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sonora_conejaPairing: Hannibal/Face
Rating: NC-17
Warnings:
Summary: Sort-of sequel to Article 15, and a fill for this prompt over at the kink meme
Hannibal takes Face to get his ranger tat. Either because of the pain of the needles or because of the "mark him as mine" stuff, sex follows...
Now that Face is back in the Rangers, Hannibal takes him to go get his tattoo. And, of course, this gets him all kinds of hot and bothered.
“Boss, are you sure about this place?”
“It’s the place where Sergeant Barnes is getting his sleeve done, kid, and that’s some of the best art I’ve seen in a while. It’s where a lot of the guys get their tags done in this town.”
Face glances out through the windshield of Hannibal’s truck at the strip mall in front of them. Liquor store, vacuum repair, and... the tattoo parlor. Where Hannibal’s got him an appointment for tonight, to get the Ranger on his shoulder. To make it official. To make Face his, in a way, the lieutenant supposes. But it doesn’t override the nervousness he’s feeling right now, and he must be squirming or something, because Hannibal reaches over and puts his hand on Face’s shoulder.
“Relax, Temp,” he says, that throaty rumble doing things to the younger man that have nothing to do with relaxing.
“I am, I mean, I want this, but boss...”
“You’re still going to be as beautiful as you are now, kid. More,” Hannibal says, flashes him a grin, and opens his door. “Get your ass out of my Ford, lieutenant!”
Face goes in first. He’s never been in one of these places before, and he’s not really ready for what assails him. A couple of people sitting around in chairs, a girl with dyed pink hair and at least six facial piercings behind the little glass counter, filled with piercing paraphernalia, ringing somebody up, and the walls, the walls are literally plastered in potential tattoos. Everything, everything... crosses and the Lady of Guadalupe and Navajo-inspired turtles and American flags and fairies and tribal bands clearly meant to go on an arm, skulls and motorcycles and flowers and dragons... wizards fighting dragons, and...
“Welcome to Art in Motion, can I help you?” the girl behind the cash register says, smiling pleasantly, and Face finds himself more than a little surprised that she sounds entirely normal, looking like that.
Hannibal jabs his thumb at Face and shakes him head a little. “Kid here’s got a nineteen-hundred appointment for...”
“I think I can guess,” she smiles, and leans forward on both elbows. She’s got one of those studded belts, a pair of Dickies just a little too small. “You want to mark him, dontcha? Get a little ownership on that? No problem, we can fix you boys up good. Just need to tell me what you're into and...”
“No,” Face says, as fast as he can, and the girl smiles at him. Goddamn it, he can feel himself blushing. “I, uhh, I mean, I’m here for...”
Hannibal rolls his eyes. “He’s in his for his unit tag. I faxed it over earlier...”
And the girl puts a hand over her mouth. “Oh, god, I am so sorry, I remember that one. The Ranger parachute thing? Our artist got it all traced out for you, you’re ready to go. Let me go tell the guys you’re here, make sure the room’s ready, and god, I’m so sorry...” and she walks off like that, still talking to herself. Face tilts his head a little to watch her go, and Hannibal gestures over to plastic chairs in the sea of brightly colored art.
There’s a table with big photo albums on it, all the stuff this place has done, Face figures, and starts leafing through one idly.
“You okay with this, lieutenant?” Hannibal asks in a low voice. “That little addition you made wasn’t hard to work in, but...”
“Damn straight, major,” he shoots back, noticing the furtive little looks they’re getting from the others in the room, two boys with regulation haircuts and one girl with her hair wound up, all with rings, all stressed and joking and staring. Cadets. Little bastards. Rank it is.
And Face grins at them. “What are you guys here for?”
“Moral support,” the girl says, and rolls her eyes as one of the boys gestures at something on the wall. Looks like an eagle. With a flag superimposed inside of it. And that one’s got a dreamy little smile on her face she’s not even trying to hide as she looks at him. “And you, sir?”
Sir, huh?
“They’re so adorable at that age, major,” Face jokes in a low voice.
Hannibal grunts, non-committal, mostly for show. “Don’t even think about it, lieutenant. Don’t need you getting yourself in trouble with that one.” He looks over at her, puts on his telling-the-kindergartners-a-story voice. “You kids know what the Rangers are?”
“Really, Army Rangers, you guys? That is so cool,” the female cadet says, smiling a little wider now.
“Have you like, ever killed anybody?” one of the boys asks.
“Tons. On eight continents,” Hannibal says, smirking.
“Wait...”
“Let me guess,” Face says, pointing at the one who spoke, the one who’s getting the flag-eagle tattoo. “You’re going to pilot training.” And he makes sure he says it with the amount of friendly condescension it deserves. Really, most of those Air Force boys are insufferable about that shit.
The kid opens his mouth to answer, and right then Pink Hair comes into the waiting room and opens the door wide. “We’re all ready for you, uhh,” and she looks at the clipboard in her hands, “Face.”
The female cadet giggles.
Face ignores this and looks over at Hannibal. “Can he come back?”
“Unit tradition,” Hannibal adds just in time.
“Yeah, sure. If you’ll both come with me?”
And Face can’t resist. He winks at her, and the female cadet’s mouth makes a little “o” shape, and then she’s very, very interested in some magazine as they both follow the receptionist back into wherever they’re going.
A narrow hallway, more tattoo patterns on the walls, and Face makes a joke to Pink Hair about people changing their mind at this point in the proceedings. She laughs and opens a door and tells them to wait, the artist will be with them soon, and tells Face that he should probably take his shirt off.
The room’s almost medical, Face realizes. Not much different, really, from a doctor’s office. Clean and sparkling, white walls, a ergonomic table, like an exam table, that smell of disinfectant in the air. “Huh,” he says, and Hannibal steps up behind him, wrapping him up in a bear hug and kissing his neck lightly.
“Not what you were expecting, love?”
“No, it’s, uhh...” and he smiles. He’s going to be okay. He knows that. Hannibal wouldn’t let him otherwise. But still, this is his body they’re talking about here, his arm, his skin, and he’s got no idea how much this is going to hurt... “It’s nice.”
“You sure about that addition we made, kid?”
“Yeah,” he says in a low voice, tickling fingers up the boss’ side. This is good. This is very good. This could almost override his nerves. “I want it. Want you with me...”
“Always be with you, love,” Hannibal says, and runs his hands down the front of Face’s shirt, undoing buttons and sliding it off, leaving him in just his black wifebeater. Hannibal slides his hands under this too, pressing Face back against him, rubbing his belly in easy, soothing motions. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
“Don’t wanna try...” Face says, rubbing back into his lover, feeling hardness there in the major’s jeans, and seriously considers just...
But the door’s opening, and they separate automatically, Hannibal slamming himself down into a chair and folding Face’s shirt onto the one next to him. He’s got his leg up, Face notices with a grin as a huge guy in a black t-shirt, both arms visibly covered, comes in with a folder.
“Face? That you?” he asks, and the lieutenant nods. “Awesome, so I’ve got your design copied out here and all ready to go. All black. We’re doing a military tag tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“First one?” and the guy smiles at him.
“Yeah.”
“Cool. Lay down for me. Stomach, back, whatever, just arm you want done towards the door,” he says, and opens one of those little medical cabinets, gathering some little machine and ink and everything else. “I get to pop your cherry then. And you’ll be back.” He snaps on a pair of gloves and brandishes some of that disinfectant Face was smelling when they first walked in. “It’s addictive.”
Face lays down on his stomach - right arm it is - and watches Hannibal the whole time, as he’s swabbed down and the artist fusses for a moment, getting just the right angle over the muscle, Hannibal throwing in an occasional comment. The big guy presses the pattern on. Talking, the whole time. And right before he starts up with the ink and that little machine... thing, the guy pauses over the outline he’s about to make permanent, fill in.
“This I haven’t seen before,” he comments, and Face is glad he’s not looking at the guy but at Hannibal, because he cheeks are burning. “Replacing a couple of the feathers with words, I like that. What is that?”
“Gaelic,” Hannibal offers.
“Love of my life,” Face adds, watching Hannibal kind of melt behind that calm exterior. “Whole family’s from Ireland, and, well, I do this for... her, and I thought I should have her name, just in case I have to leave my wedding ring back at home on a mission and...” Hes babbling. Fuck, he’s babbling, but the way Hannibal’s eyes are shining, he can’t really stop.
“No, it’s cool, man,” the artist says, and a light buzzing noise fills the air. “A lot of guys want the reminders of their families when they’re going into the shit. I had this one that wanted his kids’ photos on his back and... oh, you ready, Face? Cause we’re going to get started here?”
On the other side of the table, Hannibal gives his left hand a reassuring squeeze, unobtrusive, and Face smiles at him. Settles into the table a little. “Yeah, yeah, let’s get going.”
It takes longer than he imagined.
The needle doesn’t hurt, not really, but it tickles. Tickles a lot. And when Face turns his head that way, he can see blood getting wiped off his skin with the extra black ink. It looks like a huge fucking mess for the first two hours, smeared and messy and the pattern indeterminate. But the artist talks to him, and talks to Hannibal, and gets some more little snippets of Ranger stories to add to his already impressive collection of military first-persons. And occasionally, the guy will ask him if he needs a break, which he always refuses, and once or twice, Hannibal gets up to watch it and pats him on the shoulder. And so, Face gets through it.
“Okay, there we go,” the artist finally says, the clock damn near worn to midnight by now. He wipes a few more times with the towel he’s holding, and then holds up a mirror, just right, as Face sits up.
“Wow,” he says, looking at the black wings now spreading out across his angry red bicep, the letters stretched and tucked and barely noticeable to anyone who’s not looking for it. And Face grins at Hannibal. “Fucking-a, boss.”
“You’re a Ranger, el-tee,” Hannibal says impassively, and only someone who knows him as well as Face likes to think he knows him would notice the emotion, boiling up beneath the surface there. “You earned it.”
“See, that’s what I love about military tats,” and the artist is swabbing him down again with something that’s cool against his burning, reddened flesh. He rips a huge gauze out of its packaging and starts taping it over those fresh wings. “So much meaning, all the tradition and history and honor in these...”
Hannibal nods. “It’s a big deal.”
“Damn right, a ton of our business, and I’m glad to do it.” He stands up off his little stool. He shakes Face’s hand, and then Hannibal’s. “Thanks for everything you guys do for this great country of ours,” he says. “The receptionist needs to give you some care information on that, Face, so make sure you get that. She’s easily distracted. And don’t put your shirt back on yet, don’t want to be irritating that right now.”
And when Face walks out into the waiting room, Hannibal dealing with Pink Hair, that female cadet is still there, reading her magazine, and practically squeals when she sees him in the wifebeater.
Hannibal clearly notices.
So Face grins back and makes sure he wriggles his hips, just a little, on the way out the door.
+++++
It’s almost 0100, by the time Hannibal pulls into the driveway of his own house. It’s Saturday, so Face can stay over, no worries about work the next morning or getting caught or anything like that.
He loves Saturday nights.
Except tonight. He’s a little uncomfortable tonight. The lieutenant can still feel the needle in his skin, a phantom echo of the past few hours, a reminder of what’s under that bandage. His tag. His Rangers. His man.
Still, it hurts, so he goes for a handful of tylenol in the kitchen, dry swallowing the pills and tasting that little edge of sugar they coat the damn things in. He shudders a little at the sensation, and then there’s Hannibal, holding out a glass of milk, a funny smile twisting up, just at the corners of his mouth.
“What?” Face asks, taking the glass gratefully.
“You know, kid.” The boss’ voice is thick, happy, and his thumb is stroking the skin right under the boundary of the gauze, like he wants to touch. “Can’t believe you put my name on you.”
“Well, not exactly your name, the Irish, but...”
“Eoin Mac Gobhan,” Hannibal murmurs. “Eoin’s what gran used to call me. And that Mac Gobhan’s the family name.”
And that sound like there’s a lot of history there, wrapped up in that one little statement, and how would it be, to be able to trace your family back to Ireland, back hundreds of years like that? Face knows that’s one thing in his life he’ll never have, the certainty of a past, and he suddenly feels very, very awkward. “Is that... is that okay, boss? I mean, I didn’t really ask about if that was...”
"Don't even think it." Fingers close down around his bicep, right there. “You’re family, Templeton.”
That catches Face off-guard, and, cheeks burning, downs the entire glass in one go to cover his embarrassment, sloshing some up on his lip in his rush. He doesn’t bother to wipe it off. “John, I...”
“Shh, Temp,” Hannibal says, and leans in to kiss him, licking that rim of milk off his upper lip, pulling him close with that arm. “I know. It’s okay.”
“I just... I just wanted you with me.”
“And you'll always have me, love.” It’s whispered against his cheek like a prayer. “And I can’t wait to see it.”
Face grins, the world gone back to level, and places his left hand over Hannibal’s, where it’s resting. “We could take it off now.”
“No, kid, got to leave that on overnight. You don’t want a mess on your hands, believe me...” and Hannibal shudders, like he’s remembering something bad, and the lieutenant makes a note to ask about how Hannibal got his own. But right now, he’s fuck tired, and he’s willing to bet the boss feels the same way, and of course, there’s the morning to think of.
“Well then,” Face teases, kissing Hannibal back, right in the crook where neck meets shoulder, “you better get me to bed then, yeah?”
“Brat,” Hannibal growls, and slaps his ass, herding him back towards the bedroom.
Face wakes slow and easy in the morning.
He’s still cuddled back against Hannibal, spine to sternum, right side held up in the air, both of them naked under the quilt. The major loves sleeping like this, naked and tight together in a room that’s just a little too cold, and like everything else about this man, it’s amazing. It always feels so good, burrowing into chilly sheets, letting the other man’s warm, musky scent envelop him. And this morning, like so many others...
“Well, hello to you too,” Face chuckles, feeling his commander’s morning wood pressing right into the cleft of his ass.
“Good morning,” Hannibal rumbles behind him, kissing the back of Face’s head as Face pushes back into it. He loves that, the way it feels, Hannibal so close to where he needs to be, where they both need him to be. “How’re you feeling, sunshine?”
“Still hurts a little,” he admits.
Hannibal rolls the younger over onto his stomach, standing himself up and yanking the blankets down. Face groans a little. “You never let me sleep in, boss.”
“Come on, kid,” he says. “Need to wash that off.”
No argument with that, Face thinks, or no arguing at least, and he obediently follows him into the little ensuite, stocked up with Hannibal’s simple shampoo and body wash, and his own rather comprehensive array of toiletries that Hannibal’s constantly giving him shit for. The shower’s already going, too.
Perfect.
Hannibal gets him over in front of the mirror, standing behind him, outwardly calm but clearly, deep down, giddy as a kid at Christmas. Obviously proud. Obviously dying to rip this thing off and see what under there. He drops his hand, right at the top of the bandage. “Do you, uhh, you want some help with...”
“Yeah, go ahead,” Face says, biting back his own laugh. It takes a lot to get John Smith this excited, and he’s only seen it once before, the first night they made love, the night he said yes to that quiet little question he almost hadn’t heard... and then he yelps. “Oww!”
“Big baby,” Hannibal admonishes without any heat in his words at all, holding up the just-removed gauze, and turns Face, just a little. Enough to see. “Look at that, would you?”
And there, in front of him in the mirror, looking down at the skin, there it is.
“Oh, wow,” he breathes, and hesitantly touches the big black jump wings, the lightning bolts, the sword, that little banner, everything that says, now and forever, that he’s a Ranger, that he’s Hannibal’s boy, that he fucking belongs somewhere, with someone, that he’s...
“Welcome home, Temp,” Hannibal says, nearly hoarse with emotion at this point.
Face can see that the older man’s eyes are shining as he guides them both over the lip of the tub, and he can’t really resist kissing him as they step into the spray, water soaking them both in an instant, his own cock swelling, caught against Hannibal’s already rock-hard length.
Hannibal has a bit of a kink for this, washing him, that he occasionally indulges. Usually when he’s feeling possessive, and Face sighs back into the tile as the boss soaps a washcloth with one of Face’s favorite scrubs and starts passing it in broad swipes across his chest and left arm, moving down, spending a little extra time on Face’s own cock and balls, getting everything. When he’s done with that, Hannibal goes for Face’s shampoo, the stuff he’s always complaining about, and Face grins again. The boss likes to complain, but he also loves the way it smells.
He normally lingers on this task, too, but today, he’s moving a little more quickly, so Face takes the shampoo away with a little kiss. “You want to get to the good part, don’t you?”
Hannibal makes a noise, somewhere between a growl and groan, and quickly scrubs himself down as Face handles his hair, both of them watching each other the entire time. And once Face gets that conditioner in, right then, Hannibal pounces.
He strokes both hands down Face’s arms, moving in, pinning him back against the wall, right by the bar soap that Hannibal prefers. The major passes three fingers over the bar of soap in its dish, as careful and easy as if he’s already touching Face’s own skin.
He leans forward, watching, wanting to feel as much of his man as he can right now. Needs it. Whimpers a little as their cocks slide together. If Hannibal doesn’t fuck him pretty goddamn soon...
“So, what do I need to do with this thing?” he says hastily, trying to think about something else. Hannibal never stops mid-shower. Before or after only.
“Ointment for four days, lotion after that. It’s going to peel, so that helps,” Hannibal says softly, and those fingers are on the fresh tattoo now, rubbing in slow little circles. “And none of that scented bullshit, something basic, Curel or something like that.”
Face nods. “I’ll stop by Walgreens on the way back tonight...”
“Already got it for you,” Hannibal says.
“Three steps ahead?” Face teases,but the major’s rinsing the tattooed skin off now, splashing a handful of water to wash away the soap, and one finger trails down after the racing liquid.
“It’s not really noticeable,” he muses, “but it’s there. Really well done.”
“Your name?”
“Yeah, my name...” and Hannibal shudders. Face can feel something a little thicker than water leaking on his belly now. Pre-cum, he thinks, and runs a wet hand through graying chestnut hair. “Seeing it on you like that just... oh god, kid...” and then he bends over to kiss it. “You’re mine now, you realize that? Can’t ever leave...”
Face gasps, both at the lips on his skin and the shake in that voice. “Couldn’t leave you, John. Don’t wanna...”
“Good,” he says in that heavy, sensual way of his that always marks a transition in their activities. “Because the Rangers own your ass now, lieutenant.”
He arches his neck back in clear invitation. “Under Major Smith’s command?”
“Damn right. As Hannibal’s jealously guarded right hand man,” he says, not doing anything but stroking over those two little feathers that hold his name.
“And buttboy?” Face says, the words coming out a little more desperate than he means, and what the hell’s wrong with him, after all of this? He doesn’t doubt. Not for a second. But all this heavy stuff the past few days, and...
“No,” Hannibal says and pulls back enough to let Face see that he knows it was a lame attempt at a joke. Enough for Face to see the pride there. The pride and the love. “John’s beloved...”
Face nearly tackles Hannibal clean out of the shower, all his internal restraints and doubts and concerns and worries snapping apart at the sound of that one word, that little beloved. So much more than anything he’s ever heard Hannibal say to him and he needs him, right the fuck now. Needs to feel that. Needs to know, absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is what Hannibal says he is.
And thank fuck, Hannibal catches him before they both tumble out and hurt themselves and kisses him senseless, right there, like he’s trying to devour him, for just a moment, and then two hands are jerking his mouth away from Hannibal’s, and the older man’s words are coming in frantic pants.
“Slick, kid, right now...”
Face fumbles for it in the collection of bottles and tubes - he’s found, with Hannibal, it’s always a good thing to be three steps ahead of whatever he wants, wherever he might want it, and when it comes to Hannibal’s house, that translated to lube being in every room. Two, in the living room.
One in the shower.
He uncaps it and falls back against the wall, spreading wide, reaching between them to take the major’s cock in hand, pouring lube down over his knuckles, the hot flesh on his fingers, the two of them so close here, like this, wet bodies plastered together, muscles moving smoothly against each other, all that strength in Hannibal, bearing down on him.
“I love you,” he murmurs, thumbing the head of his lover’s cock, and Hannibal’s eyes sparkle with understanding.
“You were born for that tag, Templeton Peck,” he says. Then he slaps Face’s hand away and enters him in one brutal push.
Face cries out at that exquisite pressure, stretching him open, splitting him apart, filling him in inarguable demonstration of ownership. But it’s the best kind of pain, and he lifts a leg up to rub against Hannibal’s thigh, wraps his hands around his lover’s neck, and lets his own head fall back to the tile in silent encouragement.
They’re both far too wound up for this to last long. It’s rough, exactly the way it should be, the first time Hannibal’s taking him as a real Ranger, marked and claimed. And Hannibal sets a fast pace, punctuated by hard, desperate half-formed kisses that land everything, both of them shaking under the force of Hannibal’s soul-shattering thrusts, Face thinking he’s going to fall apart with it before this is over.
But there’s the boss, holding him tight, holding him together, holding him up. His cock’s sliding wetly against his lover’s damn chest, his balls threatening to explode now, every nerve in his body, every fiber of his being singing, and then Hannibal changes the angle, just a little, hits his prostate, and that’s it for him. He wails into his orgasm, feeling thick ropes of semen hitting his chest, and his body flutters and then clenches around Hannibal, and there it is, the exhilarating rush deep inside him, and teeth break the skin over his collarbone, the boss moaning through it himself.
When it’s over, neither of them have anything left and so they both slide down, collapsing in a sodden heap of limbs in the narrow tub. There’s nowhere near enough room for them both, and Face starts laughing.
Hannibal hand is still closed on his arm.
His thumb’s still on the tattoo.
“Think you got it clean enough, boss?”
“Brat,” Hannibal groans, and kisses him anyway.
+++++
He can do this.
He really can.
So Face shoves the little box into the cargo pocket on his cut-off BDU pants, pulls his wifebeater down, the one that shows off his new ink so great, and grabs the stuff he’s supposed to be taking out. He’s nervous, coming out of the kitchen, out to the patio where Hannibal’s got the grill going in the warm evening air.
He doesn’t really know if he should do this, if he needs to do this, how Hannibal’s going to react, but goddammit, he promised himself... Hannibal deserves something too, doesn’t he? And his tattoo’s already claimed.
“So, how’d you get yours?” he’d asked earlier, after they managed themselves out of the bathroom and back into that big bed, wrapped up in each other. Hannibal had taken him slow that time, slow and sweet, drawing it out for what seemed like hours with soft words and gentle sweeps. No less intense than before, Face figured, but the first time was the Ranger taking him, fucking him, claiming him.
That love-making was all John. And knowing he had everything, all of the man, just set everything in Face on fire.
“Panama,” Hannibal has replied shortly. “Colonel Morrison, well, Captain Morrison, back then, he took he. Right after our first mission together.”
“Took you or... took you?”
“Both,” Hannibal had said. “But that tattoo...”
“Colonel Morrison? Really? This I have to know.”
Hannibal’s eyes had clouded for a moment, and then he smiled, shaking his head. “You hungry? I’m starving.”
So that was a tale he’d get at another time, Face figured. Right now, he had this.
The box.
Was Hannibal even going to like it? Hannibal probably wasn’t going to like it. It wasn’t anything, really. Just...
“You get the booze, kid?”
Face holds up the bottle. The boss really prefers beer or whiskey on average, but Hannibal got steak, good steak, tonight and that means a good red wine to go with it. They can’t really go out much, but Hannibal doesn’t ever seem to mind staying in. Besides, it’s far easier to interrupt a dinner at home for some recreation than at a steakhouse downtown.
“Great,” Hannibal says, and grabs a piece of tinfoil, tenting it over the steaks as he pulls them off the grill and onto a plate, letting the meat rest for a few minutes before serving. “Did you get the...”
Face hands him the corkscrew, smiling a little as those big, strong hands make short work of the cork. Rich red liquid pours into big glasses, and Hannibal kind of brushes Face’s hand as he passes it over to him. “Cheers, kid,” he says softly, the crystal clinking together in a quiet toast, and Face sips, not really tasting it.
That box in his pocket...
“Good, Face?”
Hannibal’s looking at him. Shit, he needs to say something. “Yeah,” Face nods. “Yeah, it’s good.”
“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, Temp?”
And double shit. Hannibal’s setting his glass down on the patio table.
He can do this.
Face follows suit, placing his wine glass down next to Hannibal’s, and manages to get the box out of his pocket. He holds it out, hand shaking a little. “Yeah, I, uhh, yesterday while you were getting your name in the design, like I asked, I thought I should... and you had the stuff laying around, so...”
Hannibal takes it, and just holds it. “What is it?”
“I’ve got something of yours now, I guess...” Face says, knowing he sounds like a total idiot, and bites his lip as Hannibal opens the lid, “and thought you might... want to have something of mine?”
Hannibal takes it out, the knotted green paracord bracelet and just stares at it.
It's one of those ubiquitous military things, as ubiquitous as tattoos, really, and for a moment, Hannibal not saying anything, Face doesn’t know what to think. Except, maybe, that he fucked...
“Mine?” Hannibal asks, voice suddenly husky. "From you?"
“Yeah. Burned my thumb on the lighter and everything."
"Kid, I don't know what to say."
And Face squirms. Shit. "I guess it’s not really a...”
“It’s perfect,” the major says, and Face looks up, see the tears hanging in the corners of those blue eyes. “It’s perfect. I can’t believe you did this...”
Relief floods through the lieutenant. “Wanted you to remember me, John, you know, like if...”
And Hannibal gathers him up in his arms, wrapping him tight, and breathes deep against the curl of his hair. “How could I ever forget you, Templeton? You’re the love of my life...” Face looks up to see that those tears are building, about to fall, and Hannibal’s fighting desperately against that. There are whole conversations here that they’re not having, about how rings wouldn’t do anything but get them in trouble, how everything between them has to be clandestine, and this is a way for it to be acknowledged publicly, if inconspicuously. That Hannibal loves him. That he loves Hannibal. That this is how it’s going to be, part of each other, like this, right here. Together.
But the major composes himself, after a few long moments and without saying a word, all those pesky emotions locked away again, deep inside. He presses the bracelet into Face’s hand with a weak, happy smile. “Why don’t you get this on me,” he says, “and we’ll eat?”
Face fixes it onto Hannibal’s outstretched hand, deciding right then and there he loves the sight of that paracord on his man’s wrist. Fucking loves it. This must be how Hannibal feels about his tattoo, he figures, and rubs it softly, his lips parting in a silent little moan.
And, based on the look the boss is giving him, then grins, then drops a hand to finger the knot closure on the bracelet, Face figures he’s going to like this whole thing a whole hell of a lot.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings:
Summary: Sort-of sequel to Article 15, and a fill for this prompt over at the kink meme
Hannibal takes Face to get his ranger tat. Either because of the pain of the needles or because of the "mark him as mine" stuff, sex follows...
Now that Face is back in the Rangers, Hannibal takes him to go get his tattoo. And, of course, this gets him all kinds of hot and bothered.
“Boss, are you sure about this place?”
“It’s the place where Sergeant Barnes is getting his sleeve done, kid, and that’s some of the best art I’ve seen in a while. It’s where a lot of the guys get their tags done in this town.”
Face glances out through the windshield of Hannibal’s truck at the strip mall in front of them. Liquor store, vacuum repair, and... the tattoo parlor. Where Hannibal’s got him an appointment for tonight, to get the Ranger on his shoulder. To make it official. To make Face his, in a way, the lieutenant supposes. But it doesn’t override the nervousness he’s feeling right now, and he must be squirming or something, because Hannibal reaches over and puts his hand on Face’s shoulder.
“Relax, Temp,” he says, that throaty rumble doing things to the younger man that have nothing to do with relaxing.
“I am, I mean, I want this, but boss...”
“You’re still going to be as beautiful as you are now, kid. More,” Hannibal says, flashes him a grin, and opens his door. “Get your ass out of my Ford, lieutenant!”
Face goes in first. He’s never been in one of these places before, and he’s not really ready for what assails him. A couple of people sitting around in chairs, a girl with dyed pink hair and at least six facial piercings behind the little glass counter, filled with piercing paraphernalia, ringing somebody up, and the walls, the walls are literally plastered in potential tattoos. Everything, everything... crosses and the Lady of Guadalupe and Navajo-inspired turtles and American flags and fairies and tribal bands clearly meant to go on an arm, skulls and motorcycles and flowers and dragons... wizards fighting dragons, and...
“Welcome to Art in Motion, can I help you?” the girl behind the cash register says, smiling pleasantly, and Face finds himself more than a little surprised that she sounds entirely normal, looking like that.
Hannibal jabs his thumb at Face and shakes him head a little. “Kid here’s got a nineteen-hundred appointment for...”
“I think I can guess,” she smiles, and leans forward on both elbows. She’s got one of those studded belts, a pair of Dickies just a little too small. “You want to mark him, dontcha? Get a little ownership on that? No problem, we can fix you boys up good. Just need to tell me what you're into and...”
“No,” Face says, as fast as he can, and the girl smiles at him. Goddamn it, he can feel himself blushing. “I, uhh, I mean, I’m here for...”
Hannibal rolls his eyes. “He’s in his for his unit tag. I faxed it over earlier...”
And the girl puts a hand over her mouth. “Oh, god, I am so sorry, I remember that one. The Ranger parachute thing? Our artist got it all traced out for you, you’re ready to go. Let me go tell the guys you’re here, make sure the room’s ready, and god, I’m so sorry...” and she walks off like that, still talking to herself. Face tilts his head a little to watch her go, and Hannibal gestures over to plastic chairs in the sea of brightly colored art.
There’s a table with big photo albums on it, all the stuff this place has done, Face figures, and starts leafing through one idly.
“You okay with this, lieutenant?” Hannibal asks in a low voice. “That little addition you made wasn’t hard to work in, but...”
“Damn straight, major,” he shoots back, noticing the furtive little looks they’re getting from the others in the room, two boys with regulation haircuts and one girl with her hair wound up, all with rings, all stressed and joking and staring. Cadets. Little bastards. Rank it is.
And Face grins at them. “What are you guys here for?”
“Moral support,” the girl says, and rolls her eyes as one of the boys gestures at something on the wall. Looks like an eagle. With a flag superimposed inside of it. And that one’s got a dreamy little smile on her face she’s not even trying to hide as she looks at him. “And you, sir?”
Sir, huh?
“They’re so adorable at that age, major,” Face jokes in a low voice.
Hannibal grunts, non-committal, mostly for show. “Don’t even think about it, lieutenant. Don’t need you getting yourself in trouble with that one.” He looks over at her, puts on his telling-the-kindergartners-a-story voice. “You kids know what the Rangers are?”
“Really, Army Rangers, you guys? That is so cool,” the female cadet says, smiling a little wider now.
“Have you like, ever killed anybody?” one of the boys asks.
“Tons. On eight continents,” Hannibal says, smirking.
“Wait...”
“Let me guess,” Face says, pointing at the one who spoke, the one who’s getting the flag-eagle tattoo. “You’re going to pilot training.” And he makes sure he says it with the amount of friendly condescension it deserves. Really, most of those Air Force boys are insufferable about that shit.
The kid opens his mouth to answer, and right then Pink Hair comes into the waiting room and opens the door wide. “We’re all ready for you, uhh,” and she looks at the clipboard in her hands, “Face.”
The female cadet giggles.
Face ignores this and looks over at Hannibal. “Can he come back?”
“Unit tradition,” Hannibal adds just in time.
“Yeah, sure. If you’ll both come with me?”
And Face can’t resist. He winks at her, and the female cadet’s mouth makes a little “o” shape, and then she’s very, very interested in some magazine as they both follow the receptionist back into wherever they’re going.
A narrow hallway, more tattoo patterns on the walls, and Face makes a joke to Pink Hair about people changing their mind at this point in the proceedings. She laughs and opens a door and tells them to wait, the artist will be with them soon, and tells Face that he should probably take his shirt off.
The room’s almost medical, Face realizes. Not much different, really, from a doctor’s office. Clean and sparkling, white walls, a ergonomic table, like an exam table, that smell of disinfectant in the air. “Huh,” he says, and Hannibal steps up behind him, wrapping him up in a bear hug and kissing his neck lightly.
“Not what you were expecting, love?”
“No, it’s, uhh...” and he smiles. He’s going to be okay. He knows that. Hannibal wouldn’t let him otherwise. But still, this is his body they’re talking about here, his arm, his skin, and he’s got no idea how much this is going to hurt... “It’s nice.”
“You sure about that addition we made, kid?”
“Yeah,” he says in a low voice, tickling fingers up the boss’ side. This is good. This is very good. This could almost override his nerves. “I want it. Want you with me...”
“Always be with you, love,” Hannibal says, and runs his hands down the front of Face’s shirt, undoing buttons and sliding it off, leaving him in just his black wifebeater. Hannibal slides his hands under this too, pressing Face back against him, rubbing his belly in easy, soothing motions. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
“Don’t wanna try...” Face says, rubbing back into his lover, feeling hardness there in the major’s jeans, and seriously considers just...
But the door’s opening, and they separate automatically, Hannibal slamming himself down into a chair and folding Face’s shirt onto the one next to him. He’s got his leg up, Face notices with a grin as a huge guy in a black t-shirt, both arms visibly covered, comes in with a folder.
“Face? That you?” he asks, and the lieutenant nods. “Awesome, so I’ve got your design copied out here and all ready to go. All black. We’re doing a military tag tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“First one?” and the guy smiles at him.
“Yeah.”
“Cool. Lay down for me. Stomach, back, whatever, just arm you want done towards the door,” he says, and opens one of those little medical cabinets, gathering some little machine and ink and everything else. “I get to pop your cherry then. And you’ll be back.” He snaps on a pair of gloves and brandishes some of that disinfectant Face was smelling when they first walked in. “It’s addictive.”
Face lays down on his stomach - right arm it is - and watches Hannibal the whole time, as he’s swabbed down and the artist fusses for a moment, getting just the right angle over the muscle, Hannibal throwing in an occasional comment. The big guy presses the pattern on. Talking, the whole time. And right before he starts up with the ink and that little machine... thing, the guy pauses over the outline he’s about to make permanent, fill in.
“This I haven’t seen before,” he comments, and Face is glad he’s not looking at the guy but at Hannibal, because he cheeks are burning. “Replacing a couple of the feathers with words, I like that. What is that?”
“Gaelic,” Hannibal offers.
“Love of my life,” Face adds, watching Hannibal kind of melt behind that calm exterior. “Whole family’s from Ireland, and, well, I do this for... her, and I thought I should have her name, just in case I have to leave my wedding ring back at home on a mission and...” Hes babbling. Fuck, he’s babbling, but the way Hannibal’s eyes are shining, he can’t really stop.
“No, it’s cool, man,” the artist says, and a light buzzing noise fills the air. “A lot of guys want the reminders of their families when they’re going into the shit. I had this one that wanted his kids’ photos on his back and... oh, you ready, Face? Cause we’re going to get started here?”
On the other side of the table, Hannibal gives his left hand a reassuring squeeze, unobtrusive, and Face smiles at him. Settles into the table a little. “Yeah, yeah, let’s get going.”
It takes longer than he imagined.
The needle doesn’t hurt, not really, but it tickles. Tickles a lot. And when Face turns his head that way, he can see blood getting wiped off his skin with the extra black ink. It looks like a huge fucking mess for the first two hours, smeared and messy and the pattern indeterminate. But the artist talks to him, and talks to Hannibal, and gets some more little snippets of Ranger stories to add to his already impressive collection of military first-persons. And occasionally, the guy will ask him if he needs a break, which he always refuses, and once or twice, Hannibal gets up to watch it and pats him on the shoulder. And so, Face gets through it.
“Okay, there we go,” the artist finally says, the clock damn near worn to midnight by now. He wipes a few more times with the towel he’s holding, and then holds up a mirror, just right, as Face sits up.
“Wow,” he says, looking at the black wings now spreading out across his angry red bicep, the letters stretched and tucked and barely noticeable to anyone who’s not looking for it. And Face grins at Hannibal. “Fucking-a, boss.”
“You’re a Ranger, el-tee,” Hannibal says impassively, and only someone who knows him as well as Face likes to think he knows him would notice the emotion, boiling up beneath the surface there. “You earned it.”
“See, that’s what I love about military tats,” and the artist is swabbing him down again with something that’s cool against his burning, reddened flesh. He rips a huge gauze out of its packaging and starts taping it over those fresh wings. “So much meaning, all the tradition and history and honor in these...”
Hannibal nods. “It’s a big deal.”
“Damn right, a ton of our business, and I’m glad to do it.” He stands up off his little stool. He shakes Face’s hand, and then Hannibal’s. “Thanks for everything you guys do for this great country of ours,” he says. “The receptionist needs to give you some care information on that, Face, so make sure you get that. She’s easily distracted. And don’t put your shirt back on yet, don’t want to be irritating that right now.”
And when Face walks out into the waiting room, Hannibal dealing with Pink Hair, that female cadet is still there, reading her magazine, and practically squeals when she sees him in the wifebeater.
Hannibal clearly notices.
So Face grins back and makes sure he wriggles his hips, just a little, on the way out the door.
+++++
It’s almost 0100, by the time Hannibal pulls into the driveway of his own house. It’s Saturday, so Face can stay over, no worries about work the next morning or getting caught or anything like that.
He loves Saturday nights.
Except tonight. He’s a little uncomfortable tonight. The lieutenant can still feel the needle in his skin, a phantom echo of the past few hours, a reminder of what’s under that bandage. His tag. His Rangers. His man.
Still, it hurts, so he goes for a handful of tylenol in the kitchen, dry swallowing the pills and tasting that little edge of sugar they coat the damn things in. He shudders a little at the sensation, and then there’s Hannibal, holding out a glass of milk, a funny smile twisting up, just at the corners of his mouth.
“What?” Face asks, taking the glass gratefully.
“You know, kid.” The boss’ voice is thick, happy, and his thumb is stroking the skin right under the boundary of the gauze, like he wants to touch. “Can’t believe you put my name on you.”
“Well, not exactly your name, the Irish, but...”
“Eoin Mac Gobhan,” Hannibal murmurs. “Eoin’s what gran used to call me. And that Mac Gobhan’s the family name.”
And that sound like there’s a lot of history there, wrapped up in that one little statement, and how would it be, to be able to trace your family back to Ireland, back hundreds of years like that? Face knows that’s one thing in his life he’ll never have, the certainty of a past, and he suddenly feels very, very awkward. “Is that... is that okay, boss? I mean, I didn’t really ask about if that was...”
"Don't even think it." Fingers close down around his bicep, right there. “You’re family, Templeton.”
That catches Face off-guard, and, cheeks burning, downs the entire glass in one go to cover his embarrassment, sloshing some up on his lip in his rush. He doesn’t bother to wipe it off. “John, I...”
“Shh, Temp,” Hannibal says, and leans in to kiss him, licking that rim of milk off his upper lip, pulling him close with that arm. “I know. It’s okay.”
“I just... I just wanted you with me.”
“And you'll always have me, love.” It’s whispered against his cheek like a prayer. “And I can’t wait to see it.”
Face grins, the world gone back to level, and places his left hand over Hannibal’s, where it’s resting. “We could take it off now.”
“No, kid, got to leave that on overnight. You don’t want a mess on your hands, believe me...” and Hannibal shudders, like he’s remembering something bad, and the lieutenant makes a note to ask about how Hannibal got his own. But right now, he’s fuck tired, and he’s willing to bet the boss feels the same way, and of course, there’s the morning to think of.
“Well then,” Face teases, kissing Hannibal back, right in the crook where neck meets shoulder, “you better get me to bed then, yeah?”
“Brat,” Hannibal growls, and slaps his ass, herding him back towards the bedroom.
Face wakes slow and easy in the morning.
He’s still cuddled back against Hannibal, spine to sternum, right side held up in the air, both of them naked under the quilt. The major loves sleeping like this, naked and tight together in a room that’s just a little too cold, and like everything else about this man, it’s amazing. It always feels so good, burrowing into chilly sheets, letting the other man’s warm, musky scent envelop him. And this morning, like so many others...
“Well, hello to you too,” Face chuckles, feeling his commander’s morning wood pressing right into the cleft of his ass.
“Good morning,” Hannibal rumbles behind him, kissing the back of Face’s head as Face pushes back into it. He loves that, the way it feels, Hannibal so close to where he needs to be, where they both need him to be. “How’re you feeling, sunshine?”
“Still hurts a little,” he admits.
Hannibal rolls the younger over onto his stomach, standing himself up and yanking the blankets down. Face groans a little. “You never let me sleep in, boss.”
“Come on, kid,” he says. “Need to wash that off.”
No argument with that, Face thinks, or no arguing at least, and he obediently follows him into the little ensuite, stocked up with Hannibal’s simple shampoo and body wash, and his own rather comprehensive array of toiletries that Hannibal’s constantly giving him shit for. The shower’s already going, too.
Perfect.
Hannibal gets him over in front of the mirror, standing behind him, outwardly calm but clearly, deep down, giddy as a kid at Christmas. Obviously proud. Obviously dying to rip this thing off and see what under there. He drops his hand, right at the top of the bandage. “Do you, uhh, you want some help with...”
“Yeah, go ahead,” Face says, biting back his own laugh. It takes a lot to get John Smith this excited, and he’s only seen it once before, the first night they made love, the night he said yes to that quiet little question he almost hadn’t heard... and then he yelps. “Oww!”
“Big baby,” Hannibal admonishes without any heat in his words at all, holding up the just-removed gauze, and turns Face, just a little. Enough to see. “Look at that, would you?”
And there, in front of him in the mirror, looking down at the skin, there it is.
“Oh, wow,” he breathes, and hesitantly touches the big black jump wings, the lightning bolts, the sword, that little banner, everything that says, now and forever, that he’s a Ranger, that he’s Hannibal’s boy, that he fucking belongs somewhere, with someone, that he’s...
“Welcome home, Temp,” Hannibal says, nearly hoarse with emotion at this point.
Face can see that the older man’s eyes are shining as he guides them both over the lip of the tub, and he can’t really resist kissing him as they step into the spray, water soaking them both in an instant, his own cock swelling, caught against Hannibal’s already rock-hard length.
Hannibal has a bit of a kink for this, washing him, that he occasionally indulges. Usually when he’s feeling possessive, and Face sighs back into the tile as the boss soaps a washcloth with one of Face’s favorite scrubs and starts passing it in broad swipes across his chest and left arm, moving down, spending a little extra time on Face’s own cock and balls, getting everything. When he’s done with that, Hannibal goes for Face’s shampoo, the stuff he’s always complaining about, and Face grins again. The boss likes to complain, but he also loves the way it smells.
He normally lingers on this task, too, but today, he’s moving a little more quickly, so Face takes the shampoo away with a little kiss. “You want to get to the good part, don’t you?”
Hannibal makes a noise, somewhere between a growl and groan, and quickly scrubs himself down as Face handles his hair, both of them watching each other the entire time. And once Face gets that conditioner in, right then, Hannibal pounces.
He strokes both hands down Face’s arms, moving in, pinning him back against the wall, right by the bar soap that Hannibal prefers. The major passes three fingers over the bar of soap in its dish, as careful and easy as if he’s already touching Face’s own skin.
He leans forward, watching, wanting to feel as much of his man as he can right now. Needs it. Whimpers a little as their cocks slide together. If Hannibal doesn’t fuck him pretty goddamn soon...
“So, what do I need to do with this thing?” he says hastily, trying to think about something else. Hannibal never stops mid-shower. Before or after only.
“Ointment for four days, lotion after that. It’s going to peel, so that helps,” Hannibal says softly, and those fingers are on the fresh tattoo now, rubbing in slow little circles. “And none of that scented bullshit, something basic, Curel or something like that.”
Face nods. “I’ll stop by Walgreens on the way back tonight...”
“Already got it for you,” Hannibal says.
“Three steps ahead?” Face teases,but the major’s rinsing the tattooed skin off now, splashing a handful of water to wash away the soap, and one finger trails down after the racing liquid.
“It’s not really noticeable,” he muses, “but it’s there. Really well done.”
“Your name?”
“Yeah, my name...” and Hannibal shudders. Face can feel something a little thicker than water leaking on his belly now. Pre-cum, he thinks, and runs a wet hand through graying chestnut hair. “Seeing it on you like that just... oh god, kid...” and then he bends over to kiss it. “You’re mine now, you realize that? Can’t ever leave...”
Face gasps, both at the lips on his skin and the shake in that voice. “Couldn’t leave you, John. Don’t wanna...”
“Good,” he says in that heavy, sensual way of his that always marks a transition in their activities. “Because the Rangers own your ass now, lieutenant.”
He arches his neck back in clear invitation. “Under Major Smith’s command?”
“Damn right. As Hannibal’s jealously guarded right hand man,” he says, not doing anything but stroking over those two little feathers that hold his name.
“And buttboy?” Face says, the words coming out a little more desperate than he means, and what the hell’s wrong with him, after all of this? He doesn’t doubt. Not for a second. But all this heavy stuff the past few days, and...
“No,” Hannibal says and pulls back enough to let Face see that he knows it was a lame attempt at a joke. Enough for Face to see the pride there. The pride and the love. “John’s beloved...”
Face nearly tackles Hannibal clean out of the shower, all his internal restraints and doubts and concerns and worries snapping apart at the sound of that one word, that little beloved. So much more than anything he’s ever heard Hannibal say to him and he needs him, right the fuck now. Needs to feel that. Needs to know, absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is what Hannibal says he is.
And thank fuck, Hannibal catches him before they both tumble out and hurt themselves and kisses him senseless, right there, like he’s trying to devour him, for just a moment, and then two hands are jerking his mouth away from Hannibal’s, and the older man’s words are coming in frantic pants.
“Slick, kid, right now...”
Face fumbles for it in the collection of bottles and tubes - he’s found, with Hannibal, it’s always a good thing to be three steps ahead of whatever he wants, wherever he might want it, and when it comes to Hannibal’s house, that translated to lube being in every room. Two, in the living room.
One in the shower.
He uncaps it and falls back against the wall, spreading wide, reaching between them to take the major’s cock in hand, pouring lube down over his knuckles, the hot flesh on his fingers, the two of them so close here, like this, wet bodies plastered together, muscles moving smoothly against each other, all that strength in Hannibal, bearing down on him.
“I love you,” he murmurs, thumbing the head of his lover’s cock, and Hannibal’s eyes sparkle with understanding.
“You were born for that tag, Templeton Peck,” he says. Then he slaps Face’s hand away and enters him in one brutal push.
Face cries out at that exquisite pressure, stretching him open, splitting him apart, filling him in inarguable demonstration of ownership. But it’s the best kind of pain, and he lifts a leg up to rub against Hannibal’s thigh, wraps his hands around his lover’s neck, and lets his own head fall back to the tile in silent encouragement.
They’re both far too wound up for this to last long. It’s rough, exactly the way it should be, the first time Hannibal’s taking him as a real Ranger, marked and claimed. And Hannibal sets a fast pace, punctuated by hard, desperate half-formed kisses that land everything, both of them shaking under the force of Hannibal’s soul-shattering thrusts, Face thinking he’s going to fall apart with it before this is over.
But there’s the boss, holding him tight, holding him together, holding him up. His cock’s sliding wetly against his lover’s damn chest, his balls threatening to explode now, every nerve in his body, every fiber of his being singing, and then Hannibal changes the angle, just a little, hits his prostate, and that’s it for him. He wails into his orgasm, feeling thick ropes of semen hitting his chest, and his body flutters and then clenches around Hannibal, and there it is, the exhilarating rush deep inside him, and teeth break the skin over his collarbone, the boss moaning through it himself.
When it’s over, neither of them have anything left and so they both slide down, collapsing in a sodden heap of limbs in the narrow tub. There’s nowhere near enough room for them both, and Face starts laughing.
Hannibal hand is still closed on his arm.
His thumb’s still on the tattoo.
“Think you got it clean enough, boss?”
“Brat,” Hannibal groans, and kisses him anyway.
+++++
He can do this.
He really can.
So Face shoves the little box into the cargo pocket on his cut-off BDU pants, pulls his wifebeater down, the one that shows off his new ink so great, and grabs the stuff he’s supposed to be taking out. He’s nervous, coming out of the kitchen, out to the patio where Hannibal’s got the grill going in the warm evening air.
He doesn’t really know if he should do this, if he needs to do this, how Hannibal’s going to react, but goddammit, he promised himself... Hannibal deserves something too, doesn’t he? And his tattoo’s already claimed.
“So, how’d you get yours?” he’d asked earlier, after they managed themselves out of the bathroom and back into that big bed, wrapped up in each other. Hannibal had taken him slow that time, slow and sweet, drawing it out for what seemed like hours with soft words and gentle sweeps. No less intense than before, Face figured, but the first time was the Ranger taking him, fucking him, claiming him.
That love-making was all John. And knowing he had everything, all of the man, just set everything in Face on fire.
“Panama,” Hannibal has replied shortly. “Colonel Morrison, well, Captain Morrison, back then, he took he. Right after our first mission together.”
“Took you or... took you?”
“Both,” Hannibal had said. “But that tattoo...”
“Colonel Morrison? Really? This I have to know.”
Hannibal’s eyes had clouded for a moment, and then he smiled, shaking his head. “You hungry? I’m starving.”
So that was a tale he’d get at another time, Face figured. Right now, he had this.
The box.
Was Hannibal even going to like it? Hannibal probably wasn’t going to like it. It wasn’t anything, really. Just...
“You get the booze, kid?”
Face holds up the bottle. The boss really prefers beer or whiskey on average, but Hannibal got steak, good steak, tonight and that means a good red wine to go with it. They can’t really go out much, but Hannibal doesn’t ever seem to mind staying in. Besides, it’s far easier to interrupt a dinner at home for some recreation than at a steakhouse downtown.
“Great,” Hannibal says, and grabs a piece of tinfoil, tenting it over the steaks as he pulls them off the grill and onto a plate, letting the meat rest for a few minutes before serving. “Did you get the...”
Face hands him the corkscrew, smiling a little as those big, strong hands make short work of the cork. Rich red liquid pours into big glasses, and Hannibal kind of brushes Face’s hand as he passes it over to him. “Cheers, kid,” he says softly, the crystal clinking together in a quiet toast, and Face sips, not really tasting it.
That box in his pocket...
“Good, Face?”
Hannibal’s looking at him. Shit, he needs to say something. “Yeah,” Face nods. “Yeah, it’s good.”
“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, Temp?”
And double shit. Hannibal’s setting his glass down on the patio table.
He can do this.
Face follows suit, placing his wine glass down next to Hannibal’s, and manages to get the box out of his pocket. He holds it out, hand shaking a little. “Yeah, I, uhh, yesterday while you were getting your name in the design, like I asked, I thought I should... and you had the stuff laying around, so...”
Hannibal takes it, and just holds it. “What is it?”
“I’ve got something of yours now, I guess...” Face says, knowing he sounds like a total idiot, and bites his lip as Hannibal opens the lid, “and thought you might... want to have something of mine?”
Hannibal takes it out, the knotted green paracord bracelet and just stares at it.
It's one of those ubiquitous military things, as ubiquitous as tattoos, really, and for a moment, Hannibal not saying anything, Face doesn’t know what to think. Except, maybe, that he fucked...
“Mine?” Hannibal asks, voice suddenly husky. "From you?"
“Yeah. Burned my thumb on the lighter and everything."
"Kid, I don't know what to say."
And Face squirms. Shit. "I guess it’s not really a...”
“It’s perfect,” the major says, and Face looks up, see the tears hanging in the corners of those blue eyes. “It’s perfect. I can’t believe you did this...”
Relief floods through the lieutenant. “Wanted you to remember me, John, you know, like if...”
And Hannibal gathers him up in his arms, wrapping him tight, and breathes deep against the curl of his hair. “How could I ever forget you, Templeton? You’re the love of my life...” Face looks up to see that those tears are building, about to fall, and Hannibal’s fighting desperately against that. There are whole conversations here that they’re not having, about how rings wouldn’t do anything but get them in trouble, how everything between them has to be clandestine, and this is a way for it to be acknowledged publicly, if inconspicuously. That Hannibal loves him. That he loves Hannibal. That this is how it’s going to be, part of each other, like this, right here. Together.
But the major composes himself, after a few long moments and without saying a word, all those pesky emotions locked away again, deep inside. He presses the bracelet into Face’s hand with a weak, happy smile. “Why don’t you get this on me,” he says, “and we’ll eat?”
Face fixes it onto Hannibal’s outstretched hand, deciding right then and there he loves the sight of that paracord on his man’s wrist. Fucking loves it. This must be how Hannibal feels about his tattoo, he figures, and rubs it softly, his lips parting in a silent little moan.
And, based on the look the boss is giving him, then grins, then drops a hand to finger the knot closure on the bracelet, Face figures he’s going to like this whole thing a whole hell of a lot.
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Date: 2011-03-13 09:47 am (UTC)Beautifully done!