Xanadu - Part Four of Five
Apr. 10th, 2011 08:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonora_conejaPairing: Hannibal/Face
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: violence, slavery, mentions of child abuse
Summary: Part Four of Five for fill for this prompt over at the kink meme
I’m considering doing my final research paper this year on human trafficking and have been doing some looking things up tonight. And it’s hard to sift through everything, but a scenario took place in my head one night and hasn’t left since, so I have to request it.
I want something that hurt. That is brutal and may be hard to write and I’d like even harder to read it. So if anyone can take this on, you’ll be amazing.
We all know that Face was an orphan and there are some lovely fics where things have happened to him before he joined Hannibal’s unit. Things to make him street-savvy. Here’s my catch: Hannibal’s team is sent on a mission to break up a supposed human trafficking ring. When they get there they can immediately try to break it up or have to go undercover to get the sex-slaves out. Either way, I want Hannibal to walk in on something happening to a young blonde slave. And to not know what to do or how to save him, but to eventually do so. (If there’s an inclusion of Hannibal secretly going to Face and gaining his trust and promising to get him out, I’ll be blown away.) And then give him a place to call home. I’d love an aftermath of Hannibal and his unit trying to embrace Face and help him find a new life, which can or doesn’t have to be in the army. Just with Hannibal, please. With a bunch of hard ordeals along the way.
Anyone??
Following the events of party, Hannibal tries to help Face put the pieces of his life back into place. But the road to recovery becomes far more painful than the major had anticipated.
After the raid, things started moving very, very quickly.
He rode in the ambulance, back to the hospital with the kid, who'd gone very white and very silent and didn't move the entire ride, just shivered under the space blanket the paramedics had thrown around him, clinging to Hannibal's arm. One of the EMTs kept trying to jerk the major's hand away from Face, and it wasn't until he actually looked down and saw the bloody mess the knife had made of his palm that the Ranger realized why. But he just shook his head and they backed off.
There was a small room smelling of antiseptic and piss, old chairs and a man in a doctor's coat who kept coming in and out, in and out, and ordered Hannibal out of the room, told him the investigator was here to ask some questions and he had to leave.
There was the last little squeeze on his arm and the quick kiss planted on a sweaty head and that judgmental glare that followed him into the hallway. There was the way his own body was shaking, the way the nurses were working with some of the other kids from the club, the MPs and Korean police taking statements or just listening, useless as the tears flowed or didn't come at all, which Hannibal noticed was somehow much, much worse.
And there was Decker, thin face pinched and scrunched as if his nose was trying to escape a bad smell, and his lips were thin, cracked and dry. One of his arms was in a sling, something the Ranger hadn't noticed in the frantic gloom of the attaché's house, face bruised purple, generally looking like he'd gotten the shit kicked out of him, and obviously in some pain. His sergeant was with him, gauze taped to his forehead, and he came over, as the captain disappeared into the room.
After his boy.
"You okay, sir?"
The Ranger blinked, and tried to focus on that. "You got him to come."
"Sure. Barely." And the man grinned. "That's my job, right? Keeping you damn officers on track?"
Hannibal laughed a little, in spite of himself. "Anything going to happen to you?"
The sergeant shrugged. "Boss said he has to give me an Article 15 next week, reduction in rank, loss of pay..."
"I'm sorry about that," Hannibal said, meaning it, wondering what the fuck Decker wanted with Face.
"Phhft. It's all going to be suspended. Embassy's already cleaning up the mess. And you got him out alive, sir," the sergeant said, and flopped down in a chair by the door. "That's all that matters, right?"
"What's Decker know?"
"What's he know?" the surveillance guy asked, smirking a little. "Or what can he prove?"
"Thanks," he said, still distracted by that closed door.
"No problem, sir. Really," the sergeant replied, and they both fell silent. Waiting.
Decker came out a few minutes later, clearly disturbed, almost, almost in tears, and face otherwise carefully blank.
Which was more than enough to get Hannibal's attention
"You got a minute, sir?"
"You going to try to arrest me again?" the major grated back, looking back over towards the still-closed door, locking him away from where he desperately needed to be right now...
"The kid's going to be okay, Hannibal," Decker said softly, following his gaze. "Come on, you look like you could use some air."
The stairs here led up to the roof, the dark of that hallway, the scream of Rose's anger still echoing through Hannibal's nerves, and it was only by the barest margin that he was able to follow the captain until onto the rooftop deck.
The air was far from fresh here, but the night was growing thin now, dawn starting to rub through the blackness and the sound and the sticky heat, a gray stillness rising up on the rim of the world, and Hannibal took a deep breath. Leaned back against one of the metal picnic tables strewn about up there. Felt dried blood and fresh scabs cracking open again on his fingers and palm, knuckles aching, the slide of his shirt slimy against him. And he wanted a cigar. Desperately wanted a cigar.
Something normal. Anything normal. Something to remind him that these last few weeks weren't his life, weren't him, didn't mean anything about him, that he hadn't become...
"Major?"
He shook himself. Time enough for that later. There was no way to help Face from the inside of a cell over in lock-up, and Hannibal wasn't entirely convinced that Decker wasn't going to arrest him. For so, so many things. Assault, alleged sodomy of a minor, insubordination, conduct unbecoming, manslaughter... "Thanks for coming tonight, Derick."
"Fuck you," the captain snapped, and pulled a limp box of cigarettes from a back pocket, tapping one out and fishing around for what would probably be a lighter.
"That's fair," the major agreed mildly, wanting to see where this was going. "I did break your arm."
"Fuck you," Decker repeated, pacing away as he flicked the lighter awake, flame sparking the end of the thin cigarette clenched in his teeth, and the smell of tobacco smoke filled the growing space between them. He stopped at the deck's railing, staring out across the dying night lights of Seoul, stretching out a far as the eye could see, bright beyond the garrison's high stone perimeter. "If I had my way, you'd be in a goddamn interrogation room right now, hooked up to a lie detector, getting charged with rape of a minor boy. So fuck you."
Anger, surer, but that wasn't the only thing going on and that was something the major knew he could work with. So he waited a moment, seeing if there was anything more that was going to come, and then walked over, settled on the railing next to the younger officer and didn't look at him.
"You did a good thing tonight, Derick," he said.
The other man snorted and scrubbed his good hand across his battered features. "Yeah. Good. Right."
"Those kids are all safe..."
"You, a US Army officer, killed two people, including a military attache, on Korean soil. In front of witnesses. Without orders and of your own volition. We've got twenty plus underage sex slaves, most of them American citizens, that are going to need some serious medical attention. I've got about twelve high-ranking officers dead on charges of solicitation and prostitution, and the fucking Korean press knows about all of this because their goddamn police department's fucking corrupt. You tell me what's good about this. Fucking disaster." And the captain puffed away on that cigarette, a good half inch of ash appearing before he spoke again. "Absolute fucking disaster."
"Nobody wanted it to get this far, Derick," Hannibal agreed, feeling the frustration washing off the counter-intell guy in waves. "It certainly wasn't the way I wanted it to go. But you didn't," and he grabbed the packet of cigarettes out of the death grip Decker was holding them in before they got any more crushed. "give me much of a choice."
"So you played me?"
Hannibal sighed. "Somewhat. Knew if I pissed you off, you'd come after me. Anywhere I wanted you to go."
The other officer's sharp eyes turned on the major at that, boring into him, and Hannibal found himself wondering if he'd just made himself an enemy here, wondering what it'd be like to have this jackal out for his blood, wondering what it would be like to have a man like this on his team. He plucked a cigarette out and rolled it between his fingers thoughtfully, waiting for the reaction.
What he got was the lighter. And a question.
"Where'd I go wrong, Hannibal?"
Maybe there was hope for this guy yet.
So Hannibal nodded, having to use his left hand to work the damn lighter. "You weren't on the ground, captain. You didn't know what was going on and you wouldn't listen to the person who did. Let your personal feelings get in the way of the mission and fucked the whole thing to hell."
"So, you didn't lie to me from the start?"
"Look, Derick... we both fucked up," he replied, and took a deep drag of hot smoke. He hated cigarettes, cheap and tasteless, but the nicotine was helping. "But I'm not going to apologize for what I had to do here."
"Neither am I, Hannibal."
"You still going to arrest me?"
"I'd fucking love to, especially after what you were doing to that boy..."
"...wasn't doing anything to that boy, Decker..."
"...but the boss seems to think you had the latitude to do what you wanted here, as long as you got results, and fuck, you got results. So I can't touch you." There was some regret in the younger man's voice, and he flicked his own cigarette butt off and over the edge of the building. "They're talking about a commendation for it, actually."
"Don't want it."
"Yeah, I know what you mean..." and Decker was at the door, distant. "How did you know about my sister?"
"Same way you knew about Russ."
"Nothing wrong with wanting to know about the man you're working with," he said, like he was trying to convince himself, and hinges squealed in the quiet gray of the pre-dawn. "Look, Hannibal, we've got a team coming out from Arizona. For the kids, until we can get them back to...back to the States. I made sure we did that for them." And Decker hesitated.
"And?"
He didn't turn around, but the major could hear the younger man squirming before answering, "he doesn't remember where he's from. Or won't say, who knows. But until we can get an ID, that boy in there basically doesn't exist. No friends, no family. And normally we'd have to keep him in the hospital or at the stockade..."
"The fucking stockade?" Hannibal growled. "No goddamn way are you locking that boy back u..."
"I don't want to. I don't. But...you aren't exactly...you're...I don't..."
And Hannibal could hear all the things Decker was barely avoiding saying. You aren't exactly qualified to be taking care of this kid, you're gay, you're probably going to abuse him, I don't trust you with him...
"Spit it out, captain."
Decker sighed again. "Christ...this whole thing was motherfucking fubar from the get go, wasn't it?" and he sighed, a heavy, sad sound.
"Yeah, it was."
"It, it... it seems like he trusts you. And you obviously...you seem to care about him. I'm willing to sign him over to your custody. But I need to know something..."
"Right," Hannibal replied, and sucked lightly on the cigarette, drawing out the last of its smoke, holding it in, feeling the burn of his anger far more sharply. "Like how long you were going to let Face dangle there before you moved in. Did he need to get raped first? Is that the evidence you needed?"
It hung. Unanswered. Unanswerable, maybe.
"Doesn't matter," the captain said after that long, long pause. "You killed him anyway."
Hannibal didn't respond, just blew all his air out in one go, watching indistinct curls of gray fade away from him.
And the door squeaked open, slammed shut.
And Hannibal all alone on the roof.
The Range grunted, and turned, staring east to where the rim of the sun was beginning to poke up through the haze of humidity and pollution that clung to the skies over Seoul, thick and impenetrable. Nothing to be done about it, he knew, nothing at all. It was what it was, never to change, and as the light rose, warming and welcome, Hannibal wondered what the hell he'd accomplished here.
But eventually he stirred, limbs warming, sense returning to things, and he slipped back downstairs, down the hall, into that previously closed room.
The kid was curled up on the bed, fetal, chin tucked, bundled into a set of cheap BDU print scrubs, facing away from him, and even from this angle, Hannibal could see his fingers knotting up, loosening, knotting up again in the stiff, dry sheets. "Please just go away, captain." He sounded exhausted. "I won't answer any more questions tonight."
"I've just got one, kid," Hannibal said with as much gentleness as he could muster after the bloody night, going over slowly and sitting down on the edge of the hospital bed. He wanted to touch, wanted so badly to touch, but somehow, right now, maybe for a long time, he knew, anything uninvited would be a violation. Something neither of thrum would recover from. So he watched instead. Watched as that body shifted around, as those eyes met his. As a smile started to grow. "And it's morning anyway."
"What's the question, sir?"
That expression, Hannibal thought. Wanting to be able to trust. Wanting so, so many things. And if he misstepped, if he took too much, if he let the kid give over to him, it would just be moving from one form of slavery to another. One master to the next. Benevolent, kind, willing, painless, and Hannibal felt suddenly and violently ill, wondering, for a split second, what it would be like to possess this young man in that way. To own him. Every fiber of his being. His very soul. To open his arms and have them filled without hesitation, without the slightest thought of escape. To never be alone again, like he had been for so, so long...
I trust you...
The smile faltered. "Sir?"
Hannibal shook his head. No. No. He'd keep the kid safe, he decided. From everything. From himself. But he wouldn't leave him. Not now. Not ever.
"It's John, kid. Call...call me John," he replied, voice thick with emotion, that telltale sting in his nose, behind his eyes, threatening to overwhelm all his defenses now. "And I wanted to know what I should call you."
The young blonde stared at him for him for a moment, eyes filling with tears, and then he surged up, wrapping around him, a tempest, sobbing and laughing and clinging so tight to Hannibal's ruined silk shirt so hard a seam ripped.
And as the major wrapped a hand around that shaking back, as his own tears started to flow, he knew, whatever came after, whatever happened to him, this, right here, was worth it.
Worth everything.
+++++When Hannibal came back in that afternoon, muscles sore from running on the goddamn treadmill, sweaty, the Arizona sun hanging low over the mountains to the west of the rehab facility, Face was already asleep.
Sprawled out on the little coffee table, head tucked down on his arm, blonde curls falling across his untroubled brow, pencil still held in slumber-soft fingers over the college-level calculus book. Drooling a little on his notes, and the major just stood there for a while, watching it all. Taking it in.
It was kind of amazing. Muscles relaxed, cares submerged, everything gone into that comforting oblivion, the boy looked like any other teenager. Free of everything. Looking forward to a bright future, unsullied by a terrible past. And incredibly young. Full of light.
They'd been here six weeks, and already, already Hannibal was daring to hope that maybe the boy he saw sleeping would someday be the young man who opened his eyes. It seemed possible. Amazingly, it seemed possible.
Even if those past six weeks had been incredibly rough. On both of them.
The kid hadn't been released from the hospital right away. Not for two days. Not until the psychiatric team had a chance to evaluate him, and waiting outside the room while that was going on had been the longest two hours of Hannibal's life.
They were recommending him for in-patient therapy, the doctor, a soft woman with kind eyes had explained. At their clinic near Catalina, Arizona, which was evidently one of three places in North America that had any experience with this kind of thing.
"I thought that place handled drug rehab," Hannibal said.
She frowned. "We do. But this is a kind of addiction, not exactly, but similar."
"An addiction?"
"He's an extraordinarily strong young man, seems like he fought it every step of the way, but he was a child when they took him,” she nodded, and checked back through what must have been ten pages of notes. “He's been kept in unimaginable conditions. That woman, Rose, tried to tear away his sense of self, make him entirely reliant on her for even his most basic needs, make him believe that the satisfaction he brought others was his only purpose in life. Never had a positive, nurturing connection, before all this, too, it seems. An orphan, desperate for affection, to belong...I have no idea where he found the will to fight her as long as he did." She paused. "He says you looked after him. What's that mean?"
"Ma'am, I..."
"Major Smith, you appear to be the only positive influence in this young man's life, and certainly the only thing he has right now. Now, you already told me you wanted to aid in his recovery, correct?"
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"It would be good, if you could come with him. We can't change things too quickly for him. He's been a sex slave through some of the most important years of his life. He needs somebody to focus on, somebody onto whom he can transfer those...conditioned impulses. Somebody who's going to both accept what he needs to give, and help him learn what he doesn't need to offer," and she'd smiled, sad. "Turn him back into a person."
Hannibal had nodded again. "Anything."
"They'll release you from duty? Because it could take months..."
Mouth dry, he'd nodded again. He'd already called Russ back at Benning. The paperwork was waiting. "Won't be an issue."
"Good. Now, what does he mean?"
"Ma'am, I don't know, how familiar you are with the military, but..."
She'd laid a hand on his arm and smiled at him. "I'm not a DoD doctor. My confidentiality is absolute." She'd squeezed, just a little. "If you're having trouble with what happened between you two, we can help you, too. But you have to be honest with me."
So he'd told her. Told her everything. Everything. The first night, his longing, his self-loathing, the whole fucking debacle, right up to the house and and the coin and the knife...
"You love this young man, don't you?" she'd asked.
"...yes."
"His recovery can't involve sex, major. He needs to learn he can be valued for other things. He's not capable of willing consent right now. You understand me?"
He'd nodded.
She'd smiled back.
And they'd all been on a C-12 to Davis-Monthan AFB the next day.
In-patient therapy.
Hannibla had never thought it’d be so... pleasant.
His few possessions were being handled by the spec ops folks from Camp Red Cloud. Russ had processed the paperwork, put him on a special-coded TDY, got him on the Phoenix per diem, more than enough to pay his own room and board here at the facility. Nobody asked any questions about any of it, although the Yongsan commander had found him at the Osan airfield and shaken his hand and thanked him - the FBI was involved back in the States, Brian Park would be found, they'd gotten the other kids home...
And here was Face was now, sleeping on his homework.
The facility was a nice place. Almost like a resort, really. Comfortable little villas and a lap pool and a dining room vaulted with dark mesquite and a rambling main lodge with fireplaces and overstuffed, impossibly soft couches and close access to an entire network of trails, leading straight up into the autumn desert of the mountains. The whole point, the director had explained to Hannibal on his first day there, was to provide a safe haven, a stress-free environment, somewhere where recovery was the only concern. It was remote, elite and horrendously expensive, the kind of place movie stars came, but they'd taken the kid's case pro bono, and Hannibal at a steep discount.
The major was unutterably grateful for everything. All of it. And not just on Face’s behalf. Although he’d never have admitted it to anyone, he needed the peace of this place. Maybe not as much as Face did, but after almost a year in Korea, in that culture, in the stress of that mission, and especially after the Xanadu...
The kid had five sessions a week, one on one with the director every time, although they said they might put him in a group later, too. Hannibal never went to these. His role was a bit more...esoteric.
"He needs to be eased back into things," the director had explained to the Ranger, the first day there, after he'd spoken to the kid. "Certain rules may have to stay in place for a while. Can't throw everything at him at once. He's never had any choices. Too many now might hurt him rather than help. We have to talk about anything you're going to do."
His recommendations had shocked the major.
No changes at first. Least not at first. Not until Face learned that he could ask.
So that meant still calling him by that moniker, Face, even after they’d managed to track down his records, the far too serious photo of a fourteen year old blonde boy named Richard Bancroft, his parents’ deathe certificates. Meant letting him go around naked in their shared space. Making him sleep on the floor by Hannibal's bed, although the staff had provided a pad for that. Other things, things he was just hearing about for the first time. Like the rules about no furniture, no furniture ever. No flatware, no lunch, nothing with sugar in it, no eating before Hannibal finished.
And that, somehow, the first night here was the worst. Watching the kid eat a bowl of rice, with his fingers, cross-legged on the floor, had nearly broken the older man entirely, and he'd cried to himself that night, silent and into his pillow so the kid wouldn't hear.
But, mercifully, that had been the first thing to go.
Breakfast, always delivered hot and on the requested time, was huevos rancheros the next morning. By Hannibal's request. Something delicious and messy.
Face had looked at his, looked at Hannibal, who'd taken up a seat on the little apartment's sofa, plate on the coffee table, sipping at an orange juice, the second bright, fresh, pulpy glass set up right next to his.
With a fork.
The kid had looked hungry, puzzled too but mostly hungry, glancing back and forth between his own plate in his own hands, that space next to Hannibal, the fork, the floor.
And Hannibal had kept eating, not really tasting any of it, until Face finally padded over, still naked, and sat down at the table, plate up right next to the fork. His blue eyes fixed on Hannibal, silently asking if that was okay, and Hannibal had just nodded back. He'd still waited until the older man finished, but as far as he was concerned, it was a damn good start.
Clothes were next. He had to wear them to his sessions, of course, or out around the grounds, but in their room, he still went naked for the first two weeks. But he'd come back on the sixteenth day and paused at the threshold, hands on the hem of one of three shirts Hannibal had been able to buy for him at the Yongsan BX, for the flight back.
"Do I have to take it off?" he'd asked. "Doc Reynolds said...said... I didn't have to."
Hannibal had shrugged, careful, remembering what the director had told him about these questions. He's going to want you to make his decisions for him. He might be eager, he might be scared. Don't give in to either. Tell him...
"You have the right to leave your clothes on, kid. Not my place to say. It's all up to you."
He'd smiled. Wide. Broad. Happy. "But it's going to get all smelly if I do that. Only got the one set." And he'd stripped down, but he was still smiling.
The next day, during the kid's session, Hannibal had gotten one of the staff, an older woman who had a teenage son herself, to lend him a car and a hand. Picking out what would work. What he might like.
Face hadn't said anything, but he'd teared up a little.
And best of all, there wasn't any more casual nudity. Except at night, when he still slept bare-ass naked on his blanketless little pad, and Hannibal stayed up, trying not to wonder, to remember.
To dream.
The sessions weren't always easy. Sometimes Face would come back in a rage. Other times, it would be tears, or not speaking or the sir would return. He'd locked himself in the bathroom once, a horrible night, and Hannibal had had to order him out in the harshest of tones. And the next day had been a no clothes day. Another time, he'd asked for his collar back, and it had been Hannibal who'd locked himself in the bathroom, shower on until his own grief wore out. He'd been greeted with a smile.
But usually, Face came back quiet, reflective or subtly angry. The doc gave him a notebook on week three, which he was expected to journal in. But he'd had two pages of geometry work in there one day, the doctor told Hannibal, and it occurred to them both that the kid hadn't been to school since the seventh grade.
Hannibal and the nice staff lady went to the bookstore.
Face really had cried when he saw the GRE coursework, all the supplemental material, the stack of the classics not too sexual or depressing. Some of the girls, the kid said then, and especially Amanda, had gone over things with him, things they could remember. Stuff to keep them all occupied, math and history and languages. French, from Amanda too, and Hannibal's stomach had tightened, remembering the parents, the dim lighting of the morgue.
The kid was wicked intelligent, raw, underdeveloped but shining, and the director here, Reynolds, said that it was a good thing for him to focus on. And the kid did study. Always seemed to be studying. Hannibal suspected he liked it because he could control it. That his lack of learning was something his could fix for himself.
And it made Hannibal so goddamn proud. It really did. It all did.
Face stirred now, like he knew that Hannibal's eyes were on him. He was so responsive, so reactive, attuned to what the older man was doing or saying or feeling.
"It's fairly common," the director had said when Hannibal asked about it, "for abused children to have a higher degree of awareness of the people around them. Almost like a sixth sense. It's a defense mechanism."
The Ranger still thought it might be something more. Like that connection he'd thought they might share. Still might share. And he hated himself for it all, for wanting more. For wanting that, to feel that, with a boy who'd only turned 18 two months ago.
The doctor, the woman from Yongsan, she’d tried to tell him there was nothing wrong with him. That it was okay, having feelings for the boy, having inclinations, desires, after the way they’d met.
Those thoughts, those thoughts were just...
He couldn’t get over the guilt. Couldn’t, and wouldn’t, not until he saw Face whole, not until he saw the kid alive and well and happy and his own man. Not until...
"John?"
And at least he didn't have to pretend his smile.
Blue eyes blinked up at him, owlish from interrupted sleep, happy to see him.
Face was always happy to see him.
When they'd first gotten here, Hannibal had been expected to spend as much time with Face as possible. Seemed that alone time had usually led to bad things, with Rose. But they were gradually introducing separation, time alone, as much as the kid was comfortable with. He'd go for a hike or a run, usually, worked out his own thoughts, tried to pull himself together for the next round with the kid.
But he had to teach Face that it was okay to be alone. Had to teach him so many things... "How you doing, kid?"
He looked down at his notebook and groaned. "Fuck, I smudged problem 12..."
"I'm sure you can manage to re-do, kid, way you're tearing up that book. Sure you'll get your GRE in no time," Hannibal told him.
A happy little smile turned in to a frown. Too quick. Shit, what was coming now? "You think I could go back to school? Like, college? Not right now, not high school, I get it, the... but maybe, like, someday?"
"Absolutely, kid. You’d do well there."
He stared down at his hands. Doc Reynolds was working with him, explaining that it was polite to look people in the eye when talking to them, that nobody was going to get mad at him, that it was his way of telling others that they were equals. But he rarely did.
"Really? But..."
And there was the self-doubt. The horrendous lack of self-esteem that seemed to be Rose's main legacy in the boy. Hannibal bit back a groan at seeing it right then, and plunked his still-sweating body right down next to the kid's, on the floor, and those blue eyes got huge.
"Remember what I told you, Face? That you wouldn't be a whore anymore? That you could be anything you wanted?"
"Yeah..."
"You thought about that at all? What you want to do?"
The kid shut the math book and nodded.
"Yeah? What are you thinking about?"
Those eyes fell, and the high afternoon light seemed to fade from the room. "Don't wanna say. You'll..."
"Won't get mad, Face, and I won't laugh," Hannibal said as encouragingly as he could. He hated these moments, these close proximity moments, where he could practically feel the kid's heartbeat, where his traitorous brain started thinking about all of it, all the things they could do together, be together, have, have together... "What is it?"
"No, you're going to... do I have to tell you?"
Hannibal resisted the urge to scream. Those were the hardest questions, the ones that haunted him. The innocent, guileless ones. Thoughtless. Programmed. Every little reminder of what Face had been conditioned for. Every hint of the life he might have had. The faintest worry, Hannibal’s own, that maybe Rose was right, maybe he had taken the kid away from something he needed, decided he was going to be someone he didn’t, in fact want to be. Like this whole thing was hopeless. And it was at moments like this that the major didn’t hate himself for loving this young man. It was at moments like this that those...feelings...were all he had to hold on to.
"No, kid. It's your life,” he said, treading as carefully as he would with a live rattlesnake. “I don't own it. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. If you want to share, though, I’m here to listen."
And Face grinned again. "What's for dinner?"
"What would you like?"
It was the first time Hannibal had asked. Usually, he called the kitchen, made those decisions, one more thing Face didn't have to worry about. But...
Right call, he thought proudly, as the kid's face lit up like a Christmas tree. Had he had one of those? Ever? It was October right now, and if they were going to be here as long as Reynolds was predicting... "Could we do mac and cheese?" he asked, hesitant, fingers curling unconsciously around his pencil. "That... that was good last week."
"I'll ask."
"Fucking-A."
And Face went back to his math.
They had it, the mac and cheese, the good homemade kind, and Face had eaten nearly the entire thing. Hannibal stuck to chicken instead, enjoying the first real display of childlike glee he'd ever seen in the kid. At the dining table too, the younger man obviously uncomfortable about the chair but boldly saying he wanted to leave the calculus out. Which he dug right back into, after they were done, and Hannibal had watched him for a moment, overlong blonde hair falling down around his ears, bent over the lesson, lips moving a little as he read to himself.
Beautiful, the major thought, and fled to the safety of the shower.
It was dark out by the time he was done, steam rolling from the bathroom, the end of another long, lazy day, and he stretched out on their couch with the latest Michael Crighton novel from the facility library, no sound but the scratch of pencil and turn of pages. Silent, but a pleasant silence, and Hannibal tried to remember the last time he'd been this comfortable in somebody else's presence. Able to just sit together, not worrying about filling up the empty space because that space wasn't really empty. Years. Maybe longer. Certainly not since Russ, and even their last few months had been tense, full of expectations on the other that neither could fulfill, nothing waiting ahead for them but a final disappointment that had still been a grief when it came...
But it was insane, Hannibal told himself for what seemed like the thousandth time, watching the equations trail out across a previously blank page. He'd be thirty in January, twelve years older than the kid. And with everything that had happened to him...
And it occurred to Hannibal for the first time then; was Face even interested in men, naturally speaking? Wasn't that just some symptom of the...conditioning? Wouldn't it go away with everything else? He'd said he'd give anything to see the kid whole, and he'd meant it. If that meant never, never being able to...he tried to focus on the image of Face as an older man, wife, kids, people who loved him, a real family, a family like he deserved...
But all he could see was that shy little smile, all for him.
“What is it, Face?” he asked, snapped, a little too harsh.
The smile faltered, old fears creeping back in, and the major wanted to hit himself. Times like this, it was so easy to forget how raw Face still was.
"Nothing, I just.." came the wary reply, eyes darting. "Did I..."
"No, kid, you didn't do anything wrong. I'm just tired," Hannibal tried, and laughed a little. "Think I might go to bed."
Face, thinking, chewed on the pencil's eraser, those lips wrapped around the little pink end doing absolutely nothing to help Hannibal's nerves. "This is hard, John," he said quietly. "You know that?"
"I can't imagine, kid. What you've been through, what I put you through..."
But Face shook his head and shuffled around, pushing himself up on the edge of the couch, right against Hannibal's stunned leg, and the kid blanched a little. "Furniture’s... furniture’s okay." He was saying it to himself. "It's okay. It's okay."
“Yeah, kid, the furniture’s okay,” the Ranger replied softly, and breathed. Deep. “Face...”
"I don't mean, hard, about the...everything. The bullshit. I get it. I mean this." And he touched the major's leg, rubbing a little through the jeans. "About this thing, me and you."
"Face..."
"I know you want me, John. I know you do..."
Trying not to panic, to not react the way he desperately wanted to, the major took the kid's hand, peeling it off his leg, and Hannibal meant to drop it, he did, but Face wrapped their fingers together and wouldn't let go. All other sensation stopped as the kid's thumb fucking rubbed, everything in him singing out, but all Hannibal could think of were the words from the doctor, the warning.
It can't be about sex...
"Face, you don't have to..."
"Why won't you, John? Why won't you take what you want? Why don't you touch me?"
The older man felt his heart tearing, coming apart at the seams, all the carefully hidden thoughts fighting for release, fighting for acknowledgment, seeking, seeking... "That's not your life anymore, kid. You don't have to do that anymore. I don't...you don't owe me anything, Face. You're not obligated to me for anything. I don't own you."
Face thought about that for a moment, clearly struggling, and he shook his head. When he spoke, it was low, almost sad, mostly confused. "Why are you here, then?"
Asked it as if it had never occurred to him before.
There was no good answer for that, none at all, but Hannibal tried. Tried to think of an excuse, something that would satisfy. Something that would be true enough. But he couldn't lie. Not to that face, so open and so vulnerable. One of those moments where the wrong thing could shatter it all apart.
And he couldn't lie.
"I love you, Face," Hannibal admitted softly, and bent forward, kissing the top of the younger man's head as reverently as he could, touching him gently, right on the shoulder, holding on lightly. He pressed his forehead onto the same spot. "I do, but..."
"You think I can't handle it. You think I'm weak," the kid said, and the flatness there damn near broke Hannibal's tenuous self control.
"No, no, Face," he said, inhaling the sweet scent of sun, still clinging to that curled caramel. "Not in the least." He pulled back, one hand on the kid's shoulder and the other pulling his chin up, to look him in the eye as he said this, to be sure it was heard. "I think you're the strongest person I've ever met."
He didn't know, exactly, what he was expecting. Maybe for Face to start crying. Maybe some words. But all he got was a blank stare, and he sighed. "Goodnight, Face."
Face didn't respond. Just tucked bare feet up under himself and pulled his textbook up into his lap, still on the couch. Head down, lips moving, ignoring him. Completely. Utterly defeated, Hannibal turned his back and went to bed
Yet, later that night, unable to sleep, he heard rustling, right at the foot. And he didn't move, didn't make a sound, listening as Face pulled himself up off the floor and pulled a little on the light sheets.
"John?" he asked quietly, touching Hannibal's shoulder gently. "John, you awake?"
Hannibal forced his breathing to stay steady, didn't acknowledge it. He wanted to see what the kid was going to do. Needed to know what this was about.
Face must have stood there for a long time, long enough for Hannibal to wonder if he had left. Long enough for the kid to be satisfied, apparently, that nothing bad was going to happen to him. Long enough for him to do what he did.
Pulling the covers back, sliding in, the weight on the mattress shifting around, and it was all Hannibal could do to not react as that lean body slid up to his, as a collarbone touched down on his, as an open palm, very, very slowly, crossed his chest, fingertips settling in the dip, curving off, moving softly between arm and ribs. As a chin pressed close to his neck. As lips tickled his ear.
"I love you, too. I know it. I know that's real," he whispered, and snuggled closer, fingers closing and opening and closing and opening. "I wish you'd let me love you, John. Wish you’d let me show you. I'll show you. I'll show you...”
It took every ounce of self-control he had, that naked body pressed against him, puffing breaths cascading against his, to not reach over and touch. Not react. Not take.
But there wasn’t a hint of distress, not a single tear, not a sniffle. Just those fingers, moving softly against his skin, and it was that sensation that Hannibal took with him into sleep, down into the first good dreams he’d had since the last time they were in bed together.
+++++
In the morning, Face wasn’t there. He wasn’t on the pad, either, though. He was asleep in the villa’s other bed, the smaller one, the one with the hard mattress, the one Hannibal had told him was his, that first day, for when he was ready. Covers, pillows, boy, all in the right place and arrangement.
That, truly, was something amazing.
He didn’t wake the kid, decided to let him enjoy it, and went to make himself coffee.
The smell seemed to get Face up, though, or maybe he was doing that thing where he reacted to Hannibal - whatever the reason, the major was pouring his first cup when he was met with a light touch on his hand.
“Mornin’,” Face said, and Hannibal recognized that tone.
The seductive tone.
The one Face had used on him that first time.
Motherfucker.
No.
They’d worked too hard to lose ground now.
But the way Face was looking at him, all the genuine hope under that practiced expression...
“Morning, kid,” he said cautiously, not moving his hand. And Face, as if encouraged, slid around, threading their hands together, clearly moving in for...
And Hannibal put a finger to the kid’s lips before he could kiss him, stopped his free hand from reaching his crotch. “No, Face.”
All the air left that lithe frame instantly, eyes closed, and Face tried to jerk away.
Which Hannibal didn’t allow.
It was a struggle for several seconds, one that Face couldn’t - and didn’t - win. He slumped, facing away, still caught up by Hannibal’s grip. “Fine, goddammit,” he grumbled, jerking uselessly, the pout entirely overdramatic. “You love me, you don’t love me... just fucking let me go.”
“Face, listen to...”
“This come kind of sick game you play, John? Get...make people think you care, shove them away when it’s fun or whatever the fuck? Jesus...”
“Face, listen to me.”
“Fuck you,” the kid hissed, actually angry now, and pulled again.
“Face,” Hannibal said, a little firmer, some of that command voice creeping in, and he tugged the kid around, grabbed his chin again and held him there despite the struggling, tightening down as the thrashing got worse. Got more violent. “Stop it.”
“Fuck. You,” Face repeated, furious, and jerked. Hard.
They both ended up on the floor, the kid stuggling with everything he had, Hannibal not fighting but not letting go, and it took longer than it should have, getting him pinned down, hands forced up overhead, his own body weight pushed down on that young chest and finally, finally, the kid stopped.
Went completely limp.
And his head hit back against the floor.
“An offer not good enough for you, sir?” the kid asked, voice distant, far away. Back at the Xanadu, and Hannibal almost despaired. No, please, he beged silently, anything but this. “You need to take it? You need me to not want it? I can do anything you want...”
“That’s just the point, Face,” Hannibal murmured sadly, sitting back, up, taking his hands away from the kid’s. “It’s not about what I want.”
Confusion clouded that beautiful face, and those hand stayed up, unsure. “But I want you, too, sir...”
“It’s John, Face. Just John. No sir. You’re not less than me. I’m not more than you. We’re equal here. What you want is just as important as what I want.”
“J-John, I want...”
“You want to be loved, Face. Isn’t that right? You want somebody to love you...”
There was a long, long silence.
And then.
“...yeah. And you said you...”
“Sex isn’t love, kid. You’re equating it, but that’s not how it works. Sex, the stuff you’ve been put through, that’s all selfish,” Hannibal said, rolling off him, standing, helping Face up. The kid looked a little dazed, and figuring it couldn’t possibly make anything worse, Hannibal wrapped him up in an easy bearhug. “And love isn’t selfish. Doesn’t take things for itself. It gives. Gives everything.”
“John, I...”
“You want me to take you. But,” and his arms tightened a little, hoping to hell this was right, “I don’t want to take you. I want to give you something amazing. Want to give you everything you deserve, want you to have the world. I want to make love with you. With you, kid. Want you right there with me...”
Face pushed back, upset. “I don’t get it,” he said, helpless.
Hannibal leaned over, kissed his forehead. “You will.”
“So... you... won’t love me, until I figure it out?” the kid said, pacing away, shoulders heaving. “Then... then... what the fuck...what if I can’t, what if it never clicks? You want to hang everything on, on some fucking revelation I may never... goddamn it!” And he collapsed in a heap, hands tearing up into that gorgeous hair, head hitting back against the wall, hand twitched up at his throat like it still did sometimes, settling to tug at the collar of his soft t-shirt, hard enough to rip. “Motherfucker, John! This is fucking hard enough as it is! Fucking doctors, fucking clothes...trying... she’s dead and... fuck, I was fourteen, the first time she had me take her, a-and, and she loved me. She loved me, John. I know she did. First person who ever did...”
“And I love you.”
“But you won’t take me, not like she did. Is there something wrong? Am I too old, like she kept saying? John,” and that was scared, "am I, am I.."
“There's nothing wrong with you, kid. Nothing. Believe it. There are just other ways to show somebody you love them, kid,” the older man said, feeling like he wanted to throw up. He knelt down and put a hand on a trembling knee. “That’s the whole point. There’s so much more to it.”
“Like what?” the kid groaned, still staring straight up at the ceiling.
“Like I got a car for the weekend,” he said, and smiled, rubbed a little bit, trying to let Face know it was okay. “Thought you might like to start learning how to drive. All the cool kids are doing it...”
Something like glee passed through those eyes, the worst of the tempest gone now, but Face, stubborn thing that he was, wasn’t about to give in. “You love me so you’re going to teach me how to drive?”
“No. I’m here with you. For anything you need. That’s love.”
“Not sex?”
That was playful. That was teasing. And thank god, Hannibal thought, they were both still in one piece. “If you want me to not do the car thing with you, kid...”
“Oh, no,” Face said, springing up, eager again. “Oh, no, I definitely want to do that.”
Hannibal pulled himself up, and, unable to help himself, not really wanting to, he caught the kid by the waist and pulled in him for a slow, sweet, gentle kiss. Their first, since the Xanadu. Electric. Perfect. “I do love you, Face,” he breathed. “Never doubt that. There’s just so much more to it. Want you to have all of that, too.”
Face bit his lip, took a deep breath, eyes closed, and smiled. A genuine smile. A beautiful, genuine smile. “I trust you,” he said, and laid his hand on Hannibal’s chest. “I trust you, John.”
And that was kind of amazing, too.
Continue to Part Five
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: violence, slavery, mentions of child abuse
Summary: Part Four of Five for fill for this prompt over at the kink meme
I’m considering doing my final research paper this year on human trafficking and have been doing some looking things up tonight. And it’s hard to sift through everything, but a scenario took place in my head one night and hasn’t left since, so I have to request it.
I want something that hurt. That is brutal and may be hard to write and I’d like even harder to read it. So if anyone can take this on, you’ll be amazing.
We all know that Face was an orphan and there are some lovely fics where things have happened to him before he joined Hannibal’s unit. Things to make him street-savvy. Here’s my catch: Hannibal’s team is sent on a mission to break up a supposed human trafficking ring. When they get there they can immediately try to break it up or have to go undercover to get the sex-slaves out. Either way, I want Hannibal to walk in on something happening to a young blonde slave. And to not know what to do or how to save him, but to eventually do so. (If there’s an inclusion of Hannibal secretly going to Face and gaining his trust and promising to get him out, I’ll be blown away.) And then give him a place to call home. I’d love an aftermath of Hannibal and his unit trying to embrace Face and help him find a new life, which can or doesn’t have to be in the army. Just with Hannibal, please. With a bunch of hard ordeals along the way.
Anyone??
Following the events of party, Hannibal tries to help Face put the pieces of his life back into place. But the road to recovery becomes far more painful than the major had anticipated.
After the raid, things started moving very, very quickly.
He rode in the ambulance, back to the hospital with the kid, who'd gone very white and very silent and didn't move the entire ride, just shivered under the space blanket the paramedics had thrown around him, clinging to Hannibal's arm. One of the EMTs kept trying to jerk the major's hand away from Face, and it wasn't until he actually looked down and saw the bloody mess the knife had made of his palm that the Ranger realized why. But he just shook his head and they backed off.
There was a small room smelling of antiseptic and piss, old chairs and a man in a doctor's coat who kept coming in and out, in and out, and ordered Hannibal out of the room, told him the investigator was here to ask some questions and he had to leave.
There was the last little squeeze on his arm and the quick kiss planted on a sweaty head and that judgmental glare that followed him into the hallway. There was the way his own body was shaking, the way the nurses were working with some of the other kids from the club, the MPs and Korean police taking statements or just listening, useless as the tears flowed or didn't come at all, which Hannibal noticed was somehow much, much worse.
And there was Decker, thin face pinched and scrunched as if his nose was trying to escape a bad smell, and his lips were thin, cracked and dry. One of his arms was in a sling, something the Ranger hadn't noticed in the frantic gloom of the attaché's house, face bruised purple, generally looking like he'd gotten the shit kicked out of him, and obviously in some pain. His sergeant was with him, gauze taped to his forehead, and he came over, as the captain disappeared into the room.
After his boy.
"You okay, sir?"
The Ranger blinked, and tried to focus on that. "You got him to come."
"Sure. Barely." And the man grinned. "That's my job, right? Keeping you damn officers on track?"
Hannibal laughed a little, in spite of himself. "Anything going to happen to you?"
The sergeant shrugged. "Boss said he has to give me an Article 15 next week, reduction in rank, loss of pay..."
"I'm sorry about that," Hannibal said, meaning it, wondering what the fuck Decker wanted with Face.
"Phhft. It's all going to be suspended. Embassy's already cleaning up the mess. And you got him out alive, sir," the sergeant said, and flopped down in a chair by the door. "That's all that matters, right?"
"What's Decker know?"
"What's he know?" the surveillance guy asked, smirking a little. "Or what can he prove?"
"Thanks," he said, still distracted by that closed door.
"No problem, sir. Really," the sergeant replied, and they both fell silent. Waiting.
Decker came out a few minutes later, clearly disturbed, almost, almost in tears, and face otherwise carefully blank.
Which was more than enough to get Hannibal's attention
"You got a minute, sir?"
"You going to try to arrest me again?" the major grated back, looking back over towards the still-closed door, locking him away from where he desperately needed to be right now...
"The kid's going to be okay, Hannibal," Decker said softly, following his gaze. "Come on, you look like you could use some air."
The stairs here led up to the roof, the dark of that hallway, the scream of Rose's anger still echoing through Hannibal's nerves, and it was only by the barest margin that he was able to follow the captain until onto the rooftop deck.
The air was far from fresh here, but the night was growing thin now, dawn starting to rub through the blackness and the sound and the sticky heat, a gray stillness rising up on the rim of the world, and Hannibal took a deep breath. Leaned back against one of the metal picnic tables strewn about up there. Felt dried blood and fresh scabs cracking open again on his fingers and palm, knuckles aching, the slide of his shirt slimy against him. And he wanted a cigar. Desperately wanted a cigar.
Something normal. Anything normal. Something to remind him that these last few weeks weren't his life, weren't him, didn't mean anything about him, that he hadn't become...
"Major?"
He shook himself. Time enough for that later. There was no way to help Face from the inside of a cell over in lock-up, and Hannibal wasn't entirely convinced that Decker wasn't going to arrest him. For so, so many things. Assault, alleged sodomy of a minor, insubordination, conduct unbecoming, manslaughter... "Thanks for coming tonight, Derick."
"Fuck you," the captain snapped, and pulled a limp box of cigarettes from a back pocket, tapping one out and fishing around for what would probably be a lighter.
"That's fair," the major agreed mildly, wanting to see where this was going. "I did break your arm."
"Fuck you," Decker repeated, pacing away as he flicked the lighter awake, flame sparking the end of the thin cigarette clenched in his teeth, and the smell of tobacco smoke filled the growing space between them. He stopped at the deck's railing, staring out across the dying night lights of Seoul, stretching out a far as the eye could see, bright beyond the garrison's high stone perimeter. "If I had my way, you'd be in a goddamn interrogation room right now, hooked up to a lie detector, getting charged with rape of a minor boy. So fuck you."
Anger, surer, but that wasn't the only thing going on and that was something the major knew he could work with. So he waited a moment, seeing if there was anything more that was going to come, and then walked over, settled on the railing next to the younger officer and didn't look at him.
"You did a good thing tonight, Derick," he said.
The other man snorted and scrubbed his good hand across his battered features. "Yeah. Good. Right."
"Those kids are all safe..."
"You, a US Army officer, killed two people, including a military attache, on Korean soil. In front of witnesses. Without orders and of your own volition. We've got twenty plus underage sex slaves, most of them American citizens, that are going to need some serious medical attention. I've got about twelve high-ranking officers dead on charges of solicitation and prostitution, and the fucking Korean press knows about all of this because their goddamn police department's fucking corrupt. You tell me what's good about this. Fucking disaster." And the captain puffed away on that cigarette, a good half inch of ash appearing before he spoke again. "Absolute fucking disaster."
"Nobody wanted it to get this far, Derick," Hannibal agreed, feeling the frustration washing off the counter-intell guy in waves. "It certainly wasn't the way I wanted it to go. But you didn't," and he grabbed the packet of cigarettes out of the death grip Decker was holding them in before they got any more crushed. "give me much of a choice."
"So you played me?"
Hannibal sighed. "Somewhat. Knew if I pissed you off, you'd come after me. Anywhere I wanted you to go."
The other officer's sharp eyes turned on the major at that, boring into him, and Hannibal found himself wondering if he'd just made himself an enemy here, wondering what it'd be like to have this jackal out for his blood, wondering what it would be like to have a man like this on his team. He plucked a cigarette out and rolled it between his fingers thoughtfully, waiting for the reaction.
What he got was the lighter. And a question.
"Where'd I go wrong, Hannibal?"
Maybe there was hope for this guy yet.
So Hannibal nodded, having to use his left hand to work the damn lighter. "You weren't on the ground, captain. You didn't know what was going on and you wouldn't listen to the person who did. Let your personal feelings get in the way of the mission and fucked the whole thing to hell."
"So, you didn't lie to me from the start?"
"Look, Derick... we both fucked up," he replied, and took a deep drag of hot smoke. He hated cigarettes, cheap and tasteless, but the nicotine was helping. "But I'm not going to apologize for what I had to do here."
"Neither am I, Hannibal."
"You still going to arrest me?"
"I'd fucking love to, especially after what you were doing to that boy..."
"...wasn't doing anything to that boy, Decker..."
"...but the boss seems to think you had the latitude to do what you wanted here, as long as you got results, and fuck, you got results. So I can't touch you." There was some regret in the younger man's voice, and he flicked his own cigarette butt off and over the edge of the building. "They're talking about a commendation for it, actually."
"Don't want it."
"Yeah, I know what you mean..." and Decker was at the door, distant. "How did you know about my sister?"
"Same way you knew about Russ."
"Nothing wrong with wanting to know about the man you're working with," he said, like he was trying to convince himself, and hinges squealed in the quiet gray of the pre-dawn. "Look, Hannibal, we've got a team coming out from Arizona. For the kids, until we can get them back to...back to the States. I made sure we did that for them." And Decker hesitated.
"And?"
He didn't turn around, but the major could hear the younger man squirming before answering, "he doesn't remember where he's from. Or won't say, who knows. But until we can get an ID, that boy in there basically doesn't exist. No friends, no family. And normally we'd have to keep him in the hospital or at the stockade..."
"The fucking stockade?" Hannibal growled. "No goddamn way are you locking that boy back u..."
"I don't want to. I don't. But...you aren't exactly...you're...I don't..."
And Hannibal could hear all the things Decker was barely avoiding saying. You aren't exactly qualified to be taking care of this kid, you're gay, you're probably going to abuse him, I don't trust you with him...
"Spit it out, captain."
Decker sighed again. "Christ...this whole thing was motherfucking fubar from the get go, wasn't it?" and he sighed, a heavy, sad sound.
"Yeah, it was."
"It, it... it seems like he trusts you. And you obviously...you seem to care about him. I'm willing to sign him over to your custody. But I need to know something..."
"Right," Hannibal replied, and sucked lightly on the cigarette, drawing out the last of its smoke, holding it in, feeling the burn of his anger far more sharply. "Like how long you were going to let Face dangle there before you moved in. Did he need to get raped first? Is that the evidence you needed?"
It hung. Unanswered. Unanswerable, maybe.
"Doesn't matter," the captain said after that long, long pause. "You killed him anyway."
Hannibal didn't respond, just blew all his air out in one go, watching indistinct curls of gray fade away from him.
And the door squeaked open, slammed shut.
And Hannibal all alone on the roof.
The Range grunted, and turned, staring east to where the rim of the sun was beginning to poke up through the haze of humidity and pollution that clung to the skies over Seoul, thick and impenetrable. Nothing to be done about it, he knew, nothing at all. It was what it was, never to change, and as the light rose, warming and welcome, Hannibal wondered what the hell he'd accomplished here.
But eventually he stirred, limbs warming, sense returning to things, and he slipped back downstairs, down the hall, into that previously closed room.
The kid was curled up on the bed, fetal, chin tucked, bundled into a set of cheap BDU print scrubs, facing away from him, and even from this angle, Hannibal could see his fingers knotting up, loosening, knotting up again in the stiff, dry sheets. "Please just go away, captain." He sounded exhausted. "I won't answer any more questions tonight."
"I've just got one, kid," Hannibal said with as much gentleness as he could muster after the bloody night, going over slowly and sitting down on the edge of the hospital bed. He wanted to touch, wanted so badly to touch, but somehow, right now, maybe for a long time, he knew, anything uninvited would be a violation. Something neither of thrum would recover from. So he watched instead. Watched as that body shifted around, as those eyes met his. As a smile started to grow. "And it's morning anyway."
"What's the question, sir?"
That expression, Hannibal thought. Wanting to be able to trust. Wanting so, so many things. And if he misstepped, if he took too much, if he let the kid give over to him, it would just be moving from one form of slavery to another. One master to the next. Benevolent, kind, willing, painless, and Hannibal felt suddenly and violently ill, wondering, for a split second, what it would be like to possess this young man in that way. To own him. Every fiber of his being. His very soul. To open his arms and have them filled without hesitation, without the slightest thought of escape. To never be alone again, like he had been for so, so long...
I trust you...
The smile faltered. "Sir?"
Hannibal shook his head. No. No. He'd keep the kid safe, he decided. From everything. From himself. But he wouldn't leave him. Not now. Not ever.
"It's John, kid. Call...call me John," he replied, voice thick with emotion, that telltale sting in his nose, behind his eyes, threatening to overwhelm all his defenses now. "And I wanted to know what I should call you."
The young blonde stared at him for him for a moment, eyes filling with tears, and then he surged up, wrapping around him, a tempest, sobbing and laughing and clinging so tight to Hannibal's ruined silk shirt so hard a seam ripped.
And as the major wrapped a hand around that shaking back, as his own tears started to flow, he knew, whatever came after, whatever happened to him, this, right here, was worth it.
Worth everything.
+++++When Hannibal came back in that afternoon, muscles sore from running on the goddamn treadmill, sweaty, the Arizona sun hanging low over the mountains to the west of the rehab facility, Face was already asleep.
Sprawled out on the little coffee table, head tucked down on his arm, blonde curls falling across his untroubled brow, pencil still held in slumber-soft fingers over the college-level calculus book. Drooling a little on his notes, and the major just stood there for a while, watching it all. Taking it in.
It was kind of amazing. Muscles relaxed, cares submerged, everything gone into that comforting oblivion, the boy looked like any other teenager. Free of everything. Looking forward to a bright future, unsullied by a terrible past. And incredibly young. Full of light.
They'd been here six weeks, and already, already Hannibal was daring to hope that maybe the boy he saw sleeping would someday be the young man who opened his eyes. It seemed possible. Amazingly, it seemed possible.
Even if those past six weeks had been incredibly rough. On both of them.
The kid hadn't been released from the hospital right away. Not for two days. Not until the psychiatric team had a chance to evaluate him, and waiting outside the room while that was going on had been the longest two hours of Hannibal's life.
They were recommending him for in-patient therapy, the doctor, a soft woman with kind eyes had explained. At their clinic near Catalina, Arizona, which was evidently one of three places in North America that had any experience with this kind of thing.
"I thought that place handled drug rehab," Hannibal said.
She frowned. "We do. But this is a kind of addiction, not exactly, but similar."
"An addiction?"
"He's an extraordinarily strong young man, seems like he fought it every step of the way, but he was a child when they took him,” she nodded, and checked back through what must have been ten pages of notes. “He's been kept in unimaginable conditions. That woman, Rose, tried to tear away his sense of self, make him entirely reliant on her for even his most basic needs, make him believe that the satisfaction he brought others was his only purpose in life. Never had a positive, nurturing connection, before all this, too, it seems. An orphan, desperate for affection, to belong...I have no idea where he found the will to fight her as long as he did." She paused. "He says you looked after him. What's that mean?"
"Ma'am, I..."
"Major Smith, you appear to be the only positive influence in this young man's life, and certainly the only thing he has right now. Now, you already told me you wanted to aid in his recovery, correct?"
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"It would be good, if you could come with him. We can't change things too quickly for him. He's been a sex slave through some of the most important years of his life. He needs somebody to focus on, somebody onto whom he can transfer those...conditioned impulses. Somebody who's going to both accept what he needs to give, and help him learn what he doesn't need to offer," and she'd smiled, sad. "Turn him back into a person."
Hannibal had nodded again. "Anything."
"They'll release you from duty? Because it could take months..."
Mouth dry, he'd nodded again. He'd already called Russ back at Benning. The paperwork was waiting. "Won't be an issue."
"Good. Now, what does he mean?"
"Ma'am, I don't know, how familiar you are with the military, but..."
She'd laid a hand on his arm and smiled at him. "I'm not a DoD doctor. My confidentiality is absolute." She'd squeezed, just a little. "If you're having trouble with what happened between you two, we can help you, too. But you have to be honest with me."
So he'd told her. Told her everything. Everything. The first night, his longing, his self-loathing, the whole fucking debacle, right up to the house and and the coin and the knife...
"You love this young man, don't you?" she'd asked.
"...yes."
"His recovery can't involve sex, major. He needs to learn he can be valued for other things. He's not capable of willing consent right now. You understand me?"
He'd nodded.
She'd smiled back.
And they'd all been on a C-12 to Davis-Monthan AFB the next day.
In-patient therapy.
Hannibla had never thought it’d be so... pleasant.
His few possessions were being handled by the spec ops folks from Camp Red Cloud. Russ had processed the paperwork, put him on a special-coded TDY, got him on the Phoenix per diem, more than enough to pay his own room and board here at the facility. Nobody asked any questions about any of it, although the Yongsan commander had found him at the Osan airfield and shaken his hand and thanked him - the FBI was involved back in the States, Brian Park would be found, they'd gotten the other kids home...
And here was Face was now, sleeping on his homework.
The facility was a nice place. Almost like a resort, really. Comfortable little villas and a lap pool and a dining room vaulted with dark mesquite and a rambling main lodge with fireplaces and overstuffed, impossibly soft couches and close access to an entire network of trails, leading straight up into the autumn desert of the mountains. The whole point, the director had explained to Hannibal on his first day there, was to provide a safe haven, a stress-free environment, somewhere where recovery was the only concern. It was remote, elite and horrendously expensive, the kind of place movie stars came, but they'd taken the kid's case pro bono, and Hannibal at a steep discount.
The major was unutterably grateful for everything. All of it. And not just on Face’s behalf. Although he’d never have admitted it to anyone, he needed the peace of this place. Maybe not as much as Face did, but after almost a year in Korea, in that culture, in the stress of that mission, and especially after the Xanadu...
The kid had five sessions a week, one on one with the director every time, although they said they might put him in a group later, too. Hannibal never went to these. His role was a bit more...esoteric.
"He needs to be eased back into things," the director had explained to the Ranger, the first day there, after he'd spoken to the kid. "Certain rules may have to stay in place for a while. Can't throw everything at him at once. He's never had any choices. Too many now might hurt him rather than help. We have to talk about anything you're going to do."
His recommendations had shocked the major.
No changes at first. Least not at first. Not until Face learned that he could ask.
So that meant still calling him by that moniker, Face, even after they’d managed to track down his records, the far too serious photo of a fourteen year old blonde boy named Richard Bancroft, his parents’ deathe certificates. Meant letting him go around naked in their shared space. Making him sleep on the floor by Hannibal's bed, although the staff had provided a pad for that. Other things, things he was just hearing about for the first time. Like the rules about no furniture, no furniture ever. No flatware, no lunch, nothing with sugar in it, no eating before Hannibal finished.
And that, somehow, the first night here was the worst. Watching the kid eat a bowl of rice, with his fingers, cross-legged on the floor, had nearly broken the older man entirely, and he'd cried to himself that night, silent and into his pillow so the kid wouldn't hear.
But, mercifully, that had been the first thing to go.
Breakfast, always delivered hot and on the requested time, was huevos rancheros the next morning. By Hannibal's request. Something delicious and messy.
Face had looked at his, looked at Hannibal, who'd taken up a seat on the little apartment's sofa, plate on the coffee table, sipping at an orange juice, the second bright, fresh, pulpy glass set up right next to his.
With a fork.
The kid had looked hungry, puzzled too but mostly hungry, glancing back and forth between his own plate in his own hands, that space next to Hannibal, the fork, the floor.
And Hannibal had kept eating, not really tasting any of it, until Face finally padded over, still naked, and sat down at the table, plate up right next to the fork. His blue eyes fixed on Hannibal, silently asking if that was okay, and Hannibal had just nodded back. He'd still waited until the older man finished, but as far as he was concerned, it was a damn good start.
Clothes were next. He had to wear them to his sessions, of course, or out around the grounds, but in their room, he still went naked for the first two weeks. But he'd come back on the sixteenth day and paused at the threshold, hands on the hem of one of three shirts Hannibal had been able to buy for him at the Yongsan BX, for the flight back.
"Do I have to take it off?" he'd asked. "Doc Reynolds said...said... I didn't have to."
Hannibal had shrugged, careful, remembering what the director had told him about these questions. He's going to want you to make his decisions for him. He might be eager, he might be scared. Don't give in to either. Tell him...
"You have the right to leave your clothes on, kid. Not my place to say. It's all up to you."
He'd smiled. Wide. Broad. Happy. "But it's going to get all smelly if I do that. Only got the one set." And he'd stripped down, but he was still smiling.
The next day, during the kid's session, Hannibal had gotten one of the staff, an older woman who had a teenage son herself, to lend him a car and a hand. Picking out what would work. What he might like.
Face hadn't said anything, but he'd teared up a little.
And best of all, there wasn't any more casual nudity. Except at night, when he still slept bare-ass naked on his blanketless little pad, and Hannibal stayed up, trying not to wonder, to remember.
To dream.
The sessions weren't always easy. Sometimes Face would come back in a rage. Other times, it would be tears, or not speaking or the sir would return. He'd locked himself in the bathroom once, a horrible night, and Hannibal had had to order him out in the harshest of tones. And the next day had been a no clothes day. Another time, he'd asked for his collar back, and it had been Hannibal who'd locked himself in the bathroom, shower on until his own grief wore out. He'd been greeted with a smile.
But usually, Face came back quiet, reflective or subtly angry. The doc gave him a notebook on week three, which he was expected to journal in. But he'd had two pages of geometry work in there one day, the doctor told Hannibal, and it occurred to them both that the kid hadn't been to school since the seventh grade.
Hannibal and the nice staff lady went to the bookstore.
Face really had cried when he saw the GRE coursework, all the supplemental material, the stack of the classics not too sexual or depressing. Some of the girls, the kid said then, and especially Amanda, had gone over things with him, things they could remember. Stuff to keep them all occupied, math and history and languages. French, from Amanda too, and Hannibal's stomach had tightened, remembering the parents, the dim lighting of the morgue.
The kid was wicked intelligent, raw, underdeveloped but shining, and the director here, Reynolds, said that it was a good thing for him to focus on. And the kid did study. Always seemed to be studying. Hannibal suspected he liked it because he could control it. That his lack of learning was something his could fix for himself.
And it made Hannibal so goddamn proud. It really did. It all did.
Face stirred now, like he knew that Hannibal's eyes were on him. He was so responsive, so reactive, attuned to what the older man was doing or saying or feeling.
"It's fairly common," the director had said when Hannibal asked about it, "for abused children to have a higher degree of awareness of the people around them. Almost like a sixth sense. It's a defense mechanism."
The Ranger still thought it might be something more. Like that connection he'd thought they might share. Still might share. And he hated himself for it all, for wanting more. For wanting that, to feel that, with a boy who'd only turned 18 two months ago.
The doctor, the woman from Yongsan, she’d tried to tell him there was nothing wrong with him. That it was okay, having feelings for the boy, having inclinations, desires, after the way they’d met.
Those thoughts, those thoughts were just...
He couldn’t get over the guilt. Couldn’t, and wouldn’t, not until he saw Face whole, not until he saw the kid alive and well and happy and his own man. Not until...
"John?"
And at least he didn't have to pretend his smile.
Blue eyes blinked up at him, owlish from interrupted sleep, happy to see him.
Face was always happy to see him.
When they'd first gotten here, Hannibal had been expected to spend as much time with Face as possible. Seemed that alone time had usually led to bad things, with Rose. But they were gradually introducing separation, time alone, as much as the kid was comfortable with. He'd go for a hike or a run, usually, worked out his own thoughts, tried to pull himself together for the next round with the kid.
But he had to teach Face that it was okay to be alone. Had to teach him so many things... "How you doing, kid?"
He looked down at his notebook and groaned. "Fuck, I smudged problem 12..."
"I'm sure you can manage to re-do, kid, way you're tearing up that book. Sure you'll get your GRE in no time," Hannibal told him.
A happy little smile turned in to a frown. Too quick. Shit, what was coming now? "You think I could go back to school? Like, college? Not right now, not high school, I get it, the... but maybe, like, someday?"
"Absolutely, kid. You’d do well there."
He stared down at his hands. Doc Reynolds was working with him, explaining that it was polite to look people in the eye when talking to them, that nobody was going to get mad at him, that it was his way of telling others that they were equals. But he rarely did.
"Really? But..."
And there was the self-doubt. The horrendous lack of self-esteem that seemed to be Rose's main legacy in the boy. Hannibal bit back a groan at seeing it right then, and plunked his still-sweating body right down next to the kid's, on the floor, and those blue eyes got huge.
"Remember what I told you, Face? That you wouldn't be a whore anymore? That you could be anything you wanted?"
"Yeah..."
"You thought about that at all? What you want to do?"
The kid shut the math book and nodded.
"Yeah? What are you thinking about?"
Those eyes fell, and the high afternoon light seemed to fade from the room. "Don't wanna say. You'll..."
"Won't get mad, Face, and I won't laugh," Hannibal said as encouragingly as he could. He hated these moments, these close proximity moments, where he could practically feel the kid's heartbeat, where his traitorous brain started thinking about all of it, all the things they could do together, be together, have, have together... "What is it?"
"No, you're going to... do I have to tell you?"
Hannibal resisted the urge to scream. Those were the hardest questions, the ones that haunted him. The innocent, guileless ones. Thoughtless. Programmed. Every little reminder of what Face had been conditioned for. Every hint of the life he might have had. The faintest worry, Hannibal’s own, that maybe Rose was right, maybe he had taken the kid away from something he needed, decided he was going to be someone he didn’t, in fact want to be. Like this whole thing was hopeless. And it was at moments like this that the major didn’t hate himself for loving this young man. It was at moments like this that those...feelings...were all he had to hold on to.
"No, kid. It's your life,” he said, treading as carefully as he would with a live rattlesnake. “I don't own it. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. If you want to share, though, I’m here to listen."
And Face grinned again. "What's for dinner?"
"What would you like?"
It was the first time Hannibal had asked. Usually, he called the kitchen, made those decisions, one more thing Face didn't have to worry about. But...
Right call, he thought proudly, as the kid's face lit up like a Christmas tree. Had he had one of those? Ever? It was October right now, and if they were going to be here as long as Reynolds was predicting... "Could we do mac and cheese?" he asked, hesitant, fingers curling unconsciously around his pencil. "That... that was good last week."
"I'll ask."
"Fucking-A."
And Face went back to his math.
They had it, the mac and cheese, the good homemade kind, and Face had eaten nearly the entire thing. Hannibal stuck to chicken instead, enjoying the first real display of childlike glee he'd ever seen in the kid. At the dining table too, the younger man obviously uncomfortable about the chair but boldly saying he wanted to leave the calculus out. Which he dug right back into, after they were done, and Hannibal had watched him for a moment, overlong blonde hair falling down around his ears, bent over the lesson, lips moving a little as he read to himself.
Beautiful, the major thought, and fled to the safety of the shower.
It was dark out by the time he was done, steam rolling from the bathroom, the end of another long, lazy day, and he stretched out on their couch with the latest Michael Crighton novel from the facility library, no sound but the scratch of pencil and turn of pages. Silent, but a pleasant silence, and Hannibal tried to remember the last time he'd been this comfortable in somebody else's presence. Able to just sit together, not worrying about filling up the empty space because that space wasn't really empty. Years. Maybe longer. Certainly not since Russ, and even their last few months had been tense, full of expectations on the other that neither could fulfill, nothing waiting ahead for them but a final disappointment that had still been a grief when it came...
But it was insane, Hannibal told himself for what seemed like the thousandth time, watching the equations trail out across a previously blank page. He'd be thirty in January, twelve years older than the kid. And with everything that had happened to him...
And it occurred to Hannibal for the first time then; was Face even interested in men, naturally speaking? Wasn't that just some symptom of the...conditioning? Wouldn't it go away with everything else? He'd said he'd give anything to see the kid whole, and he'd meant it. If that meant never, never being able to...he tried to focus on the image of Face as an older man, wife, kids, people who loved him, a real family, a family like he deserved...
But all he could see was that shy little smile, all for him.
“What is it, Face?” he asked, snapped, a little too harsh.
The smile faltered, old fears creeping back in, and the major wanted to hit himself. Times like this, it was so easy to forget how raw Face still was.
"Nothing, I just.." came the wary reply, eyes darting. "Did I..."
"No, kid, you didn't do anything wrong. I'm just tired," Hannibal tried, and laughed a little. "Think I might go to bed."
Face, thinking, chewed on the pencil's eraser, those lips wrapped around the little pink end doing absolutely nothing to help Hannibal's nerves. "This is hard, John," he said quietly. "You know that?"
"I can't imagine, kid. What you've been through, what I put you through..."
But Face shook his head and shuffled around, pushing himself up on the edge of the couch, right against Hannibal's stunned leg, and the kid blanched a little. "Furniture’s... furniture’s okay." He was saying it to himself. "It's okay. It's okay."
“Yeah, kid, the furniture’s okay,” the Ranger replied softly, and breathed. Deep. “Face...”
"I don't mean, hard, about the...everything. The bullshit. I get it. I mean this." And he touched the major's leg, rubbing a little through the jeans. "About this thing, me and you."
"Face..."
"I know you want me, John. I know you do..."
Trying not to panic, to not react the way he desperately wanted to, the major took the kid's hand, peeling it off his leg, and Hannibal meant to drop it, he did, but Face wrapped their fingers together and wouldn't let go. All other sensation stopped as the kid's thumb fucking rubbed, everything in him singing out, but all Hannibal could think of were the words from the doctor, the warning.
It can't be about sex...
"Face, you don't have to..."
"Why won't you, John? Why won't you take what you want? Why don't you touch me?"
The older man felt his heart tearing, coming apart at the seams, all the carefully hidden thoughts fighting for release, fighting for acknowledgment, seeking, seeking... "That's not your life anymore, kid. You don't have to do that anymore. I don't...you don't owe me anything, Face. You're not obligated to me for anything. I don't own you."
Face thought about that for a moment, clearly struggling, and he shook his head. When he spoke, it was low, almost sad, mostly confused. "Why are you here, then?"
Asked it as if it had never occurred to him before.
There was no good answer for that, none at all, but Hannibal tried. Tried to think of an excuse, something that would satisfy. Something that would be true enough. But he couldn't lie. Not to that face, so open and so vulnerable. One of those moments where the wrong thing could shatter it all apart.
And he couldn't lie.
"I love you, Face," Hannibal admitted softly, and bent forward, kissing the top of the younger man's head as reverently as he could, touching him gently, right on the shoulder, holding on lightly. He pressed his forehead onto the same spot. "I do, but..."
"You think I can't handle it. You think I'm weak," the kid said, and the flatness there damn near broke Hannibal's tenuous self control.
"No, no, Face," he said, inhaling the sweet scent of sun, still clinging to that curled caramel. "Not in the least." He pulled back, one hand on the kid's shoulder and the other pulling his chin up, to look him in the eye as he said this, to be sure it was heard. "I think you're the strongest person I've ever met."
He didn't know, exactly, what he was expecting. Maybe for Face to start crying. Maybe some words. But all he got was a blank stare, and he sighed. "Goodnight, Face."
Face didn't respond. Just tucked bare feet up under himself and pulled his textbook up into his lap, still on the couch. Head down, lips moving, ignoring him. Completely. Utterly defeated, Hannibal turned his back and went to bed
Yet, later that night, unable to sleep, he heard rustling, right at the foot. And he didn't move, didn't make a sound, listening as Face pulled himself up off the floor and pulled a little on the light sheets.
"John?" he asked quietly, touching Hannibal's shoulder gently. "John, you awake?"
Hannibal forced his breathing to stay steady, didn't acknowledge it. He wanted to see what the kid was going to do. Needed to know what this was about.
Face must have stood there for a long time, long enough for Hannibal to wonder if he had left. Long enough for the kid to be satisfied, apparently, that nothing bad was going to happen to him. Long enough for him to do what he did.
Pulling the covers back, sliding in, the weight on the mattress shifting around, and it was all Hannibal could do to not react as that lean body slid up to his, as a collarbone touched down on his, as an open palm, very, very slowly, crossed his chest, fingertips settling in the dip, curving off, moving softly between arm and ribs. As a chin pressed close to his neck. As lips tickled his ear.
"I love you, too. I know it. I know that's real," he whispered, and snuggled closer, fingers closing and opening and closing and opening. "I wish you'd let me love you, John. Wish you’d let me show you. I'll show you. I'll show you...”
It took every ounce of self-control he had, that naked body pressed against him, puffing breaths cascading against his, to not reach over and touch. Not react. Not take.
But there wasn’t a hint of distress, not a single tear, not a sniffle. Just those fingers, moving softly against his skin, and it was that sensation that Hannibal took with him into sleep, down into the first good dreams he’d had since the last time they were in bed together.
+++++
In the morning, Face wasn’t there. He wasn’t on the pad, either, though. He was asleep in the villa’s other bed, the smaller one, the one with the hard mattress, the one Hannibal had told him was his, that first day, for when he was ready. Covers, pillows, boy, all in the right place and arrangement.
That, truly, was something amazing.
He didn’t wake the kid, decided to let him enjoy it, and went to make himself coffee.
The smell seemed to get Face up, though, or maybe he was doing that thing where he reacted to Hannibal - whatever the reason, the major was pouring his first cup when he was met with a light touch on his hand.
“Mornin’,” Face said, and Hannibal recognized that tone.
The seductive tone.
The one Face had used on him that first time.
Motherfucker.
No.
They’d worked too hard to lose ground now.
But the way Face was looking at him, all the genuine hope under that practiced expression...
“Morning, kid,” he said cautiously, not moving his hand. And Face, as if encouraged, slid around, threading their hands together, clearly moving in for...
And Hannibal put a finger to the kid’s lips before he could kiss him, stopped his free hand from reaching his crotch. “No, Face.”
All the air left that lithe frame instantly, eyes closed, and Face tried to jerk away.
Which Hannibal didn’t allow.
It was a struggle for several seconds, one that Face couldn’t - and didn’t - win. He slumped, facing away, still caught up by Hannibal’s grip. “Fine, goddammit,” he grumbled, jerking uselessly, the pout entirely overdramatic. “You love me, you don’t love me... just fucking let me go.”
“Face, listen to...”
“This come kind of sick game you play, John? Get...make people think you care, shove them away when it’s fun or whatever the fuck? Jesus...”
“Face, listen to me.”
“Fuck you,” the kid hissed, actually angry now, and pulled again.
“Face,” Hannibal said, a little firmer, some of that command voice creeping in, and he tugged the kid around, grabbed his chin again and held him there despite the struggling, tightening down as the thrashing got worse. Got more violent. “Stop it.”
“Fuck. You,” Face repeated, furious, and jerked. Hard.
They both ended up on the floor, the kid stuggling with everything he had, Hannibal not fighting but not letting go, and it took longer than it should have, getting him pinned down, hands forced up overhead, his own body weight pushed down on that young chest and finally, finally, the kid stopped.
Went completely limp.
And his head hit back against the floor.
“An offer not good enough for you, sir?” the kid asked, voice distant, far away. Back at the Xanadu, and Hannibal almost despaired. No, please, he beged silently, anything but this. “You need to take it? You need me to not want it? I can do anything you want...”
“That’s just the point, Face,” Hannibal murmured sadly, sitting back, up, taking his hands away from the kid’s. “It’s not about what I want.”
Confusion clouded that beautiful face, and those hand stayed up, unsure. “But I want you, too, sir...”
“It’s John, Face. Just John. No sir. You’re not less than me. I’m not more than you. We’re equal here. What you want is just as important as what I want.”
“J-John, I want...”
“You want to be loved, Face. Isn’t that right? You want somebody to love you...”
There was a long, long silence.
And then.
“...yeah. And you said you...”
“Sex isn’t love, kid. You’re equating it, but that’s not how it works. Sex, the stuff you’ve been put through, that’s all selfish,” Hannibal said, rolling off him, standing, helping Face up. The kid looked a little dazed, and figuring it couldn’t possibly make anything worse, Hannibal wrapped him up in an easy bearhug. “And love isn’t selfish. Doesn’t take things for itself. It gives. Gives everything.”
“John, I...”
“You want me to take you. But,” and his arms tightened a little, hoping to hell this was right, “I don’t want to take you. I want to give you something amazing. Want to give you everything you deserve, want you to have the world. I want to make love with you. With you, kid. Want you right there with me...”
Face pushed back, upset. “I don’t get it,” he said, helpless.
Hannibal leaned over, kissed his forehead. “You will.”
“So... you... won’t love me, until I figure it out?” the kid said, pacing away, shoulders heaving. “Then... then... what the fuck...what if I can’t, what if it never clicks? You want to hang everything on, on some fucking revelation I may never... goddamn it!” And he collapsed in a heap, hands tearing up into that gorgeous hair, head hitting back against the wall, hand twitched up at his throat like it still did sometimes, settling to tug at the collar of his soft t-shirt, hard enough to rip. “Motherfucker, John! This is fucking hard enough as it is! Fucking doctors, fucking clothes...trying... she’s dead and... fuck, I was fourteen, the first time she had me take her, a-and, and she loved me. She loved me, John. I know she did. First person who ever did...”
“And I love you.”
“But you won’t take me, not like she did. Is there something wrong? Am I too old, like she kept saying? John,” and that was scared, "am I, am I.."
“There's nothing wrong with you, kid. Nothing. Believe it. There are just other ways to show somebody you love them, kid,” the older man said, feeling like he wanted to throw up. He knelt down and put a hand on a trembling knee. “That’s the whole point. There’s so much more to it.”
“Like what?” the kid groaned, still staring straight up at the ceiling.
“Like I got a car for the weekend,” he said, and smiled, rubbed a little bit, trying to let Face know it was okay. “Thought you might like to start learning how to drive. All the cool kids are doing it...”
Something like glee passed through those eyes, the worst of the tempest gone now, but Face, stubborn thing that he was, wasn’t about to give in. “You love me so you’re going to teach me how to drive?”
“No. I’m here with you. For anything you need. That’s love.”
“Not sex?”
That was playful. That was teasing. And thank god, Hannibal thought, they were both still in one piece. “If you want me to not do the car thing with you, kid...”
“Oh, no,” Face said, springing up, eager again. “Oh, no, I definitely want to do that.”
Hannibal pulled himself up, and, unable to help himself, not really wanting to, he caught the kid by the waist and pulled in him for a slow, sweet, gentle kiss. Their first, since the Xanadu. Electric. Perfect. “I do love you, Face,” he breathed. “Never doubt that. There’s just so much more to it. Want you to have all of that, too.”
Face bit his lip, took a deep breath, eyes closed, and smiled. A genuine smile. A beautiful, genuine smile. “I trust you,” he said, and laid his hand on Hannibal’s chest. “I trust you, John.”
And that was kind of amazing, too.
Continue to Part Five
