Xanadu - Part Five of Five
Apr. 10th, 2011 08:54 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 Five 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??
Face is coming along, doing better, healing up, learning how to live again. But there’s still one or two things that Hannibal is determined to help the kid put into place. And when it comes to that final act of trust, a misunderstanding could sink the whole thing.
After the explosion that Saturday morning, things got better.
Kept getting better.
Face still crawled in to bed with him. Every night. After he thought Hannibal was asleep. And the major let that go on for about a week or so, until the soft grabby hands, the whispers of I love you, the contented little moans got the best of him, and he turned. Drew the kid in, back to chest, spooning around him.
“I knew it,” Face said smugly, his grin loud in the darkness, and arched back, feline and wonderful. “I knew you weren’t asleep.”
“I’m not going to fuck you, kid,” Hannibal replied through gritted teeth. No matter how much he wanted to.
“I know,” the kid replied, more serious that time, and wrapped a hand around the big one that was him. “But this is my choice, right?”
Hannibal had kissed the top of his head. “Yeah, kid. It’s always your choice, from now on.”
And that was that.
Sometimes he’d stay for a little while and go back to his own bed. Sometimes he’d start in his own bed and come in. But the best nights were when Face came in with the lights on, and woke with Hannibal, the two of them together, watching the sun come up through the filmy curtains over the mountains.
They’d go hiking, Hannibal taking the kid on longer and longer loops through the high desert, through the cottonwoods of the riverbeds, up into the junipers and mesquites and the dusty sage smells. Or sometimes they’d stick to the paved roads, Hannibal teaching him how to run, or to the gym, or the pool. Driving lessons. Shooting lessons, and although all the kid could have out here was an archery set, he was a dead shot; grouping his arrows at fifty yards after two weeks like it was nothing. Hannibal was genuinely impressed. Face said he liked the focus.
And Face seemed to love the physical exertion, his body starting to respond, that skinny frame of thin muscle beginning to fill out, a bit more of a tan on his pale skin. More and more beautiful, Hannibal thought to himself, although he never said that. Didn’t dare.
The therapy picked up. Face, the doctors said, had stopped fighting them, really started opening up, discussing, processing. They loved that word, the processing, but Doc Reynolds still thanked Hannibal.
“It’s because of you, you know. We can talk to him until Judgment Day, but you’re the one making him believe he can be a better man,” the doctor told him around week ten. “Real progress.”
The week after, Reynolds gave Face a free day. To leave the facility, if he wanted, and Hannibal was grateful the director had given him a heads-up, because the kid barreled back in from his session absolutely buzzing.
“Where do you want to go, kid?” the major asked, expecting something along the lines of a movie or McDonalds or something like that.
The response he got instead was surprising.
“There a cathedral in town?”
“Catholic?”
“Yeah,” and Face had sobered a bit. “I was in a Catholic orphanage for a while.”
Hannibal asked around. Asked the doctor, who said he thought it was a good idea. Asked the receptionist, who gave him the address of the local diocese cathedral, and even included the name of a really good Mexican food place and her kid’s favorite bookstore.
The kid plastered himself against the glass of the passenger side window as they left the winding mountains and headed back down into the valley. They’d driven this road on the way up from DM, but it had been at night, and Face had been asleep through most of it anyway. Now he was wide awake, watching everything, and although it probably would have been quicker to take the freeway, Hannibal stuck to the surface roads, the straight grid that ran through the city of low adobe and shining glass.
“It’s so small,” Face said, in wonder, palm pressed next to his nose.
And Hannibal’s stomach did that familiar thing, wondering if the kid had ever been out of Seoul. Or Los Angeles, as little orphaned Richard Bancroft, before that. If he knew anything else.
They just missed morning mass, but Face wanted to hang around. Lit a candle, got on the kneeler, got up when the priest came back out and disappeared into one of the confessionals. And Hannibal sat in the back pew, wondering at change in the boy, how brave he was being, what he could possibly want here. Sometimes the major felt like he’d been to too many places, seen too many ugly things, been too many of those things himself, to ever really be comfortable in a place like this again.
But when Face came back out, the priest gave him a hug, and he stuffed a hand in the back pocket of his jeans, smiling on his way over to Hannibal. “We can go now,” he said.
“Find what you were looking for?”
The kid looked at him, something deep in those eyes. Smiled.
They hit the bookstore, on the way back, the kid running his hand along the spines of the paperbacks, and when Hannibal told him he could get anything he wanted, he damn near started crying.
Trips became more frequent after that. Sometimes with Hannibal, sometimes with the doctors. And once, terrifyingly, Hannibal had to take the kid to the mall and leave him. For an hour. When they met back up at the appointed time, it was all the major could do from kissing the kid senseless, right in the middle of the food court.
“So proud of you,” he whispered that night, the kid asleep in his own bed, sitting on the edge, just... just being there. The rules were all gone. Every single one of them. But Face still had to work to get himself into bed by himself. “So proud of you, you brave, beautiful man...”
And time just... slipped away. For both of them. Just like that. No fucking, no whoring, no killing, no dying. Tangled up in each other. Figuring it out together. Being... something else.
Until right before Christmas, when Face was helping the staff hang lights in the main buildings and laughing at the luminarios and chili wreaths as they were being unpacked, whistling along to some song on the radio, perfectly comfortable at the top of a ten foot ladder, head amongst the rafters.
Happy.
His brave, beautiful, happy boy.
“Hannibal,” the major heard behind him, and that froze his blood.
Nobody had called him that in nearly five months. Not around here. And certainly not Face. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed being John. Enjoyed remembering who John was. Had relished it. Even if he wasn’t really John any longer. Even if he was starting to miss Hannibal, Hannibal’s life, Hannibal’s command, Hannibal’s missions...
Not that it really mattered, he told himself. He’d come here for Face. Not himself. No matter how much he’d gotten out of it. It was only ever about Face, and Face was doing good. Really good. The doctors were starting to talk about discharge, actually, and Hannibal was beginning to think about what came next. If Face would come with him to Benning, maybe apply to Georgia Tech, depending on the results of those GRE exams he’d yet to take. He could live in the dorms, they could see each other on the weekends. Figure a real relationship out of this whole mess. Give the kid all the things he wanted to give him, see the kid achieve all the potential he possessed, surpass himself, grow, heal, learn, and grow some more.
But...
Would Face stay?
Would he want to?
Would he?
But that voice was still talking.
“Hannibal, long time no see.”
He realized he knew who that voice belonged to.
And suddenly the Ranger became very, very afraid.
“Colonel.”
“Hannibal.”
"You came?"
"Yeah."
“Fuck, boss, why...”
“Wanted to deliver this stuff myself.”
Hannibal felt faint as he turned, everything good falling right out of him at the sight of the man in front of him. Man? Hell. Former lover. Brother Ranger. Current commander. Holding a big, thick manila envelop.
“I thought you said...”
“I know. But the shit’s heating up in Kosovo. You know we’re going to get called up sooner or later. You know that’s going to mean you.”
The major groaned and collapsed back into one of the room’s sofas, oblivious to everything else around him, scrubbing a nerveless hand over his face. He wanted a cigar. Right the fuck now. “Russ, there’s, I’m not, I can’t leave right now.”
“Hannibal, you’ve been out of the game since September. Don’t you think it’s time to get back in the field?”
Russ was just like Hannibal remembered him. Tall, dark hair just beginning to gray, fit, despite the damn desk job he had now. Still handsome. Still wearing that damn wedding ring.
Still missed.
Still loved.
But all that was over.
“I want to, and I will,” he said softly, staring at that envelop, knowing what was in it, wondering what the hell it was going to mean for Face. For himself. “The docs are thinking Face is close, maybe another month, and I’ll be able to take him...”
Morrison plunked himself down on the sofa opposite Hannibal, tossing the envelop on the table between them. He leaned forward, elbows to knees, serious. “You don’t owe this kid anything, Hannibal. No matter what happened in Korea.”
“I know that...”
“Five fucking months, Hannibal. I can’t afford to have my best officer out of commission that fucking long.”
“Russ, I fucking know that!”
Morrison did not look happy.
Hannibal braced himself.
And when it hit, it hit hard.
“Do you? Because I think your little vacation’s blunting your edge. I think you’re getting soft on me. I think you’re out here with that butt boy of yours, living it up on the goddamn military’s nickle and forgetting about your duty, goddammit! You’re an officer in the United States Army Rangers, Hannibal! We don’t get peace and quiet! We don’t want it! What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
It wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t even loud. But it still shook Hannibal to his core. And not because it was Russ saying it. Because it was Colonel Morrison. And Colonel Morrison was right.
And yet...
“You remember what it was like?” he asked, quiet, settling forward himself. “Back then, back when we... when you were a captain...”
“...you were that wet behind the ears el-tee?”
“Yeah. You remember how that felt? You remember how that was? Remember how we were?”
He nodded. Wistful. “But those days are long gone, John.”
“And Face is not my butt boy. He deserves better than that, and you fucking know it.”
The colonel sighed. “That was low of me. Sorry.”
“When do you need me back?”
“We’re looking at January deployments. And I’ve got no idea if you’re ready to throw back in the field.” Morrison looked away. “I can give you through the holidays.”
“Thanks, sir,” Hannibal said, relieved. “He’s close. He is. You’d be proud of him, far as he’s come.”
“You obviously are.”
“Yeah. I am.”
“That’s one of the things I could never fault you on, Hannibal,” Morrison said, and rose, the major following suit right behind. He held out his hand, but the older officer drew him in for a tight embraced, clapped him on the back. “One of those things I always admired aboutyou, Hannibal. That loyalty of yours. Served me well over the years, it really has. I’d never doubt that.”
“You earned it, Russ.”
“No I didn’t. But I’m always grateful for it.” And he pulled away, laughing a little, eyes were serious. “Expect to see you end of January, major.”
“With bells on, colonel,” Hannibal replied.
It wasn’t until after Morrison left, after he picked up the envelop, after he collapsed back into the sofa and rolled his eyes upwards that Hannibal remembered that Face was on the ladder.
Watching.
Listening.
To everything.
“Come on down, kid,” he said to that quizzical face staring down at him. He brandished the envelop. “Looks like Christmas came early this year.”
+++++
Face was oddly quiet on the way back to their place, following Hannibal at a length, and the little winding path down from the main building had never seemed so long.
The place was mostly empty, a skeleton staff and most patients released to their families until after the winter holidays were over. It was getting cold at night now, below freezing, ice on the cactus in the dim mornings, the icy blue sky frosted with fleeting clouds. It felt empty, somehow. Or maybe that was Russ, not the weather, or the fact that the kid wasn't there. Right next to him. Warming him through.
But he'd learned patience over the last four or five months, lots of it, something the kid still needed. So the major got the door open and held it for Face, leaning against the jamb, watching his boy catch up the distance. He'd grown an inch or two since arriving here, all that natural grace enhanced by the runs he was taking now, every morning, five or six miles at a stretch, tan, highlights bleached almost white into his hair from the sun.
Beautiful.
Perfect.
Hannibal couldn't help the little sigh that escaped him as Face neared. And he caught the kid up then, tugging him over the mat and pushing him up against the nearest wall, heedless of whether or not the damn door was closed as he kissed him, putting every bit of his feeling for the boy into it, needing to forget, needing to remember. And Face, like he could sense that, held tight to him, opening, letting him in, sweet, taking him away...
But the second they broke apart, the major knew he wasn't going to be able to escape this one. Not wig those eyes were questioning, like before, on the ladder, and Face pulled the older man's hand away from his cheek, a tight little jerk. "Hannibal?" he asked softly.
A breeze, cool, murmuring of the frost that would probably hit tonight, passed over them and Hannibal kicked the door shut, holding on to Face with one hand and the envelop with the other. "It's...it's my Ranger name. My call sign, I guess you could say. A military thing."
"It's your name."
He sounded hurt, Hannibal thought. Very, very hurt. Betrayed. And that was one thing he’d never let his boy feel again. "I wasn't trying to lock you out of anything, Face. But this, you, we're..."
"You didn't want me to know?"
Pain. Uncertainty. A constant fear of being left out, of not belonging. That, right there, was what Doc Reynolds wanted to address before Face left. Technically, he couldn't hold the boy, couldn't stop him from leaving, and Hannibal swallowed, wondering if he would have to go before Face made that final breakthrough. If Face would leave with him, if Face would leave on his own...but that's what that envelope, its contents, still clenched in his own sweating hand, was for.
He kissed Face again. "Everyone I know knows me as Hannibal first. Not John Smith. Nobody calls me John. Nobody except you..."
"And that guy, Morrison, right?"
Hannibal nodded, putting a little bit of a separation between them now. Face needed space sometimes, to think these things out, needed the contact to stop so he could work through whatever he was working on. He'd been trained to respond to touch, after all, and he craved it so. Opened up for it, begged for it...
"He called you John, though."
"It's kind of a special thing for me now, kid, my real name. I wanted you to have that, wanted us to have that together, that part of myself," he replied with a nod and a smile, and started leading Face over to the sofa, gentling the kid down, laying the packet carefully down on the other side of himself, out of the younger man's reach.
It had gotten easier over the past few months, explaining things, putting voice to ideas and concepts and feelings that he otherwise never would have. Face needed it. Not that he couldn't figure this stuff out, no, he had an uncanny ability to read people and especially Hannibal, but he still needed it explained. Needed the reassurance that he was getting it right, and the major, to his surprise, had found he enjoyed doing that for him. Giving the kid that. "I wanted you to have that part of myself."
Face nodded, digesting, and bit his lip. "You love him."
"I did," Hannibal said slowly. "Once. A long time ago."
"You still love him," and the kid ran a hand over his mouth, like he did when he was thinking about something really hard. "But, like, in that other way you talk about. You two don't fuck any more...but you still love him."
"He's my boss," Hannibal said, fingers creeping over to the glued edges of the manila, wondering if now was really the right time for this. "He's my commander. I do the best fucking job with anything he throws at me, do things for him that nobody else can, and I've stuck with him. Through everything. He's the one who's let me stay so long with you, actually..."
"You're loyal. You give him that. Cause you love him."
That, that pure, innocent little insight, echoed through the older man, and he wasn't sure where Face was going with this. It made him nervous, it really did, but at this point they'd seen each other at their respective worsts. There was nothing left to hide. And trying to do so could cost him everything. So he answered, honest. "Yeah."
"Do you ever wish he'd take you back?" It wasn't jealous. Just curious. Hannibal had already figured out that the boy didn't seem to have a concept of monogamy. It didn't exist in the world he'd come from. And some things, Doc Reynolds had acknowledged, might never really go away.
"Used to. Sometimes," the Ranger admitted, still feeling exposed, those keen, sharp eyes trained on him, looking for answers. "But what we've got now...it's stable."
"And it's all he can take?"
"All he can accept, kid. All he can accept."
Face threw himself back, bouncing a bit off the cushions, and stared up for a while. Then he grinned and ran a hand through his hair, rubbing his neck, biting that delicious lower lip of his.
Unconsciously sensual.
Hannibal wasn't sure if it was some innate quality in the boy, something that belonged to him and him alone, shining all the brighter now that the layers of rot had been stripped away. Or if it was just the way he saw Face, how he looked through the filter of his own feelings for the kid, making his the most beautiful thing he'd ever...
"So," Face asked, cutting off that chain of thought with a light punch and a grab, "what's in the package?"
"Something for you," Hannibal murmured. "Your Christmas present."
The kid looked, looked like...no, the major couldn't place it. Couldn't place that look. "You gonna make me wait, John?" he asked, and Hannibal realized what it was. Realized Face had probably never had a real Christmas in his life. Never had anyone there. Never decorated a tree before, opened present from Santa in his pajamas, never sat at the table with his family while the ham was brought out, never had anything real like the holidays, nothing solid and shared and good...and he groaned, pulling the kid up into his lap, hugging him close.
"It's only two days, kid. Can you hold out on me that long?"
Face whined a little, low, and laid his cheek on Hannibal's shoulder, hands twitching like they did at night. "You said he let you stay. Is he going to make you leave?"
"Here, yeah," Hannibal said, and wrapped a hand around the kid's back. "You, never."
+++++
But after they went to bed that night, one of those nights that was both wonderful and torturous, Face hopping in with him, cuddling up, naked, eager, always eager on nights like this, one of those nights where he wanted to touch, kiss, stretch, give, come, but couldn't, wouldn't, laid there and willed the hard-on away as the kid snored softly next to him, after all that came, Hannibal slipped out and padded away on silent feet. Grabbing up the thick and bulging envelop. Heading into the little kitchenette.
The staff, as a rule, didn't keep knives in the rooms, but Hannibal still had a pocket knife, felt exposed without one after so many years of sleeping in hard, rough places. He'd stashed this away during one of Face's bad spells that first month, and he went for it now. Back of a drawer, well hidden. He had to use the sink light to find it, and the little three inch blade flicked open in his hand. Easy. So easy.
Because it fucking belonged there.
His first kill had been with a blade, straight cut to the neck, blood fountaining like he'd thought it only did in the movies. The dirty floor of an Afghani hut. The desert, the mountains, similar and different. He wasn't sure which was better. Which had made him like this place.
Russ had been right, he knew. Russ was almost always right. Maybe not about them, not about what they couldn't have together, what they shouldn't try to to save. But he was right about the military. About the need for the conflict. For the suck. For the kill... and not to kill, in and of itself, the way some people needed to die, so others could be safe, and having a willingness to do that job.
No matter what the cost.
Hannibal paused for a moment, running the pad of his thumb across the serrated lower half, feeling the knobs against the minute ridges of flesh, across the subtle white scar even Face hadn't noticed, remembering that night. That woman, gun in hand, screaming, frantic, cutting him open with her words.
Who will love him now?
Even though smoking wasn't allowed in the rooms, Hannibal retrieved a cigar from the same drawer, a matchbook, and waited until the first inhale of warm, sweet smoke to pull that killing edge across the seal.
"Opening it for me?"
Hannibal jumped, bad, biting his cigar nearly in half, slicing the back of his index finger and dropping the knife in the process. Face picked this up, quick, laying it down on the counter next to the major, and took his hand. "Doesn't look bad," he said softly, and drew that finger into his mouth.
Putting the cigar out in a half-empty cup of coffee, the older man let the younger suck lightly, once. The sink light threw Face into harsh silhouette, backlighting that golden hair, easing around the bare lines of his body. The kid was getting stronger, filling out, hints of the man he'd become. He wanted to be there to see it. He really, really did.
But for now, Hannibal just pulled a deep lungful of air and took his hand back.
"I've been cut worse," he murmured, running fingers up into that fine hair, feeling it as if for the first time, like this was somehow the first time they'd ever touched each other, like that forced blowjob in the back office of that Seoul nightclub had never happened. He didn't really understand that feeling. Maybe because of what he knew to be in the envelop. Maybe for what he was hoping for out of this. That they really could start over. That things could be new. Uncluttered. Not haunted. "Do you want to know what's in here?"
"Can I?"
Hannibal glanced at the microwave clock. 2330. "It's close enough to Christmas Eve," he decided with a slight smile, and handed over the packet.
Face disassembled it quickly. Three smaller envelops, document-sized, marked Orders, Los Angeles CPA and Requested Docs. Hannibal slid the first, and thinnest, away. That was for him. And it could wait.
"Which one should I open first?" the kid asked eagerly.
Hannibal leaned over his shoulder, hugging close, trying to ignore the way his cock, half hard even now, slid up between Face's cheeks, trying to ignore the shudder that went through his boy. "This one," he said, tapping the CPA packet, "and then the other."
He backed off then, getting another cigar, contemplative, guarded, as Face started pulling papers. Birth certificates, death certificates, social security cards, school records, drivers' licenses, everything. Inked originals, no photocopies here, just the real thing. The first, then the second. Some authentic. Some altered. Some forged.
Valid. All of it.
All laid out, Face turned to Hannibal, mouth moving a few times without speaking. "W-what, what is this?"
"These," Hannibal said, touching the first pile, "is everything we could find on Richard Brighton..."
The kid stiffened. "Who..."
"...and this, this is everything we could create for Templeton Peck."
He turned, clearly confused. "Who are these guys?"
"You. If you want. We, they... your records, kid, from the foster home, the Child Protective Services..."
Face started backing away from the counter, something haunted in his eyes again, old grief, older than the Xanadu, from before. "I don't, John, I can't..."
"That's what the second set's for, kid. Something new. Somebody new. Templeton Peck doesn't have your history, not the bad parts, not the..." and Hannibal had to stop for a moment, mouth dry. "He can be anything you want him to be. Anyone you want to be."
The kid stopped his retreat, slowly creeping forward. "Your, your Morrison helped you with this?"
"You can't live out there without a name, kid, without a history, without some proof of your existence. And I'm not leaving here until I know you'll be okay."
"Ready?" Face echoed, picking up the driver's licenses. The photos were identical. Brighton's from California. Peck's from Georgia. He looked completely lost. "Am I ready?"
"You're the only person who can know that, Face."
And, with that, he settled back to wait.
The silence in the little space was almost unbearable. Dragging out. Whole minutes passing. Face frozen. Hannibal almost all the way through his cigar, the smoke the only thing moving at all.
Jerky fingers put both the IDs down on the counter, started drumming. It was almost midnight. "Templeton?"
"Kids in Georgia have unusual names sometimes," Hannibal said, remembering how hard it was to find a birth certificate for a live birth of a baby the right age, the right race, right eye color, right personal details, early death...these things weren't easy, not if you wanted them done right, and he never wanted Face to have a single issue with this. And this name had jumped at him. "I thought this was unique, special. Beautiful. Like you..."
"Beautiful?"
Hannibal realized he'd never said it. Never wanted the kid to think he was only interested in his body, in his face. "In every way, Face. In every possible way."
Tight, tense shoulders shuddered a bit, and pushed that ID away. Nimble fingers gathered up everything that belonged to Richard Brighton, sequestered it all back into its envelop. Handed it to Hannibal.
"Is this everything? No copies anywhere?"
"Everything that proves Richard Brighton existed," Hannibal confirmed, taking the packet.
"The nuns called me Richie," Face said quietly, slumping back against the counter. "Except for the one who used to say...anyway, Face is what stuck. Not Richie." He looked at the envelop, pressed it back against Hannibal's bare chest. The paper was cold. Not a hint of warmth at all. "D'you think they'd mind, if we used the fire pit?"
"Why?"
"I wouldn't know how to be Richard any more..." he said faintly. "I don't think he exists. I don't really want him to."
Hannibal nodded. "I don't think anybody's going to care."
"Awesome."
But there wasn't a hint of a smile anywhere.
+++++
They burned it.
Got dressed and grabbed matches and a few pieces of always flammable brush, sweet mesquite twigs, and took the little trail out to the edge of the property. The moon was full, the desert cast in a silver glow, the sky close, and Face was the one who struck the light and dropped it in, lips moving in some quiet prayer Hannibal couldn't, and never did, decipher. Flames licked higher, glowing, consuming the past, not quite washing it away but close enough. Close enough for a fresh start. Something new. Something good.
Hannibal desperately, desperately wanted this to be good.
When the fire finally died down, the younger man stirred the ashes with a stick, making sure it was all gone. He stood, stretched, and Hannibal thought he might be seeing the boy he saw in sleep. Unfettered. Hopeful. At peace.
Face smiled in the silvery darkness.
"It's nice to meet you, Hannibal."
"Good to meet you too, Templeton."
And, hands locking together, they walked back home.
+++++
Afterwards, thinking back on it, Hannibal wasn’t really sure where it started.
Face’s hand was warm in his, grasping, their arms bumping on the path. Maybe it was there.
They’d tumbled into the villa together, not laughing, not talking, not kissing, but certainly touching, touching everywhere, hands free on each other, heading back for the bedroom, Face stripping his own clothes, fingering Hannibal’s, the last of the ash wiped clean on soft fabric. Maybe that’s when it began.
Or it could have been when Hannibal held up the blankets and Face dove in, rubbing himself like a cat into that warm still space, holding out a hand, silent, saying everything.
But Hannibal was pretty sure it was actually after they both got snuggled in, fitting in to one another, Face’s shorted frame slotting in perfectly to his own, after Face arched back against him and he placed a kiss on the curve of neck presented to him and the kid finally spoke, that it really began.
When everything changed.
“I think I’ve got it figured out, John,” he said, head back on Hannibal’s crooked elbow. “What that whole love thing you’ve been talking about really is.”
“Oh?” Hannibal breathed, right into those short hairs on the kid’s neck, and Face laughed, unburdened.
“Yeah. It’s...it’s when you feel something for somebody, and that feeling makes them a better person. Makes them feel like they could do anything. Gives them something they’ve never had before...”
Everything in Hannibal’s gut tightened. “I’m not a good man, Face.”
That body in his arms turned, blue eyes watching his in the moonlight streaming in through the open blinds. A hand touched his cheek, slid down through the stubble, and held on. “John, you’re the best man I know,” the kid murmured, fingers opening and closing. “The very, very best. You make me feel, feel like I could...like I could be worthy of you someday...I just want to be worthy of you.”
“You are, Face,” Hannibal whispered back, feeling his own words coming from the very center of his being, drawing the kid in for an embrace, rubbing strong circles on the fine muscle of his back. “You already are. More than worthy.”
“I’m not. But... I think I could be. Think I can prove it to you...”
“You’ve got nothing to prove. Nothing at all. I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you, Face...”
The kid shook his head. “Templeton, call me that. Want to hear you call me that. Need you to before, before we’re...”
Those words sent a rush of fire right through the older man. Face wanted to be given the name. Face wanted the name. Face wanted his name. “Shh, Templeton, my sweet Templeton, shh,” Hannibal said, pressing a finger to those lips, not really knowing what he was saying now. Not understanding what he was reading off the man in his arms. “Everything’s alright. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“You’re a good man, John,” Face replied, soft and low, the pad of an index finger pulling down Hannibal’s neck, through his chest hair, down. “I know you are, because I love you.” And Face pressed forward, pressed into him. “I want to make love to you, John. Please, please let me give you that. I want you to feel it, how I feel, you'll see, you'll see what you are...”
Hannibal looked up into those eyes, those earnest blue eyes, hopeful, eager, just a little bit scared, and he didn’t answer, didn’t say anything at all.
Just closed what space was left between.
And captured that mouth with his own.
That kiss, the first of the night, seemed to go on forever. Through everything else. Long and slow, exploring, the two of them falling in to each other, a hundred slow little movements, quick fast ones, the pace and flavor changing, one thing merging into the one before and on into the one after, senses flooding in the moonlight from the window.
He had to break it a few times, Hannibal did, for air, lips smoothing along his jaw, his neck, the shell of his ear, drawing new little sounds as he went, delicious and distinct. Once when Face pushed back, a little too hard, knocking the wind out of Hannibal, flattening him back against the mattress, a slight moment of pause as they stared at each other, trying to gauge, trying to see... and then Hannibal wrapped a hand up in those soft curls, letting him know that there was nothing wrong here, that there couldn’t be. When the kid nuzzled into his chest, right over Hannibal’s breastbone, licking up.
And when, the kid rock hard and leaking against his thigh, when those breathy little pants had turned to pleas, when Face’s hand was guiding his own back between those perfect cheeks, Hannibal had to pull away. Had to get something, had to... and he settled on a bottle of scented bath oil Face liked. Good enough in a pinch, his mind told him, already singing with anticipation, and came back into the room to find the covers thrown off the bed completely. Face on his side, head laid just so on an upturned hand, and the other reaching out for him.
Hannibal smiled back and dove in next to him, landing with a soft thud and wrapping their legs together, pulling the kid on top of him, Face’s mouth turning open, silent and quivering, as the motion brought their cocks slidin against one another. It was beautiful, he thought. “You’re beautiful, Templeton,” he murmured against all that gold. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Face tilted down for another kiss, one hand stroking Hannibal’s own dark hair, the other pressing in to his chest, something hard, metallic, cold in it. And what he said next almost stopped the Ranger’s heart. “Take me sir, please, everything...”
That hand opened. Hannibal felt it, the shape of it, the thing he’d been holding, and it was only by the barest of margins that he stopped the wave of fury building in him.
His damn pocketknife.
Face felt it, though, felt it like he felt all of Hannibal’s moods, and slid it up, still offering it, clearly not knowing what he had done wrong. Not sure. Not sure at all. And the flow they’d had going fell apart as Hannibal didn’t take it.
He knew what the kid was after. He knew the kid didn’t really want it himself.
He’d asked Reynolds about it, a few weeks after they’d gotten here, when they had asked him to come in for a few sessions, just in case. And he’d asked about that night, the symbolism of it, the knife. It was almost the same as the rape itself, the doctor had said. A visible mark, apparent scars, there to remind the slave that he was owned by somebody. There to remind the master that he owned, possessed, dominated, to the point of the slave’s life itself. Consensual, the doctor said, it could be quite erotic for some, but outside such a game, it would likely be a horror without some kind of heavy conditioning. And Face had been conditioned, probably his entire life with that woman, the doctor had said, that it would be the final mark of affection, of love, that it would be what marked him as wanted, as belonging...
And now the major seriously considered calling the whole thing off.
But, looking into those sweet, sad, confused eyes, he couldn’t do it.
They were so close, Face, his Face was so close to where he needed to be, and this last act of trust, this was what Face needed to have, needed to be shown, needed to know. He thought it was supposed to be like this. He didn’t want it. Just thought he had to offer it.
But he didn’t have to. Never would. “We don’t need this, Templeton, we don’t.”
“John, I, I thought...” he was stammering now, backing away, closing up, hiding, and fuck, Hannibal was not going to lose him now.
He just wasn’t.
"You're enough, sweetheart. Just you," Hannibal said, laying a hand over his heart. "You're everything..."
“But, but this is...” and the kid was looking at the knife in his hand, sitting up a bit, the distance heartbreaking. “I want to give you everything, John, want you to have me...”
“I know, I know, Face,” the older man soothed as best he could, catching him in the retreat, hands gentle around his waist, turning them both around, laying the kid next to him, tangling their legs, pulling him close. Face was always the most comfortable like this. Close. Nobody on top. Face to face. “I know what you’re thinking, that this will prove it.”
“Then...”
“II don’t want to hurt you, Temp,” the major said gently, moving slow now as he slid the closed knife from the kid’s hand, away from himself, dropping it as quietly as he could on the floor by the bed. “I’d never hurt you. I’d never cut you. You don’t have to bleed for me to see that you love me. I already see it, in your eyes, in your smile... I already know, sweetheart.”
“But...”
He silenced the younger man with a soft, fleeting kiss. “Remember what I told you? He wanted to cage you? I wanted to set you free?”
Those blue eyes were huge. One whispered, breathy word. “Yes.”
“The pain would hold you in. I don’t want to hurt you. Before you said, you want us to feel each other, you want me to feel you. I want the same thing, want to make you feel like you’ve never felt before, want you to feel how good it can be,” he rubbed a jutting hip and kissed the kid’s forehead again. “Let me love you, my darling Templeton. Let me set you free.”
Huge eyes got bigger. And one word, one little word, escaped into the night.
“...yes...”
It would be easier for the boy, Hannibal knew, doing this from behind.
But there was not way he could do that. Not the way the kid’s gaze was holding his own. The fear and the desire fighting there, and he wasn’t going to do anything, anything, to tip that delicate balance into the dark.
“On your back, sweetheart,” the major murmured instead, reaching over him for the bottle of makeshift lubricant, his own aching length brush over that firm stomach. He bit back his groan. Had to keep talking to the kid. Had to work him through this. “Lay back for me now.”
Face shifted, guided by one of Hannibal’s hands under his skull, and undulated up, bringing their groins together again, searching for a kiss, that rhythm they had been sharing, all those little bright connections that sparked alive with every touch, every pass of flesh over flesh, and there it was again, surging up around them. Face, his Face, his Templeton, clinging to him like he had that first time, the first time he’d begged for this, and somehow, the major thought, half-delirious, if that was the road that had brought them here...
A hand touched his cheek, bringing him back, and a hopeful smile met his. A thigh brushed up his. A moan matched his. Reminding him. Offering him.
“Please, John...”
“Always, Temp...”
It just flowed after that.
Effortless.
Without thought, thought fleeing entirely, nothing left to process with, just the sensations.
Softness of pillows, sliding around, the lift of hips, muscle working under unblemished skin, breathy laughter ringing, shining, in the stillness of the room.
Face’s cock in his hand, pulsing and warm and smooth, the pearl of fluid curling up around his thumbnail, pressing just so, the sound of the gasp it drew. The feel of negotiating that little bottle between them, the muffled click of the lid opening and the squeeze, oil draining out, massaging that spill down the kid’s fluttering abs, around his balls, playing for a moment, and the first grasp of muscle, so tight, so virgin-tight...
Fingernails digging into his back.
The murmured don’t stop, fuck, John, don’t stop, right against his mouth, sharing the same air. The way his boy smelled, that sun-drenched scent, mixing with the earthier tones of his arousal, sending him higher, holding him grounded against it all.
Long minutes, working, muscles starting to strain, to burn, soft movements so laden with need that it became as if underwater, slow and languid and heavy and necessary, so necessary...
Open lips across throbbing pulse, saving the whimper of fingers gone, of emptiness, of coldness, and then the groan, the first groan, the one that reverberated right out of that young body and filled the room, the whined and high don’t stop, fuck, John, don’t stop, and the scorching heat, the soul-searing heat around him, pulling him in, welcoming him in, giving out, figuring out with every push in, every pull out, every softly muttering kiss a contrast, everything harder, so much harder, as the pressure pools, demanding release.
Hands latch onto shoulders, pulling him close, pulling them together, slipping and twisting, that hard column of flesh in his hand so ready to give, but it was his climax, his own flare of pleasure, bright and blinding, rushing out of him and into his lover, that pushed the younger man over the edge, crying out.
That flood carried them together and even as it washed over him, pulling him away into the night, Hannibal could hear Face murmuring to him, fingers moving against him, all of him tucked in, voice soft and sweet.
“...I feel it, John, I feel it, I get it, it’s you, it’s always been you, I’ll show you, I’ll be worthy of this, I'm strong, you'll see, we’ll be together, we’ll be together again, equals like you wanted...”
Yeah, kid, together, he thought, too blissed out to move, too far out for words to be heard, so he could only nuzzle closer, smelling the sunshine in his arms. Tomorrow. And every day after.
His last conscious thought, and then Face was pulling the major’s arm closer around his own chest, holding on.
And then Hannibal was gone.
+++++
Face's side of the bed was empty, when Hannibal woke up the next morning.
He didn't think much of it, not at first. Just yawned and stretched and smiled up at the ceiling, smelling the lingering scent of his boy, clinging to his skin. Kid had probably gone back to his own bed or out for a run or something. It had to be a lot to process. Shit, it was a lot for him to process, his body still thrumming from what they’d unleashed last night, what they'd shared.
But as Hannibal got up and took a piss and found a pair of running shorts and went in to the kitchen to get himself a cup of coffee, to see what they could get themselves up to on this crisp Christmas morning, a hike or a cuddle or something equally nice, he realized things were missing.
Important things.
Important things like Face's toothbrush. Like the copy of The Count of Monte Cristo he'd just started. Like his calculator. Like his running shoes, his recurve bow, like his jacket and the pants that had been thrown on the couch the night before and the socks that had been scattered all over his own room and...
And him.
He tore back into the bedroom, refusing to believe it, but his own rucksack, the big olive drab thing he'd packed out of Korea with wasn't there. His own wallet, on the table, was open, a folded piece of paper holding the place of his absent debit card, sitting high in the little leather slot.
Sitting down heavily on the floor, Hannibal unfolded this, nearly ripping it in the process, and there it was. Neat lines of black ink. Face's steady hand.
My choice has always been, and will always be, you, John Smith.
I love you
Templeton Peck.
The last word was clearly signed for the first time, hesitant but excited somehow, the curves thrown up, the straights of the Ts pulled long.
Face was gone. Not just out, not coming back.
Gone.
The major was never sure, afterwards, just how long he sat there, clenching that note, numb, senseless, unable to wonder, unable to think at all, nothing penetrating, nothing at all, everything stopped inside of him.
Am I ready?
You're the only person who can know that...
...I feel it, John, I get it...I'll show you...I'll show you... I’ll be worthy of you...
Wasn’t this exactly what he wanted for the boy? For him to grow, to move on, to become? Wasn’t that the whole point? Wasn’t this proof, here, this note, this empty space, that he’d done right by his lover? That he’d given him... no, that they’d found it together, the way back? Wasn’t that why he’d asked Russ for the fake ID? So he wouldn’t have to own the kid?
So he wouldn’t have any excuse to try?
You have to let him go, John, he told himself, but it all rang hollow, despite the truth in it. No matter how much he wanted that truth to be otherwise. He was never yours to keep.
His debit card company called him, about a week later, after he’d gotten back to Benning and a cold hotel room, his old apartment long gone, none available to even look at until after the holiday, after he’d already turned down Russ’ invitation to the usual New Year’s Eve party and asked when the first Balkans op was scheduled, when he was trying to work his way through some old and comforting novel, when he kept seeing Face at night, tucked into him, fingers working...
“Mister Smith? We’ve seen a number of withdrawals in different locations on a...”
“That’s fine,” he said, voice hoarse, knuckles white. “It’s fine.”
"Do you want to know where, sir?"
"No. No. It's fine."
Three more transactions, after that. About a thousand dollars, all together. Nothing more after January 21st. And when they stopped, he tried to stop wondering.
Didn’t matter. Nothing he could do. Nothing he should do.
Face was free.
Like he wanted.
Like he'd chosen.
And that, Hannibal thought, was that.
Continue to Epilogue
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: violence, slavery, mentions of child abuse
Summary: Part Five 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??
Face is coming along, doing better, healing up, learning how to live again. But there’s still one or two things that Hannibal is determined to help the kid put into place. And when it comes to that final act of trust, a misunderstanding could sink the whole thing.
After the explosion that Saturday morning, things got better.
Kept getting better.
Face still crawled in to bed with him. Every night. After he thought Hannibal was asleep. And the major let that go on for about a week or so, until the soft grabby hands, the whispers of I love you, the contented little moans got the best of him, and he turned. Drew the kid in, back to chest, spooning around him.
“I knew it,” Face said smugly, his grin loud in the darkness, and arched back, feline and wonderful. “I knew you weren’t asleep.”
“I’m not going to fuck you, kid,” Hannibal replied through gritted teeth. No matter how much he wanted to.
“I know,” the kid replied, more serious that time, and wrapped a hand around the big one that was him. “But this is my choice, right?”
Hannibal had kissed the top of his head. “Yeah, kid. It’s always your choice, from now on.”
And that was that.
Sometimes he’d stay for a little while and go back to his own bed. Sometimes he’d start in his own bed and come in. But the best nights were when Face came in with the lights on, and woke with Hannibal, the two of them together, watching the sun come up through the filmy curtains over the mountains.
They’d go hiking, Hannibal taking the kid on longer and longer loops through the high desert, through the cottonwoods of the riverbeds, up into the junipers and mesquites and the dusty sage smells. Or sometimes they’d stick to the paved roads, Hannibal teaching him how to run, or to the gym, or the pool. Driving lessons. Shooting lessons, and although all the kid could have out here was an archery set, he was a dead shot; grouping his arrows at fifty yards after two weeks like it was nothing. Hannibal was genuinely impressed. Face said he liked the focus.
And Face seemed to love the physical exertion, his body starting to respond, that skinny frame of thin muscle beginning to fill out, a bit more of a tan on his pale skin. More and more beautiful, Hannibal thought to himself, although he never said that. Didn’t dare.
The therapy picked up. Face, the doctors said, had stopped fighting them, really started opening up, discussing, processing. They loved that word, the processing, but Doc Reynolds still thanked Hannibal.
“It’s because of you, you know. We can talk to him until Judgment Day, but you’re the one making him believe he can be a better man,” the doctor told him around week ten. “Real progress.”
The week after, Reynolds gave Face a free day. To leave the facility, if he wanted, and Hannibal was grateful the director had given him a heads-up, because the kid barreled back in from his session absolutely buzzing.
“Where do you want to go, kid?” the major asked, expecting something along the lines of a movie or McDonalds or something like that.
The response he got instead was surprising.
“There a cathedral in town?”
“Catholic?”
“Yeah,” and Face had sobered a bit. “I was in a Catholic orphanage for a while.”
Hannibal asked around. Asked the doctor, who said he thought it was a good idea. Asked the receptionist, who gave him the address of the local diocese cathedral, and even included the name of a really good Mexican food place and her kid’s favorite bookstore.
The kid plastered himself against the glass of the passenger side window as they left the winding mountains and headed back down into the valley. They’d driven this road on the way up from DM, but it had been at night, and Face had been asleep through most of it anyway. Now he was wide awake, watching everything, and although it probably would have been quicker to take the freeway, Hannibal stuck to the surface roads, the straight grid that ran through the city of low adobe and shining glass.
“It’s so small,” Face said, in wonder, palm pressed next to his nose.
And Hannibal’s stomach did that familiar thing, wondering if the kid had ever been out of Seoul. Or Los Angeles, as little orphaned Richard Bancroft, before that. If he knew anything else.
They just missed morning mass, but Face wanted to hang around. Lit a candle, got on the kneeler, got up when the priest came back out and disappeared into one of the confessionals. And Hannibal sat in the back pew, wondering at change in the boy, how brave he was being, what he could possibly want here. Sometimes the major felt like he’d been to too many places, seen too many ugly things, been too many of those things himself, to ever really be comfortable in a place like this again.
But when Face came back out, the priest gave him a hug, and he stuffed a hand in the back pocket of his jeans, smiling on his way over to Hannibal. “We can go now,” he said.
“Find what you were looking for?”
The kid looked at him, something deep in those eyes. Smiled.
They hit the bookstore, on the way back, the kid running his hand along the spines of the paperbacks, and when Hannibal told him he could get anything he wanted, he damn near started crying.
Trips became more frequent after that. Sometimes with Hannibal, sometimes with the doctors. And once, terrifyingly, Hannibal had to take the kid to the mall and leave him. For an hour. When they met back up at the appointed time, it was all the major could do from kissing the kid senseless, right in the middle of the food court.
“So proud of you,” he whispered that night, the kid asleep in his own bed, sitting on the edge, just... just being there. The rules were all gone. Every single one of them. But Face still had to work to get himself into bed by himself. “So proud of you, you brave, beautiful man...”
And time just... slipped away. For both of them. Just like that. No fucking, no whoring, no killing, no dying. Tangled up in each other. Figuring it out together. Being... something else.
Until right before Christmas, when Face was helping the staff hang lights in the main buildings and laughing at the luminarios and chili wreaths as they were being unpacked, whistling along to some song on the radio, perfectly comfortable at the top of a ten foot ladder, head amongst the rafters.
Happy.
His brave, beautiful, happy boy.
“Hannibal,” the major heard behind him, and that froze his blood.
Nobody had called him that in nearly five months. Not around here. And certainly not Face. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed being John. Enjoyed remembering who John was. Had relished it. Even if he wasn’t really John any longer. Even if he was starting to miss Hannibal, Hannibal’s life, Hannibal’s command, Hannibal’s missions...
Not that it really mattered, he told himself. He’d come here for Face. Not himself. No matter how much he’d gotten out of it. It was only ever about Face, and Face was doing good. Really good. The doctors were starting to talk about discharge, actually, and Hannibal was beginning to think about what came next. If Face would come with him to Benning, maybe apply to Georgia Tech, depending on the results of those GRE exams he’d yet to take. He could live in the dorms, they could see each other on the weekends. Figure a real relationship out of this whole mess. Give the kid all the things he wanted to give him, see the kid achieve all the potential he possessed, surpass himself, grow, heal, learn, and grow some more.
But...
Would Face stay?
Would he want to?
Would he?
But that voice was still talking.
“Hannibal, long time no see.”
He realized he knew who that voice belonged to.
And suddenly the Ranger became very, very afraid.
“Colonel.”
“Hannibal.”
"You came?"
"Yeah."
“Fuck, boss, why...”
“Wanted to deliver this stuff myself.”
Hannibal felt faint as he turned, everything good falling right out of him at the sight of the man in front of him. Man? Hell. Former lover. Brother Ranger. Current commander. Holding a big, thick manila envelop.
“I thought you said...”
“I know. But the shit’s heating up in Kosovo. You know we’re going to get called up sooner or later. You know that’s going to mean you.”
The major groaned and collapsed back into one of the room’s sofas, oblivious to everything else around him, scrubbing a nerveless hand over his face. He wanted a cigar. Right the fuck now. “Russ, there’s, I’m not, I can’t leave right now.”
“Hannibal, you’ve been out of the game since September. Don’t you think it’s time to get back in the field?”
Russ was just like Hannibal remembered him. Tall, dark hair just beginning to gray, fit, despite the damn desk job he had now. Still handsome. Still wearing that damn wedding ring.
Still missed.
Still loved.
But all that was over.
“I want to, and I will,” he said softly, staring at that envelop, knowing what was in it, wondering what the hell it was going to mean for Face. For himself. “The docs are thinking Face is close, maybe another month, and I’ll be able to take him...”
Morrison plunked himself down on the sofa opposite Hannibal, tossing the envelop on the table between them. He leaned forward, elbows to knees, serious. “You don’t owe this kid anything, Hannibal. No matter what happened in Korea.”
“I know that...”
“Five fucking months, Hannibal. I can’t afford to have my best officer out of commission that fucking long.”
“Russ, I fucking know that!”
Morrison did not look happy.
Hannibal braced himself.
And when it hit, it hit hard.
“Do you? Because I think your little vacation’s blunting your edge. I think you’re getting soft on me. I think you’re out here with that butt boy of yours, living it up on the goddamn military’s nickle and forgetting about your duty, goddammit! You’re an officer in the United States Army Rangers, Hannibal! We don’t get peace and quiet! We don’t want it! What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
It wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t even loud. But it still shook Hannibal to his core. And not because it was Russ saying it. Because it was Colonel Morrison. And Colonel Morrison was right.
And yet...
“You remember what it was like?” he asked, quiet, settling forward himself. “Back then, back when we... when you were a captain...”
“...you were that wet behind the ears el-tee?”
“Yeah. You remember how that felt? You remember how that was? Remember how we were?”
He nodded. Wistful. “But those days are long gone, John.”
“And Face is not my butt boy. He deserves better than that, and you fucking know it.”
The colonel sighed. “That was low of me. Sorry.”
“When do you need me back?”
“We’re looking at January deployments. And I’ve got no idea if you’re ready to throw back in the field.” Morrison looked away. “I can give you through the holidays.”
“Thanks, sir,” Hannibal said, relieved. “He’s close. He is. You’d be proud of him, far as he’s come.”
“You obviously are.”
“Yeah. I am.”
“That’s one of the things I could never fault you on, Hannibal,” Morrison said, and rose, the major following suit right behind. He held out his hand, but the older officer drew him in for a tight embraced, clapped him on the back. “One of those things I always admired aboutyou, Hannibal. That loyalty of yours. Served me well over the years, it really has. I’d never doubt that.”
“You earned it, Russ.”
“No I didn’t. But I’m always grateful for it.” And he pulled away, laughing a little, eyes were serious. “Expect to see you end of January, major.”
“With bells on, colonel,” Hannibal replied.
It wasn’t until after Morrison left, after he picked up the envelop, after he collapsed back into the sofa and rolled his eyes upwards that Hannibal remembered that Face was on the ladder.
Watching.
Listening.
To everything.
“Come on down, kid,” he said to that quizzical face staring down at him. He brandished the envelop. “Looks like Christmas came early this year.”
+++++
Face was oddly quiet on the way back to their place, following Hannibal at a length, and the little winding path down from the main building had never seemed so long.
The place was mostly empty, a skeleton staff and most patients released to their families until after the winter holidays were over. It was getting cold at night now, below freezing, ice on the cactus in the dim mornings, the icy blue sky frosted with fleeting clouds. It felt empty, somehow. Or maybe that was Russ, not the weather, or the fact that the kid wasn't there. Right next to him. Warming him through.
But he'd learned patience over the last four or five months, lots of it, something the kid still needed. So the major got the door open and held it for Face, leaning against the jamb, watching his boy catch up the distance. He'd grown an inch or two since arriving here, all that natural grace enhanced by the runs he was taking now, every morning, five or six miles at a stretch, tan, highlights bleached almost white into his hair from the sun.
Beautiful.
Perfect.
Hannibal couldn't help the little sigh that escaped him as Face neared. And he caught the kid up then, tugging him over the mat and pushing him up against the nearest wall, heedless of whether or not the damn door was closed as he kissed him, putting every bit of his feeling for the boy into it, needing to forget, needing to remember. And Face, like he could sense that, held tight to him, opening, letting him in, sweet, taking him away...
But the second they broke apart, the major knew he wasn't going to be able to escape this one. Not wig those eyes were questioning, like before, on the ladder, and Face pulled the older man's hand away from his cheek, a tight little jerk. "Hannibal?" he asked softly.
A breeze, cool, murmuring of the frost that would probably hit tonight, passed over them and Hannibal kicked the door shut, holding on to Face with one hand and the envelop with the other. "It's...it's my Ranger name. My call sign, I guess you could say. A military thing."
"It's your name."
He sounded hurt, Hannibal thought. Very, very hurt. Betrayed. And that was one thing he’d never let his boy feel again. "I wasn't trying to lock you out of anything, Face. But this, you, we're..."
"You didn't want me to know?"
Pain. Uncertainty. A constant fear of being left out, of not belonging. That, right there, was what Doc Reynolds wanted to address before Face left. Technically, he couldn't hold the boy, couldn't stop him from leaving, and Hannibal swallowed, wondering if he would have to go before Face made that final breakthrough. If Face would leave with him, if Face would leave on his own...but that's what that envelope, its contents, still clenched in his own sweating hand, was for.
He kissed Face again. "Everyone I know knows me as Hannibal first. Not John Smith. Nobody calls me John. Nobody except you..."
"And that guy, Morrison, right?"
Hannibal nodded, putting a little bit of a separation between them now. Face needed space sometimes, to think these things out, needed the contact to stop so he could work through whatever he was working on. He'd been trained to respond to touch, after all, and he craved it so. Opened up for it, begged for it...
"He called you John, though."
"It's kind of a special thing for me now, kid, my real name. I wanted you to have that, wanted us to have that together, that part of myself," he replied with a nod and a smile, and started leading Face over to the sofa, gentling the kid down, laying the packet carefully down on the other side of himself, out of the younger man's reach.
It had gotten easier over the past few months, explaining things, putting voice to ideas and concepts and feelings that he otherwise never would have. Face needed it. Not that he couldn't figure this stuff out, no, he had an uncanny ability to read people and especially Hannibal, but he still needed it explained. Needed the reassurance that he was getting it right, and the major, to his surprise, had found he enjoyed doing that for him. Giving the kid that. "I wanted you to have that part of myself."
Face nodded, digesting, and bit his lip. "You love him."
"I did," Hannibal said slowly. "Once. A long time ago."
"You still love him," and the kid ran a hand over his mouth, like he did when he was thinking about something really hard. "But, like, in that other way you talk about. You two don't fuck any more...but you still love him."
"He's my boss," Hannibal said, fingers creeping over to the glued edges of the manila, wondering if now was really the right time for this. "He's my commander. I do the best fucking job with anything he throws at me, do things for him that nobody else can, and I've stuck with him. Through everything. He's the one who's let me stay so long with you, actually..."
"You're loyal. You give him that. Cause you love him."
That, that pure, innocent little insight, echoed through the older man, and he wasn't sure where Face was going with this. It made him nervous, it really did, but at this point they'd seen each other at their respective worsts. There was nothing left to hide. And trying to do so could cost him everything. So he answered, honest. "Yeah."
"Do you ever wish he'd take you back?" It wasn't jealous. Just curious. Hannibal had already figured out that the boy didn't seem to have a concept of monogamy. It didn't exist in the world he'd come from. And some things, Doc Reynolds had acknowledged, might never really go away.
"Used to. Sometimes," the Ranger admitted, still feeling exposed, those keen, sharp eyes trained on him, looking for answers. "But what we've got now...it's stable."
"And it's all he can take?"
"All he can accept, kid. All he can accept."
Face threw himself back, bouncing a bit off the cushions, and stared up for a while. Then he grinned and ran a hand through his hair, rubbing his neck, biting that delicious lower lip of his.
Unconsciously sensual.
Hannibal wasn't sure if it was some innate quality in the boy, something that belonged to him and him alone, shining all the brighter now that the layers of rot had been stripped away. Or if it was just the way he saw Face, how he looked through the filter of his own feelings for the kid, making his the most beautiful thing he'd ever...
"So," Face asked, cutting off that chain of thought with a light punch and a grab, "what's in the package?"
"Something for you," Hannibal murmured. "Your Christmas present."
The kid looked, looked like...no, the major couldn't place it. Couldn't place that look. "You gonna make me wait, John?" he asked, and Hannibal realized what it was. Realized Face had probably never had a real Christmas in his life. Never had anyone there. Never decorated a tree before, opened present from Santa in his pajamas, never sat at the table with his family while the ham was brought out, never had anything real like the holidays, nothing solid and shared and good...and he groaned, pulling the kid up into his lap, hugging him close.
"It's only two days, kid. Can you hold out on me that long?"
Face whined a little, low, and laid his cheek on Hannibal's shoulder, hands twitching like they did at night. "You said he let you stay. Is he going to make you leave?"
"Here, yeah," Hannibal said, and wrapped a hand around the kid's back. "You, never."
+++++
But after they went to bed that night, one of those nights that was both wonderful and torturous, Face hopping in with him, cuddling up, naked, eager, always eager on nights like this, one of those nights where he wanted to touch, kiss, stretch, give, come, but couldn't, wouldn't, laid there and willed the hard-on away as the kid snored softly next to him, after all that came, Hannibal slipped out and padded away on silent feet. Grabbing up the thick and bulging envelop. Heading into the little kitchenette.
The staff, as a rule, didn't keep knives in the rooms, but Hannibal still had a pocket knife, felt exposed without one after so many years of sleeping in hard, rough places. He'd stashed this away during one of Face's bad spells that first month, and he went for it now. Back of a drawer, well hidden. He had to use the sink light to find it, and the little three inch blade flicked open in his hand. Easy. So easy.
Because it fucking belonged there.
His first kill had been with a blade, straight cut to the neck, blood fountaining like he'd thought it only did in the movies. The dirty floor of an Afghani hut. The desert, the mountains, similar and different. He wasn't sure which was better. Which had made him like this place.
Russ had been right, he knew. Russ was almost always right. Maybe not about them, not about what they couldn't have together, what they shouldn't try to to save. But he was right about the military. About the need for the conflict. For the suck. For the kill... and not to kill, in and of itself, the way some people needed to die, so others could be safe, and having a willingness to do that job.
No matter what the cost.
Hannibal paused for a moment, running the pad of his thumb across the serrated lower half, feeling the knobs against the minute ridges of flesh, across the subtle white scar even Face hadn't noticed, remembering that night. That woman, gun in hand, screaming, frantic, cutting him open with her words.
Who will love him now?
Even though smoking wasn't allowed in the rooms, Hannibal retrieved a cigar from the same drawer, a matchbook, and waited until the first inhale of warm, sweet smoke to pull that killing edge across the seal.
"Opening it for me?"
Hannibal jumped, bad, biting his cigar nearly in half, slicing the back of his index finger and dropping the knife in the process. Face picked this up, quick, laying it down on the counter next to the major, and took his hand. "Doesn't look bad," he said softly, and drew that finger into his mouth.
Putting the cigar out in a half-empty cup of coffee, the older man let the younger suck lightly, once. The sink light threw Face into harsh silhouette, backlighting that golden hair, easing around the bare lines of his body. The kid was getting stronger, filling out, hints of the man he'd become. He wanted to be there to see it. He really, really did.
But for now, Hannibal just pulled a deep lungful of air and took his hand back.
"I've been cut worse," he murmured, running fingers up into that fine hair, feeling it as if for the first time, like this was somehow the first time they'd ever touched each other, like that forced blowjob in the back office of that Seoul nightclub had never happened. He didn't really understand that feeling. Maybe because of what he knew to be in the envelop. Maybe for what he was hoping for out of this. That they really could start over. That things could be new. Uncluttered. Not haunted. "Do you want to know what's in here?"
"Can I?"
Hannibal glanced at the microwave clock. 2330. "It's close enough to Christmas Eve," he decided with a slight smile, and handed over the packet.
Face disassembled it quickly. Three smaller envelops, document-sized, marked Orders, Los Angeles CPA and Requested Docs. Hannibal slid the first, and thinnest, away. That was for him. And it could wait.
"Which one should I open first?" the kid asked eagerly.
Hannibal leaned over his shoulder, hugging close, trying to ignore the way his cock, half hard even now, slid up between Face's cheeks, trying to ignore the shudder that went through his boy. "This one," he said, tapping the CPA packet, "and then the other."
He backed off then, getting another cigar, contemplative, guarded, as Face started pulling papers. Birth certificates, death certificates, social security cards, school records, drivers' licenses, everything. Inked originals, no photocopies here, just the real thing. The first, then the second. Some authentic. Some altered. Some forged.
Valid. All of it.
All laid out, Face turned to Hannibal, mouth moving a few times without speaking. "W-what, what is this?"
"These," Hannibal said, touching the first pile, "is everything we could find on Richard Brighton..."
The kid stiffened. "Who..."
"...and this, this is everything we could create for Templeton Peck."
He turned, clearly confused. "Who are these guys?"
"You. If you want. We, they... your records, kid, from the foster home, the Child Protective Services..."
Face started backing away from the counter, something haunted in his eyes again, old grief, older than the Xanadu, from before. "I don't, John, I can't..."
"That's what the second set's for, kid. Something new. Somebody new. Templeton Peck doesn't have your history, not the bad parts, not the..." and Hannibal had to stop for a moment, mouth dry. "He can be anything you want him to be. Anyone you want to be."
The kid stopped his retreat, slowly creeping forward. "Your, your Morrison helped you with this?"
"You can't live out there without a name, kid, without a history, without some proof of your existence. And I'm not leaving here until I know you'll be okay."
"Ready?" Face echoed, picking up the driver's licenses. The photos were identical. Brighton's from California. Peck's from Georgia. He looked completely lost. "Am I ready?"
"You're the only person who can know that, Face."
And, with that, he settled back to wait.
The silence in the little space was almost unbearable. Dragging out. Whole minutes passing. Face frozen. Hannibal almost all the way through his cigar, the smoke the only thing moving at all.
Jerky fingers put both the IDs down on the counter, started drumming. It was almost midnight. "Templeton?"
"Kids in Georgia have unusual names sometimes," Hannibal said, remembering how hard it was to find a birth certificate for a live birth of a baby the right age, the right race, right eye color, right personal details, early death...these things weren't easy, not if you wanted them done right, and he never wanted Face to have a single issue with this. And this name had jumped at him. "I thought this was unique, special. Beautiful. Like you..."
"Beautiful?"
Hannibal realized he'd never said it. Never wanted the kid to think he was only interested in his body, in his face. "In every way, Face. In every possible way."
Tight, tense shoulders shuddered a bit, and pushed that ID away. Nimble fingers gathered up everything that belonged to Richard Brighton, sequestered it all back into its envelop. Handed it to Hannibal.
"Is this everything? No copies anywhere?"
"Everything that proves Richard Brighton existed," Hannibal confirmed, taking the packet.
"The nuns called me Richie," Face said quietly, slumping back against the counter. "Except for the one who used to say...anyway, Face is what stuck. Not Richie." He looked at the envelop, pressed it back against Hannibal's bare chest. The paper was cold. Not a hint of warmth at all. "D'you think they'd mind, if we used the fire pit?"
"Why?"
"I wouldn't know how to be Richard any more..." he said faintly. "I don't think he exists. I don't really want him to."
Hannibal nodded. "I don't think anybody's going to care."
"Awesome."
But there wasn't a hint of a smile anywhere.
+++++
They burned it.
Got dressed and grabbed matches and a few pieces of always flammable brush, sweet mesquite twigs, and took the little trail out to the edge of the property. The moon was full, the desert cast in a silver glow, the sky close, and Face was the one who struck the light and dropped it in, lips moving in some quiet prayer Hannibal couldn't, and never did, decipher. Flames licked higher, glowing, consuming the past, not quite washing it away but close enough. Close enough for a fresh start. Something new. Something good.
Hannibal desperately, desperately wanted this to be good.
When the fire finally died down, the younger man stirred the ashes with a stick, making sure it was all gone. He stood, stretched, and Hannibal thought he might be seeing the boy he saw in sleep. Unfettered. Hopeful. At peace.
Face smiled in the silvery darkness.
"It's nice to meet you, Hannibal."
"Good to meet you too, Templeton."
And, hands locking together, they walked back home.
+++++
Afterwards, thinking back on it, Hannibal wasn’t really sure where it started.
Face’s hand was warm in his, grasping, their arms bumping on the path. Maybe it was there.
They’d tumbled into the villa together, not laughing, not talking, not kissing, but certainly touching, touching everywhere, hands free on each other, heading back for the bedroom, Face stripping his own clothes, fingering Hannibal’s, the last of the ash wiped clean on soft fabric. Maybe that’s when it began.
Or it could have been when Hannibal held up the blankets and Face dove in, rubbing himself like a cat into that warm still space, holding out a hand, silent, saying everything.
But Hannibal was pretty sure it was actually after they both got snuggled in, fitting in to one another, Face’s shorted frame slotting in perfectly to his own, after Face arched back against him and he placed a kiss on the curve of neck presented to him and the kid finally spoke, that it really began.
When everything changed.
“I think I’ve got it figured out, John,” he said, head back on Hannibal’s crooked elbow. “What that whole love thing you’ve been talking about really is.”
“Oh?” Hannibal breathed, right into those short hairs on the kid’s neck, and Face laughed, unburdened.
“Yeah. It’s...it’s when you feel something for somebody, and that feeling makes them a better person. Makes them feel like they could do anything. Gives them something they’ve never had before...”
Everything in Hannibal’s gut tightened. “I’m not a good man, Face.”
That body in his arms turned, blue eyes watching his in the moonlight streaming in through the open blinds. A hand touched his cheek, slid down through the stubble, and held on. “John, you’re the best man I know,” the kid murmured, fingers opening and closing. “The very, very best. You make me feel, feel like I could...like I could be worthy of you someday...I just want to be worthy of you.”
“You are, Face,” Hannibal whispered back, feeling his own words coming from the very center of his being, drawing the kid in for an embrace, rubbing strong circles on the fine muscle of his back. “You already are. More than worthy.”
“I’m not. But... I think I could be. Think I can prove it to you...”
“You’ve got nothing to prove. Nothing at all. I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you, Face...”
The kid shook his head. “Templeton, call me that. Want to hear you call me that. Need you to before, before we’re...”
Those words sent a rush of fire right through the older man. Face wanted to be given the name. Face wanted the name. Face wanted his name. “Shh, Templeton, my sweet Templeton, shh,” Hannibal said, pressing a finger to those lips, not really knowing what he was saying now. Not understanding what he was reading off the man in his arms. “Everything’s alright. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“You’re a good man, John,” Face replied, soft and low, the pad of an index finger pulling down Hannibal’s neck, through his chest hair, down. “I know you are, because I love you.” And Face pressed forward, pressed into him. “I want to make love to you, John. Please, please let me give you that. I want you to feel it, how I feel, you'll see, you'll see what you are...”
Hannibal looked up into those eyes, those earnest blue eyes, hopeful, eager, just a little bit scared, and he didn’t answer, didn’t say anything at all.
Just closed what space was left between.
And captured that mouth with his own.
That kiss, the first of the night, seemed to go on forever. Through everything else. Long and slow, exploring, the two of them falling in to each other, a hundred slow little movements, quick fast ones, the pace and flavor changing, one thing merging into the one before and on into the one after, senses flooding in the moonlight from the window.
He had to break it a few times, Hannibal did, for air, lips smoothing along his jaw, his neck, the shell of his ear, drawing new little sounds as he went, delicious and distinct. Once when Face pushed back, a little too hard, knocking the wind out of Hannibal, flattening him back against the mattress, a slight moment of pause as they stared at each other, trying to gauge, trying to see... and then Hannibal wrapped a hand up in those soft curls, letting him know that there was nothing wrong here, that there couldn’t be. When the kid nuzzled into his chest, right over Hannibal’s breastbone, licking up.
And when, the kid rock hard and leaking against his thigh, when those breathy little pants had turned to pleas, when Face’s hand was guiding his own back between those perfect cheeks, Hannibal had to pull away. Had to get something, had to... and he settled on a bottle of scented bath oil Face liked. Good enough in a pinch, his mind told him, already singing with anticipation, and came back into the room to find the covers thrown off the bed completely. Face on his side, head laid just so on an upturned hand, and the other reaching out for him.
Hannibal smiled back and dove in next to him, landing with a soft thud and wrapping their legs together, pulling the kid on top of him, Face’s mouth turning open, silent and quivering, as the motion brought their cocks slidin against one another. It was beautiful, he thought. “You’re beautiful, Templeton,” he murmured against all that gold. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Face tilted down for another kiss, one hand stroking Hannibal’s own dark hair, the other pressing in to his chest, something hard, metallic, cold in it. And what he said next almost stopped the Ranger’s heart. “Take me sir, please, everything...”
That hand opened. Hannibal felt it, the shape of it, the thing he’d been holding, and it was only by the barest of margins that he stopped the wave of fury building in him.
His damn pocketknife.
Face felt it, though, felt it like he felt all of Hannibal’s moods, and slid it up, still offering it, clearly not knowing what he had done wrong. Not sure. Not sure at all. And the flow they’d had going fell apart as Hannibal didn’t take it.
He knew what the kid was after. He knew the kid didn’t really want it himself.
He’d asked Reynolds about it, a few weeks after they’d gotten here, when they had asked him to come in for a few sessions, just in case. And he’d asked about that night, the symbolism of it, the knife. It was almost the same as the rape itself, the doctor had said. A visible mark, apparent scars, there to remind the slave that he was owned by somebody. There to remind the master that he owned, possessed, dominated, to the point of the slave’s life itself. Consensual, the doctor said, it could be quite erotic for some, but outside such a game, it would likely be a horror without some kind of heavy conditioning. And Face had been conditioned, probably his entire life with that woman, the doctor had said, that it would be the final mark of affection, of love, that it would be what marked him as wanted, as belonging...
And now the major seriously considered calling the whole thing off.
But, looking into those sweet, sad, confused eyes, he couldn’t do it.
They were so close, Face, his Face was so close to where he needed to be, and this last act of trust, this was what Face needed to have, needed to be shown, needed to know. He thought it was supposed to be like this. He didn’t want it. Just thought he had to offer it.
But he didn’t have to. Never would. “We don’t need this, Templeton, we don’t.”
“John, I, I thought...” he was stammering now, backing away, closing up, hiding, and fuck, Hannibal was not going to lose him now.
He just wasn’t.
"You're enough, sweetheart. Just you," Hannibal said, laying a hand over his heart. "You're everything..."
“But, but this is...” and the kid was looking at the knife in his hand, sitting up a bit, the distance heartbreaking. “I want to give you everything, John, want you to have me...”
“I know, I know, Face,” the older man soothed as best he could, catching him in the retreat, hands gentle around his waist, turning them both around, laying the kid next to him, tangling their legs, pulling him close. Face was always the most comfortable like this. Close. Nobody on top. Face to face. “I know what you’re thinking, that this will prove it.”
“Then...”
“II don’t want to hurt you, Temp,” the major said gently, moving slow now as he slid the closed knife from the kid’s hand, away from himself, dropping it as quietly as he could on the floor by the bed. “I’d never hurt you. I’d never cut you. You don’t have to bleed for me to see that you love me. I already see it, in your eyes, in your smile... I already know, sweetheart.”
“But...”
He silenced the younger man with a soft, fleeting kiss. “Remember what I told you? He wanted to cage you? I wanted to set you free?”
Those blue eyes were huge. One whispered, breathy word. “Yes.”
“The pain would hold you in. I don’t want to hurt you. Before you said, you want us to feel each other, you want me to feel you. I want the same thing, want to make you feel like you’ve never felt before, want you to feel how good it can be,” he rubbed a jutting hip and kissed the kid’s forehead again. “Let me love you, my darling Templeton. Let me set you free.”
Huge eyes got bigger. And one word, one little word, escaped into the night.
“...yes...”
It would be easier for the boy, Hannibal knew, doing this from behind.
But there was not way he could do that. Not the way the kid’s gaze was holding his own. The fear and the desire fighting there, and he wasn’t going to do anything, anything, to tip that delicate balance into the dark.
“On your back, sweetheart,” the major murmured instead, reaching over him for the bottle of makeshift lubricant, his own aching length brush over that firm stomach. He bit back his groan. Had to keep talking to the kid. Had to work him through this. “Lay back for me now.”
Face shifted, guided by one of Hannibal’s hands under his skull, and undulated up, bringing their groins together again, searching for a kiss, that rhythm they had been sharing, all those little bright connections that sparked alive with every touch, every pass of flesh over flesh, and there it was again, surging up around them. Face, his Face, his Templeton, clinging to him like he had that first time, the first time he’d begged for this, and somehow, the major thought, half-delirious, if that was the road that had brought them here...
A hand touched his cheek, bringing him back, and a hopeful smile met his. A thigh brushed up his. A moan matched his. Reminding him. Offering him.
“Please, John...”
“Always, Temp...”
It just flowed after that.
Effortless.
Without thought, thought fleeing entirely, nothing left to process with, just the sensations.
Softness of pillows, sliding around, the lift of hips, muscle working under unblemished skin, breathy laughter ringing, shining, in the stillness of the room.
Face’s cock in his hand, pulsing and warm and smooth, the pearl of fluid curling up around his thumbnail, pressing just so, the sound of the gasp it drew. The feel of negotiating that little bottle between them, the muffled click of the lid opening and the squeeze, oil draining out, massaging that spill down the kid’s fluttering abs, around his balls, playing for a moment, and the first grasp of muscle, so tight, so virgin-tight...
Fingernails digging into his back.
The murmured don’t stop, fuck, John, don’t stop, right against his mouth, sharing the same air. The way his boy smelled, that sun-drenched scent, mixing with the earthier tones of his arousal, sending him higher, holding him grounded against it all.
Long minutes, working, muscles starting to strain, to burn, soft movements so laden with need that it became as if underwater, slow and languid and heavy and necessary, so necessary...
Open lips across throbbing pulse, saving the whimper of fingers gone, of emptiness, of coldness, and then the groan, the first groan, the one that reverberated right out of that young body and filled the room, the whined and high don’t stop, fuck, John, don’t stop, and the scorching heat, the soul-searing heat around him, pulling him in, welcoming him in, giving out, figuring out with every push in, every pull out, every softly muttering kiss a contrast, everything harder, so much harder, as the pressure pools, demanding release.
Hands latch onto shoulders, pulling him close, pulling them together, slipping and twisting, that hard column of flesh in his hand so ready to give, but it was his climax, his own flare of pleasure, bright and blinding, rushing out of him and into his lover, that pushed the younger man over the edge, crying out.
That flood carried them together and even as it washed over him, pulling him away into the night, Hannibal could hear Face murmuring to him, fingers moving against him, all of him tucked in, voice soft and sweet.
“...I feel it, John, I feel it, I get it, it’s you, it’s always been you, I’ll show you, I’ll be worthy of this, I'm strong, you'll see, we’ll be together, we’ll be together again, equals like you wanted...”
Yeah, kid, together, he thought, too blissed out to move, too far out for words to be heard, so he could only nuzzle closer, smelling the sunshine in his arms. Tomorrow. And every day after.
His last conscious thought, and then Face was pulling the major’s arm closer around his own chest, holding on.
And then Hannibal was gone.
+++++
Face's side of the bed was empty, when Hannibal woke up the next morning.
He didn't think much of it, not at first. Just yawned and stretched and smiled up at the ceiling, smelling the lingering scent of his boy, clinging to his skin. Kid had probably gone back to his own bed or out for a run or something. It had to be a lot to process. Shit, it was a lot for him to process, his body still thrumming from what they’d unleashed last night, what they'd shared.
But as Hannibal got up and took a piss and found a pair of running shorts and went in to the kitchen to get himself a cup of coffee, to see what they could get themselves up to on this crisp Christmas morning, a hike or a cuddle or something equally nice, he realized things were missing.
Important things.
Important things like Face's toothbrush. Like the copy of The Count of Monte Cristo he'd just started. Like his calculator. Like his running shoes, his recurve bow, like his jacket and the pants that had been thrown on the couch the night before and the socks that had been scattered all over his own room and...
And him.
He tore back into the bedroom, refusing to believe it, but his own rucksack, the big olive drab thing he'd packed out of Korea with wasn't there. His own wallet, on the table, was open, a folded piece of paper holding the place of his absent debit card, sitting high in the little leather slot.
Sitting down heavily on the floor, Hannibal unfolded this, nearly ripping it in the process, and there it was. Neat lines of black ink. Face's steady hand.
My choice has always been, and will always be, you, John Smith.
I love you
Templeton Peck.
The last word was clearly signed for the first time, hesitant but excited somehow, the curves thrown up, the straights of the Ts pulled long.
Face was gone. Not just out, not coming back.
Gone.
The major was never sure, afterwards, just how long he sat there, clenching that note, numb, senseless, unable to wonder, unable to think at all, nothing penetrating, nothing at all, everything stopped inside of him.
Am I ready?
You're the only person who can know that...
...I feel it, John, I get it...I'll show you...I'll show you... I’ll be worthy of you...
Wasn’t this exactly what he wanted for the boy? For him to grow, to move on, to become? Wasn’t that the whole point? Wasn’t this proof, here, this note, this empty space, that he’d done right by his lover? That he’d given him... no, that they’d found it together, the way back? Wasn’t that why he’d asked Russ for the fake ID? So he wouldn’t have to own the kid?
So he wouldn’t have any excuse to try?
You have to let him go, John, he told himself, but it all rang hollow, despite the truth in it. No matter how much he wanted that truth to be otherwise. He was never yours to keep.
His debit card company called him, about a week later, after he’d gotten back to Benning and a cold hotel room, his old apartment long gone, none available to even look at until after the holiday, after he’d already turned down Russ’ invitation to the usual New Year’s Eve party and asked when the first Balkans op was scheduled, when he was trying to work his way through some old and comforting novel, when he kept seeing Face at night, tucked into him, fingers working...
“Mister Smith? We’ve seen a number of withdrawals in different locations on a...”
“That’s fine,” he said, voice hoarse, knuckles white. “It’s fine.”
"Do you want to know where, sir?"
"No. No. It's fine."
Three more transactions, after that. About a thousand dollars, all together. Nothing more after January 21st. And when they stopped, he tried to stop wondering.
Didn’t matter. Nothing he could do. Nothing he should do.
Face was free.
Like he wanted.
Like he'd chosen.
And that, Hannibal thought, was that.
Continue to Epilogue
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Date: 2011-04-10 06:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-10 07:01 pm (UTC)