hell up, like he always does, and they start swapping redneck jokes, and Face could almost swear that nothing bad had happened. That nothing bad had ever happened between them, that Hannibal had never made his mistakes and Face had never made his, that everything’s where it should be. That they’ll find the boss and Face himself will apologize and Hannibal will hold him and whisper his own regrets back and that they can leave it all behind, start over, start new, start things for the first time, have something real...
They’ve all got camelpacs and Murdock likes his MREs cold anyway, so they don’t have to stop, don't want to stop, pushing well past lunchtime, the trail climbing the further they go, until they’re close, Face recognizing some of the rock formations poking through the greenery, and that’s when he freezes up.
“What’s wrong, Face?” Murdock asks, the slab of MRE meatloaf dripping red sauce on his fingers. He licks absently, clearly concerned.
Face shakes his head. A quarter mile to go. Something sick forming in his stomach. something wrong. “Guys, I don’t... what if he...”
BA looks between them, something passing between him and Murdock, and he slings an arm carefully around Face’s shoulders. The lieutenant leans into in. He can feel BA forcing himself to relax. “Boss gonna be fine.”
“What if he doesn’t want to see me?” Face says, instead of the fear that's beginning to overwhelm him.
“You let me worry about how he gonna react.” BA shakes his head, and looks over at Murdock, who’s nodding emphatically. “Nothing else bad gonna happen, I promise.”
And in that moment... “you know I love you guys, right?”
“Face...” the corporal tries.
But he smiles, puts a hand on the big guy’s belly. “It doesn’t matter, I don’t want,” and he swallows, wondering who this is harder for, objectively, “I don’t want it to matter anymore. You're too..." and he stops, not able to put into words what he wants to say, not sure how it will sound, not sure what it will mean. But they can sort it out later. After. Once Hannibal's back. Once Hannibal makes everything okay, like he always does. Even when he's wrong. Always trying to do the right thing, trying to find the answer, that man, and how could he ever believe that Hannibal might...
Face knows they're both watching him, and he lifts his chin a little. Nods. Tries to smile again.
"Let’s go get 'im," Murdock says, and BA grins.
But what they see, one fast quarter-mile later, nearly stops Face’s heart.
+++++
Face says it was an accident.
That Hannibal must have grabbed the wrong bottle, somehow got one of Murdock’s downers instead of his own daily aspirin, that he was probably a little sore after the hike and took more than he should have, that he didn’t know he’d have a severe allergic reaction to that particular one, like his medical record indicates. That it was an accident.
Accident. Accident. Accident.
Face lies.
Or at least, he thinks he lies, and he feels like shit about it. He’s not really sure, either way, and there’s no way to ask Hannibal. The colonel's been unconscious since they found him, coiled up in his sleeping bag, breathing uneven and fast, heart racing, the bottle by the dead fire. BA had had the presence of mind to grab a shortwave radio before they’d left the house, and Murdock got his buddies at Benning on the horn and a chopper was out and the ER doc in Atlanta said that another few hours and he might not have...how he still might...
Face hasn’t left the room in three days.
BA’s brought him food, a couple changes of clothes, but he’s barely touched any of it. Murdock’s come by, too, other guys from the company, wanting to see, the investigation office from post, wanting to know. Everyone, wanting a reason, a sense of this.
Goddamn it, Face thinks as he smiles weakly and tells more lies about how Hannibal had told him about the hiking trip he’d been wanting to take and must have forgotten to put in his leave forms. About how he himself got distracted by a ladyfriend who was leaving the state and he’s so sorry he wasn’t around those two days, absolutely he deserves paperwork for it. Lies that everyone buys. Lies that answer their questions.
And motherfucker, he wants an answer too. He wants his questions answered too.
So here he is, waiting, holding Hannibal’s hand, waiting for it among the beeps of the heart monitor, the tangle of the saline drip. Three days. A long time.
Face thinks he should do something, like in romance movies, where he leans in and confesses his feelings and Hannibal’s eyes will open, untroubled and happy, like the summer sky after a rain, and they’ll be able to rebuild. Or maybe Hannibal won’t look at him, won’t acknowledge, will tell him to leave, that he can’t stand the sight of him. Anything. Anything is fine, anything at all, as long as the boss doesn’t die.
“Please,” he murmurs, kissing the back of Hannibal’s hand, limp on the covers, all that usual strength gone. “Please, boss, don’t go. Come back...”
But nothing happens.
Fucking movies, Face thinks.
“I came when I heard,” the doctor says. “It’s... you know, I didn’t want him to do this.”
Face looks up from where he’s fallen asleep in the chair. It’s late. The door’s shut. It’s safe to talk. He scrubs a hand over his face and stretches, stands. “I’m not sure he did.”
“He took...woah. That many?”
“Twenty four, and yeah, I know how it looks,” Face replies, not knowing and not caring if this is a justification or an explanation. “But Murdock’s stuff does kind of look like his aspirin, and he’s only on one of those 81mg dosages, so if he was in pain, he’d take like twenty of them. I’ve watched him do it before and...”
The clinic doc shakes his head and makes a show of checking Hannibal’s chart. “Colonel John Hannibal Smith. I’ve had more than one person speak highly of him, coming through my doors for STD tests and such, but I’d never met the man. Misjudged him.”
“Because he was raping me?”
“No, because he wasn’t. Or maybe he was, but didn’t know it. Strangest goddamn thing I’ve seen in a while,” and the doctor puts the chart back. “Thinkin’ about it afterward... how you doing with it?”
Face shrugs and goes back to his commander’s comatose form. His hair looks awful, dead and flat, and he moves it around a little on the man’s forehead, wishing Hannibal had let him touch like this before. Hoping like hell Hannibal will allow it after. “I just want him to wake up.”
“You meant it, didn’t you, son?”
“That he didn’t know?”
The doc comes up beside him and claps him on the shoulder on his way out of the room. “That you love him.”
“...yeah. I meant that.”
The door’s open, the doc’s leaving. “I want you to come in for a follow-up next week. You bring him if you want.”
Face stares. “What if he’s not awake?”
There’s a smile on the clinic doctor’s face, a little worn, a little stiff, like he doesn’t get to use it very much. Probably doesn’t, not in his line of work. “This can still work itself out, lieutenant. Don’t give up on him yet. Don't give up on yourself."
Face locks the door behind him. He settles back into his chair, suddenly exhausted from the effort of talking to the doctor, the tacit apology, the guilt, all the guilt. The doc’s guilt, Murdock’s, BA’s, Hannibal’s...he knows where it really belongs now.
Knows.
Knows that it doesn’t belong to any of them. Knows that they all might be at fault, but it doesn't mean the guilt belongs. Knows that if they keep trying to take it on like this, this, things like this, are what’s going to keep happening. It’s too big for any one of them to hold inside.
Knows what he should have done from the first.
"It’s enough. I’ve had enough. You’ve had enough. I don't want you to hurt me anymore. I don't want you to hurt yourself to hurt me anymore," Face whispers in his lover's ear and leans in further. “It's okay. I’ve got a plan, boss,” and he kisses the lank silver hair on that coma-pale forehead. He pulls the thin blanket up. “Let’s start over. Let’s you and me start over. Let it all go. Have something new together. How’s that sound?”
The only response is the beep of the machines, the little blinking lights, and he sighs. Didn’t work that time, either.
He closes his eyes.
Falling asleep in a place like this is strange, Face has learned. He’s had plenty of visits to the hospital. Gunshots, knife wounds, that one time he got drunk and broke his arm, diving into their swimming pool off the frat house roof. But it’s different, being the one who’s waiting. Sleep doesn’t come as easy. Sleep doesn’t come so gently.
Not so deep.
But it comes.
Like a tide, flowing up over him, drowning everything, taking everything away, dragging him out, out past the currents, under the surface, too deep, too deep to reach the surface again, until he hears that voice, that old familiar voice, pulling him up.
“Wake up, lieutenant.”
And this time, for the first time, Face doesn't try to run from it. Doesn't have to.
“Wake up...”
Rating: R
Warnings: mentions of rape, possible attempted suicide
Summary: A sequel to Daylight
Umm, so I got this in the comments for Daylight...
That's a great story but I like happy ends. Can I request for a sequel where Face finally can't take it anymore and breaks down in front of them resulting in a lot of comforting and a non-rough relationship between the four?
I feel kind of bad about this story and I don't want to give anybody the same kind of nightmares I get sometimes from these things, so... fill!
Face doesn’t really care about the bleeding.
He doesn’t tell the doctor that. Doesn’t tell the doctor that he’s not worried. Doesn’t tell the doctor that the only reason he’s here is to get this taken care of before Hannibal notices. Just fix it up, doc, and I’ll be on my way.
Nope, can’t say that, so the lieutenant has to put up the small, probing questions that burn him right to his core.
“Who did this to you?” the clinic doctor says as he tugs the last stitch into place, cuts it loose. Face has never seen him before. He never goes to the same place twice on the rare occasion that he has to get... sewn up. It’s not as common as the lieutenant had once feared, back when Hannibal misread his preferences, started all of this up. The colonel’s surprisingly careful. So Face isn’t worried about the doctor. He’ll never see him again.
Doesn’t mean he’s going to talk to him, though.
“Nobody,” he says, forehead crooked into his elbow, splayed out on his belly, pants off and shirt shoved up. The numbing sensation of the local doesn’t really cancel everything out. The doc’s done, but Face can feel his body fighting to regain control of the nerves down there, and those stitches starting to spark with pain. “Nobody.”
“I know you don’t have to answer me,” the doctor says and snaps off his exam glove, wheels his little stool over so that he can look Face in the face. “But I see prostitutes in here, men who get a little too frisky in the clubs, guys who like the pain...”
“I’m not a masochist,” Face says softly, looking up, feeling like he’s betraying Hannibal by saying that. Hannibal thinks he does. Why's he talking about this at all? Must be the drugs...
The doctor smiles, sad. “I know, son. I know.”
What’s safe? What’s easy? What can he say, without giving it all away? Something’s there, quick, and Face grabs for it. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“Son, you don’t have to put up with the abuse.”
“I love him,” the lieutenant whispers. It’s in character, right? Something battered wives say in television movies. Something somebody says when they're being... and don't stop it. Right?
But... something hot and horrible is flooding into his brain, spreading to every nerve, and Face buries his head again, realizing what he just said aloud. Realizing again exactly what he’s lost, what Hannibal took from him, what he’s been too scared to stand up for, all this time. Realizing what he’s just let himself admit to.
“He doesn’t know,” he repeats, desperate. Those fucking drugs...
“That he’s ripping you apart? Kid, there’s years of...”
“No, he doesn’t k-know I... that I...” And the heat surfaces, stinging and bright, blinding him, eyes leaking, and Face feels himself start shaking under the force of it. Words shaken right out of him. There’s no going back from this, not now that he’s... motherfucking drugs...
The doctor lays a hand on his shoulder, sitting with him, letting him lay like that for a while, until silent tears turn into wracking sobs and then back again. Face can barely feel the pat on his back, barely notices the little murmured question in his ear, do you need a place to stay tonight, and like an idiot, like the weak idiot that he is, Face nods back.
When he leaves in the morning, way too late to get to base on time, it’s with a handful of literature he dumps in the trash and a business card with neatly printed numbers for the doctor, the clinic, the nearest church, the abuse outreach program, a psychiatrist, suicide hotline... Face hates himself for keeping that.
But goddamn if his car doesn’t have a parking ticket on it, from being left in a daily parking lot overnight, and it’s not small. Rather big, in fact, and motherfucker, Face knows, this is one of those things he has to report up to Hannibal, if the police haven't already done it for him. No goddamn privacy in this man’s army, he thinks. Hannibal’s going to know.
He tries to shake that off and gets in, turns the key in the ignition, tells himself to focus. It hurts this morning.
But he knows it’s only going to get worse.
+++++
In Hannibal’s office, three hours after he was supposed to report, the smell of the downtown clinic showered off of him, the lieutenant scratches one foot with the other through his boots.
Hannibal’s pissed.
Face has always managed to hide these little medical fixes before. He’s usually the one who cleans them up, after, so Hannibal never sees the blood. Usually, he can get away with nothing but oral for a while. That’s bad, but in its own way. and not nearly as bad as a Big Reveal with the boss, with Murdock and BA, would be.
Not as terrible, as world-ending, as Hannibal learning that he’s actually hurting his...
“Goddamn it, kid, where were you last night?!”
Face flinches. Damn. Hannibal’s got that look, the one that usually precedes one of... and he he knows he can’t lie his way out of this. He says a silent prayer. Not this, not today, please... “I wasn’t fucking around on you, Hannibal. You know I’d never...”
“Don’t lie to me, Face!”
“Hannibal, no, I...” but he can’t think of another reason why he wouldn’t have been back at the house last night. He spends more nights there, at Hannibal’s place, than he does at his own little studio, which he mostly just maintains for appearances’ sake. And Hannibal doesn’t expect Face to sleep with him, has never asked and Face will never offer, but he does expect his lieutenant to stay where he can keep an eye on him.
The word abusive flashes up in Face’s mind again, and he knows he could stop this with a single sentence, a single word, no, but that's no answer. No answer at all.
So Face, hating himself, not knowing what else to do, lets Hannibal wrench him about, throw him against the edge of the desk. The lieutenant barely catches himself, palms under his abs and gripping that blunt corner, and Hannibal’s covering him, holding him by the shirt, the neck, like the alpha wolf dealing with some recalcitrant puppy. Complete with growling. “You forget about us, Face, about me? Just want to give you what you need...is it not good enough?”
It’s genuine, and it always has been, and it’s only that, his love for this man, that’s kept Face from action this long. But there are two fingers in his mouth, asking for spit as his ABUs are tugged down, and he knows what’s coming.
A staking of a claim, and if Hannibal does that, he’s going to notice, he’s going to feel, and it will all be over. The unsteady illusion Face has fought for years to maintain. Sacrificed everything to protect his commander from this ugly little truth. It’ll destroy the man...
So Face does the only thing he can think of.
Jams back into Hannibal’s body as hard as he can, twists around and lets his momentum carry a fist forward, a punishing hook that lands square on Hannibal’s jaw.
Not quite enough, evidently, and Hannibal launches.
Face knows he’s wouldn’t normally win this. Not in sparring. Not in foreplay, which guessing from the expression in the older man’s eyes, a little aroused, a little confused, focused, like he always gets focused, lik he doesn’t quite enjoy it either, that’s what he’s assuming this is.
But the lieutenant doesn’t have a choice. He lands a few good blows, tries to stop Hannibal from taking it to the ground. It’s hot and fast and angry, years of grief somehow informing his movements, and pretty soon, they’re not just grunting, and Face chokes as he feels those stitches rip from the force of it, and he’s got to stop this before it starts bleeding again...
“What the fuck?” the unit’s first sergeant roars, slamming the door open with a loud bang, BA right behind him, and Hannibal’s eyes are narrowed to slits as he’s forced to disengage.
Face pulls himself up, blocking the pain away, and storms out, past the first sergeant, who’s already talking to Hannibal in low, clipped words, pissed himself. Past BA, whose face flickers with something the lieutenant doesn’t take the time to read.
Fuck all of this, Face is thinking.
So he breaks his own rule, after that.
Goes back to the same clinic.
Same doctor, as last night, and the man just purses his lips and insists that Face take off his shirt this time, too. He changed, so everything’s clean. But, the doc thinks, “you might have cracked ribs,” so off it comes.
Then the doctor’s gloved hands are cold on his chest, ribs, shoulders, and he doesn’t say a damn thing about the tattoo on Face’s arm, but he’s looking at it, Face can feel him looking at it, and he bites his lip. It's bubbling up and he can't stop it. Doesn't really want to, anymore.
“It’s my commander.”
And goddamn, those tears are back.
+++++
Some time later, Face’s cell phone buzzes in his jean pocket, cast over a chair a little ways out of reach. The lieutenant shoots the doctor a pleading look, and the other man shakes his head.
“I can’t ignore that.”
“It your commander?”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not still expected to turn up when we get orders.”
“Do you really think that’s what this is about?” the doctor asks, laying the needle, the forceps, aside. He’s determined that nothing’s broken, nothing sprained or twisted or cracked. Nothing I can physically heal for you, he’d said right before he’d started fixing last night’s handiwork. But he’s pissed. Face can tell. His exterior’s studiously non-judgmental, but Face prides himself on reading people, the team relies on it and... yeah, the doctor’s pissed at Hannibal.
But not answering would be... “Not an option,” Face snaps, and the doctor throws his gloves in the trash and grabs a fresh pair, before handing the thing over.
On the screen, it’s the name of the clinic, a question mark. It’s BA’s number.
He sighs, hits the n key, sends.
The doctor takes the phone away from him and goes back to work. “Was it him?” he asks.
“No,” Face says, knowing damn well that it could have been any of the three of them using BA’s phone. “Just a friend.”
But still, two hours later, after the doctor tells him he really shouldn’t be driving but grudgingly admits he’s probably okay to do so if he stays off the painkillers until he gets home, Face isn’t really surprised as he pushes out into the dingy, crowded little waiting room, going for the front door with a filled prescription of Vicoden.
At what he sees.
There’s BA, sure.
But it’s Hannibal’s steel blue eyes that meet his own first, wide and full of confusion, and despite himself, Face feels his knees buckle, just a little, but there he is and there's where he needs to go, the door. Out. Away. Fuck, let this all be a bad dream...
“Kid,” Hannibal says in a voice that very nearly shatters the younger man apart. He reaches out a hand, lays it on Face’s arm to stop him, and he jerks away.
The doctor notices it immediately, and he’s right there, moving Face away and pulling them all into a slightly more secluded corner. It’s subtle, but unmistakable, the way the doctor puts himself between Face and Hannibal. Not the first time he’s done something like this, Face thinks.
“If you’re not off this property in five minutes, I will call the police,” the doctor says, low and steady.
BA tenses up. Hannibal’s eyebrows draw together and he blinks, still watching Face, clearly not understanding. “Why?"
"John..." Face mutters, wishing he could stop this. Perversely glad he can't. Hating himself for all of it.
The doctor's just watching. Very guarded. Obviously ready to step in. BA's on edge. This could get ugly...
"Kid, it’s not like we haven’t had fights before. Haven't hit the sand before. Why didn’t you go to the...” and he kind of trails off, not wanting to commit to anything military, but Face knows what he means.
Why didn’t he go to the on-base clinic?
“Sexual assault and battery is a crime in this state, sir, and I’m well-acquainted with the military’s rules on this sort of thing. I’d rather not force him into an unrestricted reporting situation...” the doctor replies, and the blood starts draining from Hannibal’s face, “... should he choose to finally do something about this.”
"I would never..." Hannibal tries to says.
“Temp, what’s he talking about?” BA asks softly.
Face pinches the bridge of his nose. No, goddamn it. This has to stop. Right fucking now, this has to stop. “Doc,” he says, “really, I’m fine.”
“You need to stand up to this."
"Stand up to what, Temp?" Hannibal asks faintly.
The doctor glares at him before continuing.
"I don’t think your body’s going to be able to handle much...”
“I’m fine!” he snaps, not wanting this to happen, not wanting this to happen here, not wanting Hannibal to have to endure the shame of being labeled a sexual offender in a room full of junkies and hookers needing STD tests. God, he’s fucked this up, fucked it all up, and he starts backing away, back towards the door. “Everything’s... fine.”
“Temp,” Hannibal says, as if he’s going into shock, reaching out again, swaying, and BA’s holding him steady on his feet, “Kid, come on, let’s get you home...”
“I’m not letting him leave with you,” the doctor says, putting a hand on the colonel’s chest and pushing him back. He turns to Face, who’s still backing up. “You sure have a place to stay?”
“I’m fine,” he whispers again, brain still rebelling at the very thought of this, of all of this, of everything, crashing down around him as he pushes out the door and back to his car.
There's a crazy thought playing in the back of his mind. That all of this is going to be over, all of it. He’ll wake up in morning, have this day again, his own little personal Groundhog Day, a big do-over, and none of this will ever be out in the open. They’ll never know what's happened. He'll never be hurting Hannibal like this...
But there’s Murdock, sitting back against the driver’s side door of Face’s Corvette, face red and sniffling into his sleeve a little, and he looks at Face, just for a second, and then Face shrugs, not knowing what else to do, and Murdock’s got two handfuls of his shirt and banging him back on the door of his car.
“What the hell, Face? Why, why didn’t you tell us!”
He looks up at the sky, just starting to burn with sunset. Goddamn, of all of them, of course... of course Murdock would figure it out... “Tell you what?”
“Don’t you fucking lie to me!” Murdock yells and rattles him a little. He could be doing a lot more damage, and Face could be getting loose, but that’s not the point here. Not right now, not with this. “Don’tcha dare!”
“Okay, okay, buddy,” he says, taking a risk and pushing a hand up into Murdock’s hair, running fingers along his scalp. It always calms him down, doesn’t it? “I’m not lying. No lies.”
“Butcha have been! You been lying, all this time, haven’t ya? Sayin’ you liked it like that! Sayin’ you... you... wanted...”
Murdock’s loud, too loud, and Face wants to point this out. About how screaming about gay sex in a downtown parking lot is not a good idea. About how he’s never said he liked it. About how this is a situation where the lies are been better. “...yeah, buddy, I lied.” Face swallows, his mouth like a desert, and it only comes out in a whisper, what he says next. “I... the pain, I’m not a...what Hannibal thinks, it's not... I... I’m sorry, HM, christ, I’m sorry...”
“Sorry don’t cover it!” Murdock’s starting to shake, and he slams Face into the door again. It hurts, but all he can feel is the other man’s grief, exploding out of him. “Sorry don’t mean we didn’t... I didn’t... you let us, all this time, hurtin' you... oh, god, faceman...” It dies into a whisper, then silence, and there are tears there now, shining bright in those sea-blue eyes.
Face uses that hand in soft hair to pull the pilot closer, pulling him in, until he can feel the warmth of his friend against him, gentle and comforting, fingers exploring in light touches, like he always does when he’s trying to calm the man down. Like he gets to do sometimes after their sessions, if Hannibal falls asleep first and there's no-one to stop him, no notion betrayed, if he cuddles with Murdock for a few minutes. But the pilot always remembers, smiles a little sadly, Hannibal said you don’t like that, don’t wanna be selfish, and Face is alone again.
He hates that.
And pretty soon, that’s all he’s going to have. The loneliness. He’s just lost it all. Lost them. He didn't want them like that, never has, never will, but he does want them. Can't stand the thought of losing them.
He’s the one who’s fucking selfish. The lieutenant knows he's not, but he can't stop thinking it. Being relieved that it's over.
Selfish.
So Face kisses the top of Murdock’s head and gives his sobbing friend what he needs, telling those bruises on his chest to shut the fuck up with the protesting already, goddamn it, and holds him in close. “I love you, buddy,” he whispers desperately, and lays his cheek on the spot he just kissed, rocking them both a little bit. “Everything's okay. I love you.”
Murdock sniffles again, and looks up at him. Shakes his head, and pushes away, regards him for a moment. “Don’t wanna hurt you no more, Faceman,” he says sorrowfully, and then he’s gone.
Face doesn’t remember the drive home.
+++++
Face doesn’t bother going in to work the next day. He’s a mass of pain, probably worse because of the additional tearing or the thick feeling in his head every time he tries to think about Hannibal or maybe something else. And screw it, Hannibal knows what the hell’s going on, right? He eats a pop-tart when he wakes up in the morning, takes four of the Valium, and sprawls out on his bed.
His, he thinks with a giggle right before he passes out. No, his bed is at Hannibal’s place and he wants to be there instead, and this entire apartment is just an illusion of normalcy, something’s he’s dreamed up right now to protect himself from the truth of his own sexual depravities...
And that’s not a dream he wants, he knows dimly, wandering through the halls and caverns of his own mind, finding himself in the lowest place he’s ever known himself to have, naked except for a collar, waiting on his knees with downcast eyes by the edge of some great able, yearning up into a heavy hand and its careless petting, fawning by this man who decides everything for him now, everything but this touch, this life stripped away from him, burned out under his own failed stewardship of who he once was, who he might have been, what he really wanted, what he’ll never be able to have, this the only, only option...
There’s a knock on the door, and Face blinks a little, cursing painkillers and pain in the same thought, trying to shake the nightmare. His stomach’s screaming, he feels completely dehydrated, his stomach pulled up and tight. The light’s shifted, probably early afternoon, then, and who the hell would be knocking?
Oh. That.
“Shirt, BA.” He acknowledges them with a nod and an unsteady voice. Stupid fucking military. Just because Hannibal’s got his little hand-picked team in them doesn’t mean he still doesn’t have to handle an entire company, where Murdock’s only loosely attached and Face is one of four chalk leaders and BA’s just a corporal. And their first sergeant likes to play things by the book. “I’m sorry, I mean to call in on leave, but... I had kind of a rough night, and...”
“Good. You’re not dead,” BA grunts.
The sergeant peers at Face, bites the inside of his cheek. “Can we come in, el-tee?”
He pushes the door wider, silent, and tries to forget the nightmare. He doesn’t want that from Hannibal. Was that where he was headed? Is that where they were going to end up? Is that what was going to happen to him, if he hadn’t...
“You don’t have much in your fridge,” the first sergeant observes, shutting that particular door. He comes back over to Face with a glass of water and holds it out. “Or your cabinets. Spend much time at home, lieutenant?”
Face takes it, plunking down at one of two chairs in the apartment, the table shoved in a corner, and doesn’t look him in the eyes. He can hear BA arranging himself somewhere unobtrusive and out of the way, just like he’s supposed to be. “You know me, shirt, always out.”
“Yeah, you’ve got quite the rep with the ladies,” the sergeant says, still looking around and picks up the bottle of Vicoden. “What would I get, if I ran this label with the med clinic?”
Face groans internally. It’s not that he can’t trust the first sergeant - he’s a good guy, really, does a bang-up job of taking care of the enlisted guys, compassionate, tough, good listener, good advocate - but he’s obligated to report certain things.
Things like homosexuality.
Things like rape.
He looks at BA, though, feeling all those internal structures start to collapse again, and the big corporal just shakes his head.
“I’m not going to talk to you about it, if that’s what you’re asking,” Face says, and kills the water.
“Then go talk to a chaplain, or mental health, or fucking somebody, Face. We haven’t seen you around the unit in two days...”
“I was asleep for two days?” No wonder he feels like shit.
The shirt leans down over him and puts his hand over Face’s. “What’s going on?”
“What about Murdock?”
“Oh he been in. He fine,” BA interjects, just a little too fast. “Why?” And that last bit’s lying. Big guy’s never comfortable with lying.
That chills Face to his core. Murdock’s probably blocking again or something. Hiding under all those skewed little layers of himself, away from the harsh light of day. “Well, you know how he gets when..."
“What’s going on, Face?” the sergeant asks, and holds up a hand to stop any further conversation that’s obviously off-topic.
“What do you mean?”
“Bossman’s gone,” BA grunts.
“What?” Face asks, blood turning to ice. Oh god, no, not that. Anything but that...
“I can’t get in touch with Hannibal. Nobody can. He’s not answering his phone, he’s not at home. Face,” and that hand squeezes down on his own, “we haven’t seen him in two days.”
“Is he on a mission or something?”
“Talked to Morrison about that,” BA says, a little faster now, and Face realizes that’s why the corporal’s in on this. He’s one of the only ones in the unit with clearance to know what the boss is up to. Face is the other.
His head shoots up. “Nothing?”
“Nothing,” the shirt replies quietly, compassion in his voice. “I know better than to ask, and you don’t have to say anything. In fact, don’t. I’m not worried about it, your business is your business. But I need your help with the boss. I need you to get off your ass and help BA find him.”
“Shirt...” he groans, the protest welling up. Fuck, he doesn’t want to be the one who finds... but BA’s mouth flattens and Face can see his hands starting to ball up, and he looks square at his teammate. Soldier. Ex-lover. Whatever. “Were all his guns there?”
“And his hunting knife,” BA confirms.
The lieutenant runs a hand over his face. The nightmare’s still there, coursing through him, trying to tell him something. Not scary, then. Terrible, but not scary. Letting him know something, really. It’s not him, that man. Can’t be. Won’t be, not now. He doesn’t want to lose himself, doesn’t want to go back to being what he was being, mutely accepting such a compromised state. And this whole situation, so goddamn fucked up...
But Face can’t deny it. He still wants Hannibal. Still loves Hannibal. And Murdock, and BA, leaning against the wall of his apartment, all his fear and worry stuffed down behind that stoic facade he always wears.
“Got any ideas, corporal?”
“One or two, el-tee.” BA’s eyes are haunted.
“Good. So do I,” he says, and stands up, managing to not wince as he does so. “Let me get dressed.”
He hauls a set of clothes into the bathroom, the first sergeant and BA talking in low murmurs. Clean t-shirt, clean boxers, clean jeans, clean socks. He can feel those stitches. The shirt waits until he comes out, shakes his hand, tells him to bring the boss back, and leaves.
BA and Face stare at each for a moment, too many unsaid things richoceting off the walls until Face can’t take it any more and has to say something. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.” The corporal closes his eyes. “It’s better, man, you know, you not actually likin’ that kinda treatment, and...”
“Opposite of what I normally like,” Face says, trying to laugh, it coming out dry and humorless.
The big black man winces. “I gotta know, though...”
“I go both ways, so that part, don’t worry, you, he, we... we didn’t do anything I...” Face answers before BA has to ask the question, trailing off. How is he supposed to say this, resolve it with himself? Is that what he was dreaming about? How Hannibal hurt him, hurt them all, like this? How he himself can still love them, after all that? How does resolve all of that?
BA still needs an answer, though. Simple. Direct. True. “I’m not mad about it,” Face says. And that’s good. That's the truth. He’s really not. And he need BA to believe, know, understand that.
“Better man than me,” BA grunts and kind of shakes himself. He looks like he wants to do something, like clap Face on the back or give him a hug or punch a wall, but he doesn’t. Just gives a nod that Face returns. “Let’s go grab crazy. Find the boss...”
“...fix this mess,” Face agrees.
There’s another little moment, and then Face grabs his Beretta in its shoulder holster and jacket and BA holds the door open for him on their way out and neither one of them brings it up again for a while.
+++++
Hannibal’s house is empty, abandoned. Devoid, Face thinks as Murdock slides in next to BA, keeping well clear of him, having just checked the basement for the third time.
BA and the shirt were only looking for evidence. Where Hannibal was, if his weapons were secure, and god knows what lie BA had to pull out of his ass on that one.
But Face isn’t looking for the obvious. He’s looking for the subtle, for the clues. Hannibal’s credit cards, his bank numbers, fake IDs, the fake IDs the government doesn’t know about, that gun he keeps in his side drawer that BA hadn’t found, receipts... anything to indicate where he might have gone. What he might be doing.
But fours hours online, a comprehensive examination of all of Hannibal’s stash, all his bank records, reveals nothing, and Face lets his head let hit the table. It’s getting dark again.
“You okay, man?” BA asks, and Face curses silently, knowing BA wants to touch him and won’t. It’s awful. He could use one of those big, reassuring touches right now.
“No, fuck, BA, come on. I’m not okay. Hannibal hasn’t touched any of his accounts in at least a week, and the last cash withdrawal was ten days ago, six hundred dollars. That’s not enough to...” He feels his stomach go cold again. Whispers. “He would have left a note, wouldn’t he?”
Murdock hits the table. “No.”
“Murdock, you gotta admit, it’s a possibility. You saw him in the van, man,” BA says slowly. “Ain’t never seen him like that.”
“No, he would never...”
“Buddy, it’s Hannibal,” Face says, struggling to put this into words. “He’s the most honorable man I’ve ever met and...”
“Nothin’ honorable in that, Face.”
“You think this started when you two showed up? Fuck, he’s been at years! Since our first mission together! The guilt in that, you guys... it's been piling up long before you two were around,” Face says, low and measured as he can manage. Trying to not think about it, that first time.
One of their men had been killed on the mission, and his stupid little second-lieutenant ass had gone out, gotten wasted, gotten in a bar fight, gotten fucked. Stupid. Came back to the safehouse reeking of liquor and blood, fresh wounds under his ripped shirt, and Hannibal had cleaned him up. Told Face he didn’t have to do this any more, that he’d take care of him, that he’d give him what he needed.
Face hadn’t understood. Just nodded and smiled and said thanks.
And then, after getting back to base, after the debrief, after they’d gone back to Hannibal’s office, there it had been. The boss, rough and fast, bending him over the desk, lips on his ear.
I know what you want, kid. Let me give it to you...
Face rolls his head onto an ear to look up at Murdock and BA, trying to forget, hating himself for his weakness back then, still afraid Hannibal would throw him away, like everyone always had. How long it had taken him to realize that the sex wasn’t the reason Hannibal kept him around. That there really was something there. Or had been. Could have been. Should have been. “Why do you think I never said anything?”
“Not even to us?”
“Years, guys. Fucking. Years. How do you think he’s taking this?” Face says, feeling the anger start to rise now. "How do you think I fucking feel?!"
“You should’a said somethin’,” BA said. It wasn’t accusatory. Just a statement of fact.
“I didn’t want this to happen!”
“It hasn’t. He wouldn’t,” Murdock says again, a little more desperate, rocking on his stool. “He won’t. He won’t, he won’t, he won’t, he won’t...”
When did he realize, that Hannibal cared about him? Actually cared, actually valued him as a member of the team? That the boss wasn’t all that comfortable with his therapy sessions.
A few months after the first time, a camping trip, far out in the wilderness, near the sky, both of them a little more than drunk, Hannibal asking if wouldn’t it be okay if he took it slow that night, if he took him slow...had Hannibal’s gear been in the garage?
Yeah.
It hadn’t.
Face pushes off his own stool, despite himself, and wraps around the back of his friend’s quaking shoulders, running his hands down that chest, pressing up against his back. “It’s okay, Murdock. You’re right. I’m wrong. I know where he is.”
BA arches an eyebrow, and Murdock nearly hits the floor, trying to get out of Face’s grasp. Trying to keep away, when all Face wants to do it touch. “Whadda ya mean?”
“There’s a place, maybe... we, the one time he didn’t... he’s probably there.”
“You sure he wouldn’t...”
Face closes his eyes against that possibility. He can’t see Hannibal ruining his one good memory of them, together, like he might have wanted. Like Face had always wanted. “He liked that place.”
“Well, let’s go, fool,” the corporal grunts and jingles his van keys in his pocket.
Face shakes his head. “No way. It's a hike. We can’t get there in the dark. Can’t even get to the trailhead in the dark. We’ll have to wait until morning.”
“How far’s the drive?”
“Maybe an hour to the dirt,” Face says, reaching back out for Murdock, who just keeps shying away.
“Zero three hundred, then,” BA growls. “I’ll scrounge. You get some sleep.”
Face shakes his head. “I don’t think...”
“Sleep, fool! Or you useless tomorrow.”
It’s a fifteen mile hike. Not bad, but still... he looks over at Murdock, who shuffles behind BA completely and BA nods, and Face just turns out of the room.
He can taste it again now, the memory rising hard and fast, the woodsmoke from their little fire dying away, something new and stinging and wonderful, bedrolls zipped together, Hannibal spooned into his back and hands wandering, so slow.
Warmer this way, kid.
Yeah, boss, warm.
Face, I know...would you mind if...if I...
No, boss. Anything you want...
Face knows he should be going to his room, the bed Hannibal’s got for him. Stands for a long, long time in that doorway, lights off. But he doesn’t want to sleep there tonight. Can’t. The reminder of it... so he goes where he’s never been welcomed, never been asked, where Hannibal thought he never wanted, never needed to be. Never would come.
And how terrible was that for the older man, he asks himself. All those years, wanting something he thought wouldn’t be reciprocated, wouldn’t be accepted, wouldn’t be...
“You fucking idiot,” he mutters to himself, and tells that goddamn inner monologue. He’s had enough self-flagellation for one day, hasn’t he?
He slips into Hannibal’s room instead, the big mattress where Murdock and BA usually sleep when they stay over. He can hear Murdock now, wuffing softly. BA probably insisted. He strips and gets in next to the pilot, not touching, figuring that they had just as much to think about, work through, as he did, almost as if he’d been the one violating them.
So Face stays in the area of cold sheets that smell, oh god, that smell like him. Curls up on his own side and hopes to hell that he hasn’t lied about this. That he’s right. That Hannibal will be there.
That what he sees in his dreams that night isn’t what they’re going to find.
When he wakes in the morning, still dark, BA shaking him lightly on the shoulder, Face realizes there are tears on his cheeks. But Murdock’s wrapped around him and he’s wrapped around Murdock.
And the pilot doesn’t pull away.
And BA’s hand stays on his shoulder for a moment more.
And then it’s time to go.
+++++
Face hasn’t been here in five years, but he remembers the way like it was yesterday Hannibal woke him up with a nip and a little whispered I’ve got a surprise for you, kid.
Camping.
His surprise had been camping. Not Ranger camping, not going out into the fucking wilderness with nothing but a knife and the clothes on your back. But real camping. Old tin coffeepot, worn sleeping bags fixed up with duct tape, beer, shotguns, hot dogs, s’mores, no showers, slow sex. Camping. And he'd loved every damn second of it. Maybe if he had said... but no. By then, it had been too late.
“Whatcha smilin’ at?” Murdock asks, fingers tickling under Face’s sleeve. He’s crosslegged on the floorboards right between the driver and passenger seats in BA’s van, right where BA never lets him ride. But after he woke up, panicking that his arms were thrown around Face’s shoulder, after the lieutenant hadn’t let him squirm away, after he’d calmed a bit, he’d asked if it was really okay, if Face really liked being touched. If it was really okay.
Face had said yes. And now Murdock doesn’t seem to want to let go.
“I’d never been camping before.”
“City kid, right?” BA nods.
“Orphan, orphanage. The nuns weren’t big on camping,” he says, and they both look at him. He shrugs and burrows back in the bucket seat. How much of each other have they missed over the last few years, with his supposed sadomasochism kink between them? Informing what they asked, what they thought they could know, what Hannibal would say, what knowledge Face himself felt safe volunteering? How much don’t they know about each other? How many other accidental secrets have to be dug out and brought to light? Goddamn, so much missing time, so much lost, Face thinks, and tries to shake it off. “Hannibal never told you?”
The Chattahoochee National Forest is dark in the predawn, as BA guides the van into the park, and it’s only just getting light as they get to the dirt road. Off the pavement, a few miles, then the trailhead’s there, the little open parking lot.
Hannibal’s car. Or a car that looks like Hannibal’s car. Or maybe...
“It his,” BA states, cutting all of that off, and stands off a little bit, hands in his pockets, workboots dirty in the light mud of the lot. “Come on, man. Let’s go get him back.”
“Yeah,” Face agrees, and Murdock hands him a pack.
The trail’s easy, almost too easy for a group of Rangers to be messing around with, Face thinks. How many miles have they traveled together in the mountains of Afghanistan, Bhutan, Pakistan? Ten thousand miles above sea level, being shot at, no clear way ahead, no clear way out... yeah, a trail through the low-lying Georgia woods is nothing much more than a stroll.
A very, very fast stroll.
Fifteen miles goes fast.
The sun rises, playing through the trees, turning everything bright and green. Spirits lift. Murdock’s singing a little, like he does sometimes, and BA’s telling hi to shut the hell up, like he always does, and they start swapping redneck jokes, and Face could almost swear that nothing bad had happened. That nothing bad had ever happened between them, that Hannibal had never made his mistakes and Face had never made his, that everything’s where it should be. That they’ll find the boss and Face himself will apologize and Hannibal will hold him and whisper his own regrets back and that they can leave it all behind, start over, start new, start things for the first time, have something real...
They’ve all got camelpacs and Murdock likes his MREs cold anyway, so they don’t have to stop, don't want to stop, pushing well past lunchtime, the trail climbing the further they go, until they’re close, Face recognizing some of the rock formations poking through the greenery, and that’s when he freezes up.
“What’s wrong, Face?” Murdock asks, the slab of MRE meatloaf dripping red sauce on his fingers. He licks absently, clearly concerned.
Face shakes his head. A quarter mile to go. Something sick forming in his stomach. something wrong. “Guys, I don’t... what if he...”
BA looks between them, something passing between him and Murdock, and he slings an arm carefully around Face’s shoulders. The lieutenant leans into in. He can feel BA forcing himself to relax. “Boss gonna be fine.”
“What if he doesn’t want to see me?” Face says, instead of the fear that's beginning to overwhelm him.
“You let me worry about how he gonna react.” BA shakes his head, and looks over at Murdock, who’s nodding emphatically. “Nothing else bad gonna happen, I promise.”
And in that moment... “you know I love you guys, right?”
“Face...” the corporal tries.
But he smiles, puts a hand on the big guy’s belly. “It doesn’t matter, I don’t want,” and he swallows, wondering who this is harder for, objectively, “I don’t want it to matter anymore. You're too..." and he stops, not able to put into words what he wants to say, not sure how it will sound, not sure what it will mean. But they can sort it out later. After. Once Hannibal's back. Once Hannibal makes everything okay, like he always does. Even when he's wrong. Always trying to do the right thing, trying to find the answer, that man, and how could he ever believe that Hannibal might...
Face knows they're both watching him, and he lifts his chin a little. Nods. Tries to smile again.
"Let’s go get 'im," Murdock says, and BA grins.
But what they see, one fast quarter-mile later, nearly stops Face’s heart.
+++++
Face says it was an accident.
That Hannibal must have grabbed the wrong bottle, somehow got one of Murdock’s downers instead of his own daily aspirin, that he was probably a little sore after the hike and took more than he should have, that he didn’t know he’d have a severe allergic reaction to that particular one, like his medical record indicates. That it was an accident.
Accident. Accident. Accident.
Face lies.
Or at least, he thinks he lies, and he feels like shit about it. He’s not really sure, either way, and there’s no way to ask Hannibal. The colonel's been unconscious since they found him, coiled up in his sleeping bag, breathing uneven and fast, heart racing, the bottle by the dead fire. BA had had the presence of mind to grab a shortwave radio before they’d left the house, and Murdock got his buddies at Benning on the horn and a chopper was out and the ER doc in Atlanta said that another few hours and he might not have...how he still might...
Face hasn’t left the room in three days.
BA’s brought him food, a couple changes of clothes, but he’s barely touched any of it. Murdock’s come by, too, other guys from the company, wanting to see, the investigation office from post, wanting to know. Everyone, wanting a reason, a sense of this.
Goddamn it, Face thinks as he smiles weakly and tells more lies about how Hannibal had told him about the hiking trip he’d been wanting to take and must have forgotten to put in his leave forms. About how he himself got distracted by a ladyfriend who was leaving the state and he’s so sorry he wasn’t around those two days, absolutely he deserves paperwork for it. Lies that everyone buys. Lies that answer their questions.
And motherfucker, he wants an answer too. He wants his questions answered too.
So here he is, waiting, holding Hannibal’s hand, waiting for it among the beeps of the heart monitor, the tangle of the saline drip. Three days. A long time.
Face thinks he should do something, like in romance movies, where he leans in and confesses his feelings and Hannibal’s eyes will open, untroubled and happy, like the summer sky after a rain, and they’ll be able to rebuild. Or maybe Hannibal won’t look at him, won’t acknowledge, will tell him to leave, that he can’t stand the sight of him. Anything. Anything is fine, anything at all, as long as the boss doesn’t die.
“Please,” he murmurs, kissing the back of Hannibal’s hand, limp on the covers, all that usual strength gone. “Please, boss, don’t go. Come back...”
But nothing happens.
Fucking movies, Face thinks.
“I came when I heard,” the doctor says. “It’s... you know, I didn’t want him to do this.”
Face looks up from where he’s fallen asleep in the chair. It’s late. The door’s shut. It’s safe to talk. He scrubs a hand over his face and stretches, stands. “I’m not sure he did.”
“He took...woah. That many?”
“Twenty four, and yeah, I know how it looks,” Face replies, not knowing and not caring if this is a justification or an explanation. “But Murdock’s stuff does kind of look like his aspirin, and he’s only on one of those 81mg dosages, so if he was in pain, he’d take like twenty of them. I’ve watched him do it before and...”
The clinic doc shakes his head and makes a show of checking Hannibal’s chart. “Colonel John Hannibal Smith. I’ve had more than one person speak highly of him, coming through my doors for STD tests and such, but I’d never met the man. Misjudged him.”
“Because he was raping me?”
“No, because he wasn’t. Or maybe he was, but didn’t know it. Strangest goddamn thing I’ve seen in a while,” and the doctor puts the chart back. “Thinkin’ about it afterward... how you doing with it?”
Face shrugs and goes back to his commander’s comatose form. His hair looks awful, dead and flat, and he moves it around a little on the man’s forehead, wishing Hannibal had let him touch like this before. Hoping like hell Hannibal will allow it after. “I just want him to wake up.”
“You meant it, didn’t you, son?”
“That he didn’t know?”
The doc comes up beside him and claps him on the shoulder on his way out of the room. “That you love him.”
“...yeah. I meant that.”
The door’s open, the doc’s leaving. “I want you to come in for a follow-up next week. You bring him if you want.”
Face stares. “What if he’s not awake?”
There’s a smile on the clinic doctor’s face, a little worn, a little stiff, like he doesn’t get to use it very much. Probably doesn’t, not in his line of work. “This can still work itself out, lieutenant. Don’t give up on him yet. Don't give up on yourself."
Face locks the door behind him. He settles back into his chair, suddenly exhausted from the effort of talking to the doctor, the tacit apology, the guilt, all the guilt. The doc’s guilt, Murdock’s, BA’s, Hannibal’s...he knows where it really belongs now.
Knows.
Knows that it doesn’t belong to any of them. Knows that they all might be at fault, but it doesn't mean the guilt belongs. Knows that if they keep trying to take it on like this, this, things like this, are what’s going to keep happening. It’s too big for any one of them to hold inside.
Knows what he should have done from the first.
"It’s enough. I’ve had enough. You’ve had enough. I don't want you to hurt me anymore. I don't want you to hurt yourself to hurt me anymore," Face whispers in his lover's ear and leans in further. “It's okay. I’ve got a plan, boss,” and he kisses the lank silver hair on that coma-pale forehead. He pulls the thin blanket up. “Let’s start over. Let’s you and me start over. Let it all go. Have something new together. How’s that sound?”
The only response is the beep of the machines, the little blinking lights, and he sighs. Didn’t work that time, either.
He closes his eyes.
Falling asleep in a place like this is strange, Face has learned. He’s had plenty of visits to the hospital. Gunshots, knife wounds, that one time he got drunk and broke his arm, diving into their swimming pool off the frat house roof. But it’s different, being the one who’s waiting. Sleep doesn’t come as easy. Sleep doesn’t come so gently.
Not so deep.
But it comes.
Like a tide, flowing up over him, drowning everything, taking everything away, dragging him out, out past the currents, under the surface, too deep, too deep to reach the surface again, until he hears that voice, that old familiar voice, pulling him up.
“Wake up, lieutenant.”
And this time, for the first time, Face doesn't try to run from it. Doesn't have to.
“Wake up...”
