sonora_coneja (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sonora_coneja) wrote2011-05-14 09:33 am
sonora_coneja) wrote2011-05-14 09:33 am
Match Made in Heaven - Part One of Three
Pairing: Hannibal/Face
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Summary: First part of a fill for this prompt over at the kink meme
So, I had NO time at all during the last few days to read anything, really, then it was Easter and family time, and tomorrow I'm leaving on excavation. RL sucks sometimes, but hey, yay for earning money, right?
Anyway. I thought I'd prompt something and maybe it'll be filled till I get back? I promise I'm finally gonna start filling that "not quite death fic" indigo_angels prompted a while back, too. ;P
Anyway the second:
How about... Hannibal is the badass CO of a major company, very successful and important and well-known and generally awesome. Murdock could be his PR guy, maybe? And BA would be funny as personal secretary? Or something? So, Hannibal pretty much wins at life and everybody's jealous... but he's lacking one thing: a person to share his life with, someone to loove.
Enter... Face!
Face the relationship coach? Face the new intern? Face the journalist writing an article about Hannibal's success? Face the... something?
Whatever, make them fall in loooove!
When Charisa Sosa’s matchmaking service gets a new client, John Smith, her crack assistant Temple Peck has no idea what he’s getting in to!
In his line of work, Templeton’s seen just about everything. Everything.
Or, at least, he thought he had.
Until these two walked in the very exclusive front door of his employer’s very, very exclusive dating service.
And plunked themselves down at his desk.
He leans forward a little, head cocked at the dark-haired main in the Land Before Time stegosaurus t-shirt, ripped workman’s jeans and very expensive suit coat as he tries to understand that last comment. “I’m sorry mister, uh, Mr. Murdock, I don’t speak Russian...”
“Look, man, what the fool here sayin’ is,” the burly, tattooed, black guy’s saying, “boss can’t want no trouble. Need to make this painless for ‘im.”
Templeton nods, and glances back down at his notes on this prospective client. It’s not one of these two, no. It’s their boss. John Smith. Late fourties, never married, West Point grad, five years as a military officer, jumped ship into venture capital, did well, did very well, net worth over $300 million. The typical story, maybe, then. Wildly successful captain of industry too busy to slow down and find himself a girl, too worried about what she’s after to ever trust her, taken advantage of in the past, or maybe...
“You’ve come to the right place. The Millionaire Cub has one of the highest success rates for high-powered individuals, such as your boss, to find that lasting, loving relationship they deserve, even in a city like New York...”
“Can the party line, man,” the black man, what was his name? Baracus? the personal assistant? kind of growls. “Just wanna make sure this is the right deal for Hannibal.”
“Hannibal, hmm,” Templeton says, writing that down at the bottom of his page of notes. Boxing it for emphasis. What the hell kind of nickname is Hannibal, anyway? This could prove to be an interesting case. “Hmm, yes, I’m just the assistant matchmaker here, but I’m confident we can help your boss find love.”
“Oh, yay!” the dark-haired man says, clapping his hands. Templeton tries not to let it faze him.
“We’re going to need him to come down himself for an interview,” he continues, as smooth as he can. “Give us some personal details, what he’s looking for in a woman, and of course, my boss, Charisa, wants to see everybody herself before she commits to a new member...”
Stegosaurus, Murdock, looks over at Baracus. “Vhy?” he asks. In a heavy Russian accent.
Templeton sighs. Who were these guys? New York being what it was, but still... “I know you’re his public affairs coordinator, and I assure you, we have the highest degree of privacy when it comes to...”
Baracus gives his partner another glance, and folds his hands in his lap. “What fool here’s trying to say is that, uh, the boss, he, err...”
“Gay as May Pole,” Murdock finishes, biting at a fingernail like he’s never seen one before. “Queer as a three dollar bill. Happily sailing the seven seas as an ass pira...”
One of those big, tattooed hands slams down over the other man’s mouth, which only seems to elicit an eyeroll. “Shut up, fool!” Baracus barks.
Templeton nods. Ah. So that’s it. Must complicate this Hannibal’s life significantly. “Your boss is homosexual.”
“That a problem?” Baracus grunts.
The blonde takes another note. If it that happens to be I wonder if he’s cute, Charisa will forgive him for it. Like always. He does that with all their like-minded clients. But he's never made it an issue for her.
He knows her rules.
He keeps his dick to himself and uses his finely honed personal gaydar to sort out the Right One, for the boys who like the boys. And honestly, he hasn't met a single one of these businessmen he's interested in yet. Most are too fussy, too prissy, too one-dimensional, for him to be interested in. Men who have defined their existence through their money hold no interest for him. Besides the obvious appeal of having a sugar daddy, which he'd be too old for now anyway, even if he hadn't burned himself out on that whole scene in college. Nope. Not for him at all.
“We believe here at the Millionaire Club that everyone’s deserving of true love,” Templeton tells the grumbling startled personal assistant. “No matter what orientation they might be. I'm in charge of her gay division, actually. I assure you, I'm quite good.” And he smiles that smile at them. The one that melts hearts at fifty paces.
Both men seem to relax. But Murdock still has to tug Baracus’ big hand off his mouth. “you can ‘elp him, then?” Texas is drawling off his voice now. Lovely. And come to think of it, the man’s rather cute...
“Yes,” Templeton says, rising, shaking both their hands, getting a bit of a bow from Murdock. “I think we’d be a good choice for John to start his search for romance.”
“When can he come by?” Baracus asks, whipping out a PDA that looks far, far too delicate for his big fingers to manipulate.
The blonde matchmaker winks at him. “For a man with a name like Hannibal? Charisa has an opening tomorrow, ten thirty. She can see him then. Just...”
“Jus’ what?” Murdock asks.
Templeton grins ruefully, rubs a hand against the artfully in-style stubble of his chin. “Just make sure he understands. Charisa can... come on a little strong.”
Baracus nods as he types, surprisingly dexterous, really. “How strong?”
“She’s very passionate about what we do here,” Templeton replies smoothly, smiling internally as he thinks about all the times he’s seen her kick somebody out of her office for not following her rules, or lectured a client to the point of tears about how they’re getting in the way of their own happiness. Things like that. “She’s a firecracker, my boss.”
“Keep that in mind, man,” the assistant acknowledges, and hits Murdock lightly on the shoulder. “C’mon, crazy. Time to go...”
And the way they walk out of there, so close to each other, the way Murdock’s poking Baracus and Baracus is putting up with it, Templeton can’t help but lean back in his chair and wonder if they might be fucking.
This is going to be an epic case.
If those two are any indication of what he can expect from this John Smith.
+++++
The next morning, Templeton’s waiting in their little lobby, joking with Amy the secretary, the girl blushing furiously even though she knows he plays for the other team, waiting for those elevator doors to open and deposit one John Smith in their office.
“So, what do you think he’ll be like, Temp?” Amy giggles. “Former military officer who’s gay?”
“Maybe he had an awakening while he was there,” the assistant matchmaker teases back, playing with her new bracelet. “You know, all those big, sweaty men doing big, sweaty, manly things...”
She laughs harder.
“Sounds like fun, doesn’t it, sweetheart? We should get you one, some burly, ass-kicking soldier...”
“Most of them are sort of geeks, actually,” a rich male voice behind him says.
Templeton feels like dying of embarrassment, right then and there, but somehow manages to turn around, adjust his gray wool vest and offer his hand out to the man in front of him. “Just having a bit of fun with the secretary here.”
Sky-blue eyes are sparkling at him from beneath silvery locks of smooth hair. “I’m sure.”
The guy’s got a firm grip, Templeton notices. A very firm grip. And extremely blue eyes. Christ, he’s tall. Imposing. One of those huge presences they see in here sometimes, but...warm, somehow. Open. Honest. Noble, maybe.
And all Templeton can think is why the hell is this guy single?
“John Smith,” the man prompts, still holding on to his hand. “And you are?”
““Templeton Peck,” he manages, trying not to oogle this guy. Really, really trying not to oogle. Can’t touch, can’t touch, Templeton, can’t touch...
“My boys told me this operation seemed legit,” Hannibal’s saying, pulling in a little closer, “but I didn’t think they’d be quite this good.”
“Good?” Templeton asks, laughing nervously.
“I thought I was just coming in for a preliminary,” the older man replies, definitely leaning in, and Templeton can smell a very, very good cologne. “And look what’s here...”
“You better settle down, John,” Templeton retorts easily, trying to grab for something solid and reliable right now. “What makes you think I’m out here waiting for you?”
“You going to tell me you weren’t?” Hannibal smiles back. It’s an utterly amazing smile, and the assistant matchmaker feels his knees start to go weak. And Hannibal, John, whatever the hell his name is, hasn’t let go of his hand yet...
Amy picks up her phone, an innocent sound that snaps Templeton back to reality.
“Umm,” the girl says, holding her hand dramatically over the receiver, “Temp? You want me to call Charisa and tell her y’all’s ten-thirty is here?”
“Uh, no, don’t worry about it, we’ll head in to see her now,” the blonde says, and John finally lets him go.
“My mistake,” the older man says, pulling away and shoving his hands in his pockets. Almost embarrassed, Face notices, and that’s no way to start out an appointment.
Smooth it over, Peck, smooth it over...
He shrugs and plays with the cuff of his pale blue shirt. “Would you like to follow me, Mr. Smith? My boss’ office is in the back...”
“Lead away,” Hannibal murmurs, and Templeton completely, totally, for real, ignores that little shiver he feels at the words, as he holds the door open for their new client, and ushers him back. Amy shoots the assistant matchmaker an apologetic glance, but he just shakes his head at her.
No apologies needed.
He knows the damn rules.
+++++
“So, Mr. Smith, what brings you to my office today?”
“I thought my boys would have explained that to you.”
“Hmm,” Charisa says, and Templeton, taking up position against the wall next to her desk, knows that sound. It’s her disapproving sound. It’s her I’m-gonna-rant-about-how-difficult-this-client-is-after-he-leaves sound. “I do need to hear it from you, Mr. Smith.”
“Please, call me John,” he laughs. “And what would you like to know?”
“What brings you to my office today,” the brunette matchmaker says, without missing a beat.
One of the things that makes Charisa so damn good at matching people is that she usually doesn’t give a shit what the client wants, because it’s not about what the client wants. It’s about what the client needs. And they need, right now, to figure out what this Hannibal guy needs.
So, Templeton turns his attention to the man sitting in one of those plush chairs in front of Charisa’s ridiculously posh desk.
He’s completely at ease, Hannibal is, one leg crossed up over the other, his hands locked behind his knee. The man has huge hands, absolutely huge. Templeton wonders, just for a moment, what they’d feel like sliding over his... and there’s a sort of sadness, hiding behind those bright eyes. Eyes that see everything, the blonde’s willing to bet. A keen intelligence, nothing ever missed.
“Well,” Hannibal says with a nod, “I don’t want to sound arrogant...”
Charisa waves that off. “Just talk, John.”
“I...” and he pauses, just a bit, and shakes his head. “Charisa, may I call you Charisa, it’s difficult for me to talk about my love life. I spent almost ten years in the Army, at West Point and then active duty, and there was no chance for any kind of meaningful relationship with, with, another man while...”
Templeton notices the way his voice hitches a bit, and looks at Charisa, but she’s caught it, too. “Did you have a relationship back then?”
“It didn’t last,” Hannibal replies quietly, and rolls his shoulders. “After I got out of the Army, I found I was good at predicting trends and opportunities in the international market, and I’ve spent the last twenty years leveraging that to build a business I’m extremely proud of...”
“What about your personal life during this time, John?” Charisa asks.
He shrugs again, still exuding that confidence, but now mostly as a blind. Clearly not a man used to opening up and letting someone in. Templeton wonders how many times he’s had his heart broken. “Non-existent. I’ll go out when I need something, and I’ve had a few casual relationships over the years, but...”
“What do you normally go for?”
That gets them a little smile. “Cute but not femme, sweet but strong, younger but not college-age young, somebody who’s had a degree of success themselves... it’s hard to know, sometimes, if a guy’s just looking for...”
“It’s a common problem for many of my club’s members. Money can attract all the wrong things, can’t it, John?”
But Templeton gets the feeling that Hannibal’s not really listening to her.
“I’ve tried, over the years...but nothing ever lasts.” He looks away. “I travel a lot. And...and... fuck, this is going to sound awful...”
Charisa makes that come-hither gesture of hers. “Just spill it, John.”
“So many men are so one-dimensional...” He looks right at Templeton, looks right through him. “They just want the physical, hands and mouth and...well, you know.” Hannibal sighs, and leans back in the chair. “It’s hard to find somebody that, err, holds my interest, or who stay interested.”
“What’s your IQ?” Charisa asks.
John shakes his head. “142, according to the tests they gave me in basic.”
“How long are you?” Templeton interjects, laconic and smirking, holding out his hands about a foot apart. For emphasis.
“Temp!” his boss squeals, a little horrified. “What the hell is wrong with you!?”
This CEO, on the other hand, cracks up.
Hard.
“I’m serious,” the younger man tells Charisa, and turns back to Hannibal, who’s still laughing. “Look, John, unrealistic expectations can ruin even the best of relationships. For example, with you being a badass multimillionaire, powerful, assertive, most men are probably going to assume you’re...a...”
“Top?” John asks, sobering, and what he says, the way he says it, holds everything that Templeton needs to know.
Heartbreak, yeah, sure, there has to be some of that here. But it’s more than just that. There’s a lot of repressed emotion. A man who’s clearly used to being in control, to being on guard. Hell, the first ten years of his adult life must have been spent sneaking around, lying, hiding. Must have been very isolating for him. Probably gave him a bit of a complex about his sexuality. Not an insignificant amount of uncertainty.
And the more successful he becomes, the higher he climbs, the more men must believe him to be some kind of dominant force in the bedroom and in life, in general. But that’s not what Hannibal needs, conquering some cute little boy, oh no. Hannibal needs to be able to let go, to open up, to trust... Hannibal, Templeton realizes, needs a partner. A real partner, in every sense of the word. Somebody he’s every bit as much in awe of as the other man is of him.
Fuck me sideways, Templeton thinks. What would that feel like?
“What do you want out of a man, John?” Charisa asks again, a little softer this time.
“I’ll be forty-six this year,” the CEO says quietly, hands moving to his lap as he stares up at the ceiling. “I’m not getting any younger, and I just, I...I want to share the rest of my life with somebody.”
The brunette matchmaker nods, smiles. “Well, John, I think you’ve come to the right place. We’re going to help you find that man. You believe me?”
John doesn’t respond to that, just nods back and stands. “So, what’s the process?”
“We screen potential matches for you from our extensive database, select the ones we feel would be good for you, and we’ll set up as many events as it takes, mixers, that sort of thing. You’ll have your choice from there,” Charisa says in that fake-warm voice of hers, rising with him and shaking his hand. “The first should be no later than next weekend. I’ll have Templeton here contact you with the details.”
“Wonderful, ma’am,” Hannibal says, just a little short now, like he’s itching to get out of here.
Templeton can sense that things are starting to get tense, so he pushes away from the wall, and nods to Charisa as he goes for the door. “I’ll show him out.”
“I can find my own way out, no need to worry about that,” the CEO tells them, stuffing his hand in his pockets without a hint of that earlier vulnerability, and brushes past Templeton on his way out.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smith,” the assistant matchmaker can’t help but murmur.
Then John turns that smile on him, right before he leaves. Leans in, just enough, just enough to whisper in Templeton’s ear, “ten inches, kid.”
And leaves him there, frozen to the spot.
Charisa’s trying to talk to him, Templeton knows, trying to tell him to get the hell out of her office and start looking over their files and pulling her a few potentials to review by this afternoon.
But all he can think right now is client, client, client, can’t touch the client...
+++++
Templeton shifts a little on his stool, and one of their interns, cute NYU boy who just goes by his last name, touches him on the shoulder.
“You doing okay, Temp? You need some coffee, mineral water, maybe a rockin’ guitar riff to wake you up?”
Charisa’s looking at him too, now, and the blonde man curses himself for getting distracted. They’ve got at least twenty of these interviews to go through this morning. Stat. “Yeah, yeah, Ravech, I’m just fine. And no Rock Band, guh. Awful...”
“Send in the first batch of guys,” his boss tells the kid.
And on they go.
Templeton’s got no idea why he feels so damn cranky this morning, though. It’s not like they have another option.
It had taken him three hours, fourteen minutes and twenty-two seconds yesterday to determine that they didn’t have anybody good enough for Hannibal. Not on file, anyway.
He had photographs, biographies and personality profiles on something like sixty or seventy self-identified gays. Out of those, maybe half were in the age range Charisa’s going to let them consider for the CEO - nobody over fourty-five should ever, ever date anybody under thirty-five, according to her rules. Out of those, well... he just wasn’t sure.
Hannibal needs...
“So, Temp, what’ve we got?” his boss asked him, hanging on the edge of his office door in those ridiculous pumps she always wears. Fashionable lady, Charisa, but he’d always been the better shopper.
He’d dropped a stack of folders down in front of him. “Maybe five or six guys who could be good matches. Solid, successful, not too young, not too old, flexible...”
“Flexible?”
It could have been a genuine question or a warning, so he just ignored it. “...adventerous, or at least, don’t mind traveling, say they’ll date an older man...Charisa, we don’t have very much.”
“We’ll have to do interviews,” she’d said.
And now here they were.
Charisa likes a nice spread when she’s doing a big mixer, eight to ten, ten max. It gives the client a good amount of choice, and his boss has this whole art to figuring out what kind of personalities she’s going to throw at a client. If somebody’s too arrogant, she’ll throw in a few matches who will challenge them, bite back. If somebody’s too timid, she makes sure she’s got confident, grounded matches in there. For somebody like Hannibal, who doesn’t really know what he wants, just not what he’s dated in the past, she goes for a wide range.
Ravech shows the first bunch in.
And the questions start flying fast and thick, three applicants at a time.
“How do you feel about dating an older man?”
“If you think your nipples are going to impress me in that silk shirt of yours, you’re wrong. And it’s last year’s color.”
“What about international travel, do you do that?”
“He’s a former military officer, so please tell me you don’t have dominance kink.”
“You look pretty young, kid, you sure you aren’t looking for a sugar daddy?”
“What are you looking for in a relationship, fun or love?”
“Are you serious about that combination of plaid that you’re wearing right now, honey?”
“What’s the biggest you’ve ever taken?”
“Monogamy, how are you with that?”
“You’re wearing guyliner right now. That’s a no. Thanks for coming.”
“What’s your ideal date night?”
“I see you lost your job, how’d that happen?”
Templeton taps his pen on his notes while Charisa keeps firing, trying to buy himself some time to think.
Their client, Hannibal, John, whatever he called himself, he didn’t know he wanted, which indicates uncertainty, fear, hesitancy, that sort of thing. The assistant director isn’t sure what that could mean for a good match. What mix of characteristics is going to work here. It’s not like matching women to men. There are similarities, of course, but the nuances are what’s tricky. Hannibal needs somebody solid, grounded but bright, a man who’s going to push on him a little, and invite him to push back. Somebody different, somebody a little exotic, a little exciting but somebody not... gay.
He’s got the distinct feeling that John doesn’t do the gay too well. Poor bastard, and here he is, trying to date in New York...
“Favorite book, movie, band and lube, in the order of importance to you, go,” he sighs, looking up at tall-and-handsome-from-Yale. This ought to be good.
“Crime and Punishment, Leonard Bernstein, Fear and Loathing in Los Vegas and massage oil from this great little place uptown...”
Templeton looks up from the bio the guy’s provided. Grad school, law school, corporate lawyer... “You’re going to lead with a goddamn Russian author?”
“Taught me all the reasons why college is fucking worthless,” the guy laughs.
Charisa clears her throat. “Thank you, but...”
“If I went into your bedroom right now what book would be sitting on your nightstand?” Templeton interrupts. This... this is interesting. “Next to that bottle of massage oil?”
The guy grins ruefully. “Trashy paperback spy novel...”
Templeton looks back down at the bio, and then up. Smiles. “Well, thanks Vance. You’re definitely on our list. We’ll call you by tomorrow at the latest.”
He gets a smile in return, and Templeton’s got no idea, none at all, why that makes him so nervous.
It’s not like he’s in this little...thing... after all.
+++++
Charisa punches Templeton lightly on the shoulder. “Who pissed in your cornflakes this morning, Temp?”
The blonde shrugs. They’re outside one of the upscale bars Charisa likes to rent out for these events, waiting for Hannibal to show up, all their selected men for their client already waiting inside. Charisa just finished giving them her usual advice, the sum of which always seems to be don’t act like a pack of jackasses tonight, boys, and remember, we’re all here looking for that someone special, and probably wasn’t any different tonight. She’s got one of her event dresses on, and a different pair of those pumps, and Templeton really, really isn’t in the mood.
“John isn’t here yet,” he tells her.
She grabs for his wrist and shows her assistant director his own watch. “He’s got fifteen minutes. I’m sure he’ll...”
“A good soldier’s always early, ma’am,” that deep, rich voice says, and both matchmakers look up.
Templeton a little faster than his boss.
And there’s Hannibal. Tall, rich, beautiful Hannibal wrapped in perfectly tailored cobalt blues, cuff-links elegantly understated, and a cologne that Templeton knows for a fact costs over three hundred a bottle. His silver hair’s slicked back, one hand playing with a cigar tube, and there’s a faint smile on his lips as he realizes they’re both sizing him up.
He clearly isn’t worried.
Which means he is.
“No smoking,” Charisa says immediately, taking the tube away and handing it to Templeton. “You didn’t mention you’re a smoker.”
“Enjoying a good cigar every once in a while does not make me a chronic smoker,” John says, and shudders a bit. “You’ve never smelled bad tobacco until you’ve had one of those Army-issue death sticks...”
“Still. No smoking. You can get it back from Temp after the mixer,” she says flatly, crossing her arms. That expression on her face has been scientifically engineered, the assistant director always thinks, to melt even the most intractable of men. He’s seen her reduce several clients to tears before, with that look.
But John just winks at Templeton. “Okay. Let’s get this show on the road.”
He does well.
Better than Charisa or Templeton were expecting.
Mixes with everybody, spending time with each of the men in turn, nobody too long or too short, listens when he should listen, talks when he should talk, and there’s more laughter than they normally expect from something like this.
“Think it’s an act?” the head matchmaker muses, leaning against the bar, sipping at a club soda with a twist of lime. “He’s...”
“Not an act,” Templeton says, watching the tall man work the room. “He’s inspecting them. Can’t you tell? He’s not interacting. He’s evaluating, all analytical...”
“Well, he hasn’t pissed anyone off yet, so there’s that,” Charisa replies with a shrug, and then lowers her glass a bit, smiling. “Ah, and there’s your boy. Looks like he’s coming back to that one.”
And he is, Templeton notices. Hannibal’s stopped moving, right with Vance, and the conversation’s gotten a little quieter, a little more private, the two of them leaning into each other a bit. Not quite touching, although it’s clear Hannibal’s hand wants to come up onto Vance’s shoulder, and, and, and... oh fuck, that hand's on Vance's shoulder and Vance is smiling, and just...
Fuck.
The blonde can’t watch anymore. His stomach’s knotting up, which is probably just because he had falafel for lunch. That’s all it is. It’s not because John’s talking to all these eligible, very eligible, handsome, sauve, eager men. Not because he picked Vance out, knowing the lawyer would pique John’s sensibilities, and look, there he is, doing it. Not because he wishes he was out there, instead of right here, getting a chance, getting an unparalleled chance to maybe, just maybe...
Charisa must have gone to cut Hannibal out of the throng, as neatly and surgically as a collie through a herd of sheep like she always does, because now the CEO’s joining them at the bar ordering his second scotch and smiling a little at Templeton. “So,” she asks, “who do you want for your mini-dates, John? Finding any connections out there?”
“Well, Vance, for one,” Hannibal says. “I thought he was a rather interesting guy...”
“Interesting?” Charisa practically purrs. “This from the man who thought he couldn’t find anyone to capture his interest. Okay, who else?”
Templeton looks away. If he ordered it right now, the boss probably wouldn’t notice if he got a shot of two of vodka in his club soda, her damn rules about no drinking on these nights.
But John’s still watching him.
And Charisa’s watching what John’s watching, so he’s probably not going to get away with it.
Any of it.
Damn.
The night wears on.
And on.
And on.
One of John’s other picks, Rich Mortensen, advertising partner, comes and goes, a slightly confused look on his face as he comes back out, and Templeton watches, a little sick, as the man goes back to a group of the others and laughter ensues.
He lets Charisa pick apart that hairball.
Adam Salinsky, the older test case Charisa wanted to throw at Hannibal, see if he’d go for something a little more boring but a little more stable, just shakes his head and orders another drink.
Templeton doesn’t say anything, even though he’s technically supposed to ask. Find out what John’s doing right, what he’s doing wrong, where they need to readjust, based on the date’s input. But he just can’t.
But Vance...
Vance comes back smiling.
The event’s over after that, everyone allowed to drift out as they want to, the bar’s sleek cherrywood interior emptying out. Until it’s just Charisa and him and John, who’s on his fourth scotch and showing absolutely not a trace of it at all. His hand’s twitching again, and Templeton feels for the cigar tube in his pocket. Man’s worn out. Needs a smoke. Needs time to think. Needs time to process.
But Charisa’s finishing up her post-mixer interrogation. No escape quite yet.
“So, out of the three you had longer conversations with, did you find one you’d like to call?”
“I...look, Charisa, sweetheart, I need... it’s a lot to take in all at once, and...”
She bristles. Fuck, Templeton thinks to himself, watching the body language, and slides off his stool down at the end of the bar. It’s starting.
“Sweetheart? Sweetheart? Let me tell you something, John, I don’t care where you got your start off in this life, but if you continually look down on the people around you as if they’re somehow your subordinates, it’s not wonder you can’t find a man who’s a partner and not some butt-boy who wants to play beta to your alpha. If you think you can find romantic bliss by asserting your authority... I was watcing you out there tonight. You weren’t interacting. You were inspecting those boys like they were your fucking...”
“You mention the word soldier, Charisa, and we’re...”
Templeton gets in the middle of that. His boss’s tirades about people’s personal habits being what they are. Better to just cut it off at the pass. While there’s still time.
“Boss, come on, John’s had a lot to digest right now,” the blonde matchmaker says, tugging her aside, and gives the older man a sympathetic smile. “Let him have a chance to think it over, and he can get back to us tomorow, or...”
“He’s not, Temp. He’s not going to get us an answer unless we pin him down and force him to...”
“Look at him, Charisa,” Templeton urges quietly, nodding back over at where Hannibal was draining that scotch and asking for another. “He’s exhausted and I bet he needs a smoke. Let me talk to him. I think he liked Vance. He’s probably just not sure what to do about it...”
She rolls her eyes, but nods. “Okay, okay, it’s your division, you handle it. But if you let him leave without getting a firm commitment for a date...”
“I won’t.”
“We need to build his confidence up.”
“We will,we will,” he assures her, squeezing her hand.
Before letting go and slotting up next to Hannibal against the bar.
“Hey, big bad CEO,” Face teases, watching the older man’s hands shaking a bit, and holds up the cigar tube. “Why don’t you say we get out of here, talk this over somewhere else?”
A small smile forms in the corner of John’s mouth, and the matchmaker tries not to think about how, all evening, that smile’s been aimed at him. “Take you to dinner?” he asks softly.
“Smoking’s illegal in New York restaurants these days,” Templeton replies, biting his lip, trying not to respond.
Hannibal nods, shrugs, and plucks the cigar out of the younger man’s fingers. “Then let’s go see what the alley looks like, shall we?”
Alley?
As soon as they’re out of the room, into the cool air outside, John relaxes. A lot. And it doesn't make too much sense to the younger man.
Because the alley’s dark and filthy, filthy to the point that Templeton can feel the dirt crawling up the sides of his shoes. His very, very expensive shoes.
Damn.
Oh, the things he does for his clients...
But Hannibal needs to talk, probably knows he needs to talk, and he’s talking. So Templeton tries to ignore the puddles and focus.
“So, that’s the intense Charisa Sosa I’ve heard so much about?” Hannibal’s asking, twirling the tube in his fingers. “Doesn’t seem too bad.”
“Yeah, she’s... well, it’s her way of trying to guarantee everyone finds love. If it makes you feel any better, she lays that unsolicited relationship advice on her employees all the time. I think she’s praticing or...” sharpening her claws, but he doesnt say that.
“What was her advice to you, Templeton?”
The younger man’s brain freezes up at the sound of the CEO, saying his name. There’s something just so...so sensual about it.
Client, client, client...
“That I’ll never be happy until I decide which is better, fucking or being fucked.”
“You’re...”
“Double-hinged? Maybe. Sometimes girls are nice. Does it matter?” He shrugs. “Guess I’m drawn to powerful personalities, really, men and women. I mean, fuck, look who I work for...”
Hannibal sighs. “Templeton, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot, with me assuming you were...”
“Not your fault I’m devilishly handsome,” Templeton says cheerfully, handing over the cigar tube. “I can’t help it that I look this good.”
“It’s not your face, kid,” the older man says, shoving his free hand in his pockets. “It’s got nothing to do with that at all.”
“No? You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure about that.”
“Must be the suit then,” Templeton replies, which gets him a snort from the CEO. “Hey, nothing wrong with a man who knows how to sport the three-piece!”
Hannibal just raises an eyebrow as he taps the cigar out, sniffing it appreciatively before going for his lighter. “It’s a very nice suit, kid, but that’s not what’s so... about you.”
“So what?”
“So you, Templeton. There’s something very honest about you...”
The younger man laughs at that. “Seriously, John, you don’t know me from...look, there’s nothing honest about me...”
“You read people. You know what people want,” the CEO tells him softly, strangely soft, staring off down the street. “And when you give it to them, you think you’re manipulating them, and you probably are, sometimes, but mostly, you’re just trying to do something good for whoever the fuck. So you think you’re a bad person. And you see too much, too fast, so you already know how something’s going to end before it begins, and there’s no point in making the attempt. So you’re alone, trying to enjoy what you can, always afraid of the future that your partner can’t see for themselves...”
It shakes him. Right down to his eight hundred dollar oxfords. Nobody’s ever...he’s never...did John just...after meeting him once...and he realizes his mouth is literally hanging open. “No,” he manages, trying to get himself collected. Hannibal couldn’t have knocked him down harder if he’d used one of those giant hands in a hard left hook. “No, I’ve never...”
It’s Hannibal’s turn to laugh. “You’re a bad liar, kid.”
“I’ll have you know I’m a very good liar, John.”
“Not from where I’m standing,” the older man says, puffing on his cigar and staring up at the smeared night sky of New York, a mere sliver above them. “You’re a mystery, kid, but you aren’t a liar. And you sure as shit ”
“If I’m a mystery, Hannibal,” Templeton challenges, “how the fuck you’d know that about me?”
“A mystery to the wrong person. And I’m guessing it’s only ever the wrong person.” Hannibal nods to himself. “To the right person, on the other hand...”
The matchmaker digests this information for a moment. Fuck, he thinks to himself. They should have screened IQs. The fleshy part of the bell curve isn’t going to cut it for John, not at all, and Templeton despairs for a moment. Where are they going to find this man the man he deserves? The one he needs? The one who’s going to put up with the fact he’s wearing brown socks and black pants, all those cutting insights, the way he looks through things and sees all the whole of all of it...
“Are you going to take that date with Vance?” he asks, needing to get this train wreck of a pep talk back on track. “This is the whole point of the evening, and you seemed to like him...”
“Should I?”
No, Templeton wants to say, but that’s not his job. He doesn’t get to keep this man. Rules. Stupid fucking rules. And he’s not sure if he could stand up to Hannibal anyway. Probably couldn’t. Fuck, he helps rich idiots find girlfriends. What’s he to a man like this? “Yes, you should.”
“Would you?”
He smiles. “I’ll never make enough to be a client here.”
John gives him a strange look. “What’s that mean?”
“You’re paying for more an experience with us, not a service,” Templeton has to answer lamely. “You should enjoy the experience, learn what you can, gain some confidence, figure out what you’re looking for in a man, and...”
Hannibal takes another deep, contemplative drag on his cigar. “What if I know what I’m looking for in a man? What then?”
Is this CEO flirting with him?
“Do you?” Templeton asks.
“Yeah, kid,” Hannibal replies, and there’s a hand on the younger man’s shoulder now, a hand that’s moving around the back on his neck. “I know I want.”
It feels... it feels better than anything he’s felt in a long time, the blonde thinks, and he doesn’t make a move to take it away.
But still. This is completely outside the boundaries. Charisa’s rules. And he couldn’t lose his job with her, couldn’t let let her down, and if he lets this go on...
“I’d take the date, John,” he says. “Never know until you take that chance, right?”
“Guess that’s true enough,” Hannibal says. “What if it doesn’t work out?”
“You say ciao and we start this all over again for you.”
“Sounds like a lot of work for you, Templeton.”
“Oh, I’m dedicated to my clients...”
“Do anything for them?”
“Absolutely.”
“Hmm,” Hannibal says, staring down at his half-finished cigar, and then tossing it away with a slight smile. “Absolutely anything?”
“That’s why you’re paying me the big bucks.”
“I’m not in the habit of paying for it,” the older man muses, and there’s definitely a tease in his voice as he tightens tht hand down around Face’s neck, pulling him close. Hard. “But I think we can say this isn’t part of your job description, then?”
“What isn’t?”
“This,” Hannibal murmurs, so close Templeton can taste his cologne. And now his breath, tinged warm and wonderful from scotch and smoke and something, something deeper, something unique and strong and urgent. And now his lips. And now his tongue, the first light thrust lighting the younger man up like Times Square on fucking New Year’s Eve. The one single thrust, the probing push of...
“Can’t say I paid for that, now can you?”
Templeton closes his eyes and tries not to beg for more. Fuck, that, that, that was...
“Should I take Vance on that date?” the CEO murmurs, running a hand around the small of the younger man’s back and pulling him close. “Should I, mister matchmaker? Or should I see what else you can do for me, off the clock?”
“Mm,” Templeton manages to moan out, feeling the hardness of the other man’s groin pressing in, just above his own. “That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? Finding a man...”
“Finding a mate. Men are a dime a dozen, warm bodies and smooth lips,” Hannibal corrects, eyes twinkling as he slides both his arms down around the back of the blonde’s shoulders. “I’m here to find a mate.”
“That’s what I’m here for. To help you with that.”
“I should say so,” the older man chuckles back. “And you’ve clearly got good instincts, kids. Let’s say I humor you on Vance. What do I get in return?”
“A fun evening...” Templeton tries, desperately needing to get back on top of this thing. This is not the way it’s supposed to work. Not supposed to work like this at all. Isn’t Hannibal supposed to want the nice lawyer he’s picked out? One of the men from the mixer? Anyone but him?
“I think I could show some young man a fun evening,” Hannibal whispers in his ear, and swats Templeton on the ass as he lets go. “Let’s see how Vance likes it, then. It’s all practice, right?”
“P-pratice...” Templeton nods back, nerves on fire. Shit, what it is about this John guy? This tall, rich, beautiful, John? “Yeah, man, practice...”
“Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting, then,” the CEO says,
"Call him tomorrow," the matchmaker says, feeling a little defeated even though he really should feel elated, and opens his jacket, reaching for the inner pocket. "I've got his contact information..."
Hannibal's long fingers dip into that pocket for him, nudging his own out of the way, tangling just a bit as he tugs the small card free. "You've only got Vance's in here," he observes. "And it's typed."
"The rest of those guys were shmucks. He was the one you were going to pick."
"You're sure? That he's the one?" Hannibal asks with that dazzling smile. "You already know me so well, Temp..."
"I know people, John," Templeton says, trying desperately to keep his balance. "It's my job."
"And you're doing fantastic so far," John murmurs, and with that, he’s gone, down the alley, striding away with long, confident strides, waving the card back over his shoulder.
And Templeton completely ruins his Armani as he collapses back against the dirty brick wall.
John is definitely flirting with him.
Why in the fuck is John flirting with him?
John is not supposed to be flirting with him.
John is supposed to be flirting with Vance. Vance. The cute Yale lawyer Templeton’s picked out special.
And if this fucks up their client’s date, well...
Charisa is going to kill them both.
But mostly him.
Definitely, definitely going to kill him for this.
+++++
Templeton pauses in the foyer of the gigantic Pine Street office building to scan the huge directory in its little touch-screen podium. Fuck. Hannibal’s company takes up ten floors, but there’s no listing he can find for which floor, which room, might be the CEO’s. At least it’s somewhere between the start of the business day and early lunch time, so he doesn’t have to worry about people gawking at his stupid self as he scrolls menus and swears quietly to himself.
Dammit, why did Hannibal have to request him here today? Isn’t his date tonight? What the fuck is his problem?
You’re going and that’s the end of it! Charisa had said when the call came in this morning. Get your butt over there now, Temp. Hold his hand, assauge his fears, give him some pointers and help your goddamn client!
He’s mostly just worried that Hannibal’s going to shove him against a wall and kiss him stupid.
Not that he told Charisa about that.
Not that he would particularly mind that again, but...
The matchmaker finds the right room on the right floor, finally, and settles back against the elevator wall, reminding himself of what he’s decided. That he can’t let Hannibal keep doing what he’s doing. The kissing, the looks. It could cost him his job, and worse, his credibility in his chosen profession. And respect is something that Templeton’s worked so, so hard to cultivate. Ever since the orphanage. He can’t lose it, just can’t, to the caprice of some confused millionaire.
Get his head on straight for the date tonight, Peck, he tells himself, sauntering down the hall of the modern, gleaming fifteenth floor. Get out unkissed.
Baracus looks up from a wide desk out in front of a huge door. It’s a little waiting room of sorts, obviously Hannibal’s front office, and the big black guy frowns up at him. “What you want, fool?”
“I, uh, Mr. Smith called me about...”
The CEO’s personal assistant rolled his eyes and stood. “Hannibal don’t tell me nothing no more, swear to...” and he knocks on the big door. “Yo, Hannibal, man! Those dating service people here to see you!”
There’s a muffled thud on the other side of the wood.
“Send him in, BA!”
The big black guy chuckles, and goes back to his chat session with somebody called Flyin’Cowboy269. Templeton gives him one scrutinizing look, and opens the door.
WHZZZZZZTHHUNKKKK
The matchmaker jumps sideways, hand clamping down over his chest in shock, adrenaline coursing out everything, white hot.
“Sorry, kid! Didn’t realize you were gonna...”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Templeton manages, trying to get his lungs to recover from the shock and start breathing again. He doesn’t dare look at it straight on, the thing that just impaled the wall next to him, four inches of flat, thin, quivering, creamy white... “what the fuck is that?”
“Throwing knife,” Hannibal says from across the wide corner office, another one balanced in his hand.
“Why...what are you...throwing knives?”
“It’s quieter than guns, kid,” the CEO says happily.
“Guns? What the fuck do you need a gun f...”
WHZZZZZZTHHUNKKKK
“You may want to move over to the right,” Hannibal calls out.
“I...”
“WHZZZZZZTHHUNKKKK
Templeton takes a deep breath. Seems like the man’s got good aim. Nothing to be worried about, nothing at all. Just another client, trying to freak him out. Happens all the time. Like the guy with the stripper pole in his living room. “Why are they taupe?”
“Taupe? Got a thesaurus in that head of yours, Temp?”
“No, I just...”
WHZZZZZZTHHUNKKKK
“Ceramic blades,” Hannibal explains, hands empty as he’s walking over. “One hundred percent. You can get these little bastards through airport security.”
Templeton pokes at one of the slim little knives. Five of them. Really close together. Make that very good aim. Stuck into deep corkboard, a printed page of a logo he recognizes as another Wall Street firm taped on top. “You do a little international assassination work on the side here, John?”
“I bore easily,” the older man jokes back.
“Yeah, uhh, why not darts?”
Hannibal bumps him playfully with a shoulder as he slots up, a big shit-eating grin on his face, making to pull the first knife out. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“I bet you’re a great guy at the bars, John.”
That gets him a laugh, and then the older man shakes his silver head, and leans into the wall on that same strong shoulder. “Glad you came, kid. I wanted to ask you about...”
“Your date with Vance tonight?” Templeton offers. No way is he falling for other one of his client’s overbearing seduction attempts, surprisingly, inexplicably effective as the damn encounters might be. “It is tonight, right?”
Hannibal looks back to his knives, and starts plucking them free. “Yeah, tonight. 1930, meeting him at this really great steakhouse down in Soho...”
“That’s good. Steak, nice and manly...”
“Temp, I’m not...” and Hannibal turns to him, the hilts all clustered up in his closed fist, blades back, and for a crazy second, the younger man thinks he’s going to cut his jacket or something. “Vance? You really think he’s a good idea?”
Templeton suppresses - barely, barely suppresses - the urge to hit himself in the forehead. Hard. How in the hell can this amazing man be so hesitant to go have a nice dinner with a perfectly nice, perfectly right-for-him lawyer? And then be so goddamn aggresive about a man he’s not supposed to interested in ever? “Look, John, you came to us for help with your love life, right? Right? Do you want me to help you or not? Can you let me help you? Please?”
Hannibal lays his head back against the wall, eyes bright. “Sure.”
“Awesome, cool, so tell me what the problem is, why you’re feeling so iffy on this whole thing. You did say you liked Vance.”
“I do,” the CEO says, rotating back so both shoulder blades are on the wall now. “He’s an interesting guy. But it’s...”
“Yeah? It’s what?”
“Lovers are never a problem, kid. Friends, friends are...”
“Much more difficult?” Templeton finishes with a smile, and reaches out for John’s hand. The one that doesn’t have the throwing knives. It opens for him, larger than his own, cradling it perfectly. “You were doing just fine at the mixer.”
“Kid, you of all people should know there’s a huge difference between talking to somebody and having a conversation,” Hannibal says, squeezing his hand before dropping it, walking back over to his desk and flicking out a little red velvet case, all sewn up with sleeves for the knives. He starts filing them away. “I’m... I’m not so good at the second.”
“I think we’ve had a good conversation or two...” Face says, and then feels his cheeks go hot. “I mean, shit, John... you know what I mean! You know what I mean, right?”
He watches Hannibal shrug, and the man tucks another knife back into place. “You’re remarkable easy to talk to, Temp.”
“So what makes it so easy to talk to me and not him?”
“He’s not you,” Hannibal says. Like it’s obvious.
Templeton sighs. “That’s not an answer, John.”
The CEO looks up from his throwing knives - something that the younger man’s brain sort of wants to rebel from, and something that makes complete sense at the same time. “You’re going to tell me it’s not professional, right?”
“What? Well, kind of not, I mean, I could lose my job...”
“That’s what he said,” Hannibal grumbles, low, under his breath, almost too quiet to catch, and Templeton realizes he must be talking about his old lover, the military man, and wants to ask... but when Hannibal straightens, there’s a teasing little smile there. “I wanted to know if you had any pointers for me, for tonight.”
“Anything in particular?”
“What should I not do?”
Templeton considers this, and nods. “Well, no throwing knives.”
Hannibal laughs. “Steak knives really have no balance to them, bounce right off the target. I think I can control myself.”
The matchmaker tries not to wonder if the older man knows this from experience, or if he’s just joking around. Impossible to know, and he is so not going to ask. “WEll, you can come on pretty strong...”
“Nature of the business, Temp...”
And Temp casts an eye around the room. It’s somewhat spartan, no huge collection of nick-nacks, sleek as a Scandinavian design showroom. But there are touches, hints, of what this man does with his life. Pinned-up photos of jungles and deserts, labeled and marked, construction beginning or mining occurring or trees being replanted. Concept drawings for huge complexes, hospitals and hotels. Stock figures. Graphs. Documents strewn across the wide glass desk, in English and French and Arabic and something that might be Japanese. And a big silver plaque, a diploma, West Point...
“Don’t bring business into a date, John,” Templeton says carefully. “Guys are going to interpret that kind of extreme forwardness as a dominance thing. Just like Charisa told you after the mixer.”
“Is that how you see it?”
“This isn’t about what I think, personally...”
“Be honest with me, Temp.”
The younger man shakes his head and runs a hand across his mouth. “Yeah, I think you’re used to being the guy on top, in all aspects of your life, but you have to understand, that makes you unapproachable. You have to relax, loosen up, let someone in. Let the world see that amazing man you’ve got locked down in there...”
“Amazing, huh?”
And Templeton can just feel his cheeks flaming now. “Yeah, well...man, remember, it’s not about... I mean... fuck, John, it’s... what I see isn’t necessarily what somebody else is going to see right away, and first impressions are...”
“Any specifics on being more approachable?”
“No throwing knives.”
“You already said that.”
“Yeah, well...look, John, it’s always better to let someone get to know you from a common, relatable, shared baseline before...”
“I’m not relatable?”
There’s a bit of hurt in Hannibal’s voice, and Templeton cringes. Shit. Way to kick the man. “No, John, you’re not unrelatable, just...uncommon.”
“Uncommon? Doesn’t seem to bother you.”
“But we’ve talked. I know you a little, I’d like to think, and once you get to know somebody, their unique, err, peculiarities can become turn-ons rather than...”
Hannibal pushes away from his desk. “I turn you on?”
What? Fuck. No, no. Fuck, no. What did he just... fuck. Charisa’s going to kill him. He can already see it. Murder him in some creative way and then the team from CSI:NY is going to have to come solve it... “John, that’s, err, no, we’re...we’re talking generalities here, not specifics about, say, me...”
WHZZZZZZTHHUNKKKK
“Motherfucker! John, you son of a...”
Hannibal’s smirking. “You’re telling me there’s nothing about that you like?”
“Call me tomorrow, John,” he snaps, jerking the door open, desperately needing to not allow himself to rise to that undeniable challenge. “We need to assess how it goes.”
“Will do, Temp.”
Temp...
It follows him out into the lobby, back to the elevators, the word, his name, sweet on sweet lips, sweeter than it's ever been before, and he wonders again if maybe he just couldn’t...
But no.
It's not about him.
And John’s going to need some watching on this whole dating thing, Templeton decides.
A lot of watching.
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Summary: First part of a fill for this prompt over at the kink meme
So, I had NO time at all during the last few days to read anything, really, then it was Easter and family time, and tomorrow I'm leaving on excavation. RL sucks sometimes, but hey, yay for earning money, right?
Anyway. I thought I'd prompt something and maybe it'll be filled till I get back? I promise I'm finally gonna start filling that "not quite death fic" indigo_angels prompted a while back, too. ;P
Anyway the second:
How about... Hannibal is the badass CO of a major company, very successful and important and well-known and generally awesome. Murdock could be his PR guy, maybe? And BA would be funny as personal secretary? Or something? So, Hannibal pretty much wins at life and everybody's jealous... but he's lacking one thing: a person to share his life with, someone to loove.
Enter... Face!
Face the relationship coach? Face the new intern? Face the journalist writing an article about Hannibal's success? Face the... something?
Whatever, make them fall in loooove!
When Charisa Sosa’s matchmaking service gets a new client, John Smith, her crack assistant Temple Peck has no idea what he’s getting in to!
In his line of work, Templeton’s seen just about everything. Everything.
Or, at least, he thought he had.
Until these two walked in the very exclusive front door of his employer’s very, very exclusive dating service.
And plunked themselves down at his desk.
He leans forward a little, head cocked at the dark-haired main in the Land Before Time stegosaurus t-shirt, ripped workman’s jeans and very expensive suit coat as he tries to understand that last comment. “I’m sorry mister, uh, Mr. Murdock, I don’t speak Russian...”
“Look, man, what the fool here sayin’ is,” the burly, tattooed, black guy’s saying, “boss can’t want no trouble. Need to make this painless for ‘im.”
Templeton nods, and glances back down at his notes on this prospective client. It’s not one of these two, no. It’s their boss. John Smith. Late fourties, never married, West Point grad, five years as a military officer, jumped ship into venture capital, did well, did very well, net worth over $300 million. The typical story, maybe, then. Wildly successful captain of industry too busy to slow down and find himself a girl, too worried about what she’s after to ever trust her, taken advantage of in the past, or maybe...
“You’ve come to the right place. The Millionaire Cub has one of the highest success rates for high-powered individuals, such as your boss, to find that lasting, loving relationship they deserve, even in a city like New York...”
“Can the party line, man,” the black man, what was his name? Baracus? the personal assistant? kind of growls. “Just wanna make sure this is the right deal for Hannibal.”
“Hannibal, hmm,” Templeton says, writing that down at the bottom of his page of notes. Boxing it for emphasis. What the hell kind of nickname is Hannibal, anyway? This could prove to be an interesting case. “Hmm, yes, I’m just the assistant matchmaker here, but I’m confident we can help your boss find love.”
“Oh, yay!” the dark-haired man says, clapping his hands. Templeton tries not to let it faze him.
“We’re going to need him to come down himself for an interview,” he continues, as smooth as he can. “Give us some personal details, what he’s looking for in a woman, and of course, my boss, Charisa, wants to see everybody herself before she commits to a new member...”
Stegosaurus, Murdock, looks over at Baracus. “Vhy?” he asks. In a heavy Russian accent.
Templeton sighs. Who were these guys? New York being what it was, but still... “I know you’re his public affairs coordinator, and I assure you, we have the highest degree of privacy when it comes to...”
Baracus gives his partner another glance, and folds his hands in his lap. “What fool here’s trying to say is that, uh, the boss, he, err...”
“Gay as May Pole,” Murdock finishes, biting at a fingernail like he’s never seen one before. “Queer as a three dollar bill. Happily sailing the seven seas as an ass pira...”
One of those big, tattooed hands slams down over the other man’s mouth, which only seems to elicit an eyeroll. “Shut up, fool!” Baracus barks.
Templeton nods. Ah. So that’s it. Must complicate this Hannibal’s life significantly. “Your boss is homosexual.”
“That a problem?” Baracus grunts.
The blonde takes another note. If it that happens to be I wonder if he’s cute, Charisa will forgive him for it. Like always. He does that with all their like-minded clients. But he's never made it an issue for her.
He knows her rules.
He keeps his dick to himself and uses his finely honed personal gaydar to sort out the Right One, for the boys who like the boys. And honestly, he hasn't met a single one of these businessmen he's interested in yet. Most are too fussy, too prissy, too one-dimensional, for him to be interested in. Men who have defined their existence through their money hold no interest for him. Besides the obvious appeal of having a sugar daddy, which he'd be too old for now anyway, even if he hadn't burned himself out on that whole scene in college. Nope. Not for him at all.
“We believe here at the Millionaire Club that everyone’s deserving of true love,” Templeton tells the grumbling startled personal assistant. “No matter what orientation they might be. I'm in charge of her gay division, actually. I assure you, I'm quite good.” And he smiles that smile at them. The one that melts hearts at fifty paces.
Both men seem to relax. But Murdock still has to tug Baracus’ big hand off his mouth. “you can ‘elp him, then?” Texas is drawling off his voice now. Lovely. And come to think of it, the man’s rather cute...
“Yes,” Templeton says, rising, shaking both their hands, getting a bit of a bow from Murdock. “I think we’d be a good choice for John to start his search for romance.”
“When can he come by?” Baracus asks, whipping out a PDA that looks far, far too delicate for his big fingers to manipulate.
The blonde matchmaker winks at him. “For a man with a name like Hannibal? Charisa has an opening tomorrow, ten thirty. She can see him then. Just...”
“Jus’ what?” Murdock asks.
Templeton grins ruefully, rubs a hand against the artfully in-style stubble of his chin. “Just make sure he understands. Charisa can... come on a little strong.”
Baracus nods as he types, surprisingly dexterous, really. “How strong?”
“She’s very passionate about what we do here,” Templeton replies smoothly, smiling internally as he thinks about all the times he’s seen her kick somebody out of her office for not following her rules, or lectured a client to the point of tears about how they’re getting in the way of their own happiness. Things like that. “She’s a firecracker, my boss.”
“Keep that in mind, man,” the assistant acknowledges, and hits Murdock lightly on the shoulder. “C’mon, crazy. Time to go...”
And the way they walk out of there, so close to each other, the way Murdock’s poking Baracus and Baracus is putting up with it, Templeton can’t help but lean back in his chair and wonder if they might be fucking.
This is going to be an epic case.
If those two are any indication of what he can expect from this John Smith.
+++++
The next morning, Templeton’s waiting in their little lobby, joking with Amy the secretary, the girl blushing furiously even though she knows he plays for the other team, waiting for those elevator doors to open and deposit one John Smith in their office.
“So, what do you think he’ll be like, Temp?” Amy giggles. “Former military officer who’s gay?”
“Maybe he had an awakening while he was there,” the assistant matchmaker teases back, playing with her new bracelet. “You know, all those big, sweaty men doing big, sweaty, manly things...”
She laughs harder.
“Sounds like fun, doesn’t it, sweetheart? We should get you one, some burly, ass-kicking soldier...”
“Most of them are sort of geeks, actually,” a rich male voice behind him says.
Templeton feels like dying of embarrassment, right then and there, but somehow manages to turn around, adjust his gray wool vest and offer his hand out to the man in front of him. “Just having a bit of fun with the secretary here.”
Sky-blue eyes are sparkling at him from beneath silvery locks of smooth hair. “I’m sure.”
The guy’s got a firm grip, Templeton notices. A very firm grip. And extremely blue eyes. Christ, he’s tall. Imposing. One of those huge presences they see in here sometimes, but...warm, somehow. Open. Honest. Noble, maybe.
And all Templeton can think is why the hell is this guy single?
“John Smith,” the man prompts, still holding on to his hand. “And you are?”
““Templeton Peck,” he manages, trying not to oogle this guy. Really, really trying not to oogle. Can’t touch, can’t touch, Templeton, can’t touch...
“My boys told me this operation seemed legit,” Hannibal’s saying, pulling in a little closer, “but I didn’t think they’d be quite this good.”
“Good?” Templeton asks, laughing nervously.
“I thought I was just coming in for a preliminary,” the older man replies, definitely leaning in, and Templeton can smell a very, very good cologne. “And look what’s here...”
“You better settle down, John,” Templeton retorts easily, trying to grab for something solid and reliable right now. “What makes you think I’m out here waiting for you?”
“You going to tell me you weren’t?” Hannibal smiles back. It’s an utterly amazing smile, and the assistant matchmaker feels his knees start to go weak. And Hannibal, John, whatever the hell his name is, hasn’t let go of his hand yet...
Amy picks up her phone, an innocent sound that snaps Templeton back to reality.
“Umm,” the girl says, holding her hand dramatically over the receiver, “Temp? You want me to call Charisa and tell her y’all’s ten-thirty is here?”
“Uh, no, don’t worry about it, we’ll head in to see her now,” the blonde says, and John finally lets him go.
“My mistake,” the older man says, pulling away and shoving his hands in his pockets. Almost embarrassed, Face notices, and that’s no way to start out an appointment.
Smooth it over, Peck, smooth it over...
He shrugs and plays with the cuff of his pale blue shirt. “Would you like to follow me, Mr. Smith? My boss’ office is in the back...”
“Lead away,” Hannibal murmurs, and Templeton completely, totally, for real, ignores that little shiver he feels at the words, as he holds the door open for their new client, and ushers him back. Amy shoots the assistant matchmaker an apologetic glance, but he just shakes his head at her.
No apologies needed.
He knows the damn rules.
+++++
“So, Mr. Smith, what brings you to my office today?”
“I thought my boys would have explained that to you.”
“Hmm,” Charisa says, and Templeton, taking up position against the wall next to her desk, knows that sound. It’s her disapproving sound. It’s her I’m-gonna-rant-about-how-difficult-this-client-is-after-he-leaves sound. “I do need to hear it from you, Mr. Smith.”
“Please, call me John,” he laughs. “And what would you like to know?”
“What brings you to my office today,” the brunette matchmaker says, without missing a beat.
One of the things that makes Charisa so damn good at matching people is that she usually doesn’t give a shit what the client wants, because it’s not about what the client wants. It’s about what the client needs. And they need, right now, to figure out what this Hannibal guy needs.
So, Templeton turns his attention to the man sitting in one of those plush chairs in front of Charisa’s ridiculously posh desk.
He’s completely at ease, Hannibal is, one leg crossed up over the other, his hands locked behind his knee. The man has huge hands, absolutely huge. Templeton wonders, just for a moment, what they’d feel like sliding over his... and there’s a sort of sadness, hiding behind those bright eyes. Eyes that see everything, the blonde’s willing to bet. A keen intelligence, nothing ever missed.
“Well,” Hannibal says with a nod, “I don’t want to sound arrogant...”
Charisa waves that off. “Just talk, John.”
“I...” and he pauses, just a bit, and shakes his head. “Charisa, may I call you Charisa, it’s difficult for me to talk about my love life. I spent almost ten years in the Army, at West Point and then active duty, and there was no chance for any kind of meaningful relationship with, with, another man while...”
Templeton notices the way his voice hitches a bit, and looks at Charisa, but she’s caught it, too. “Did you have a relationship back then?”
“It didn’t last,” Hannibal replies quietly, and rolls his shoulders. “After I got out of the Army, I found I was good at predicting trends and opportunities in the international market, and I’ve spent the last twenty years leveraging that to build a business I’m extremely proud of...”
“What about your personal life during this time, John?” Charisa asks.
He shrugs again, still exuding that confidence, but now mostly as a blind. Clearly not a man used to opening up and letting someone in. Templeton wonders how many times he’s had his heart broken. “Non-existent. I’ll go out when I need something, and I’ve had a few casual relationships over the years, but...”
“What do you normally go for?”
That gets them a little smile. “Cute but not femme, sweet but strong, younger but not college-age young, somebody who’s had a degree of success themselves... it’s hard to know, sometimes, if a guy’s just looking for...”
“It’s a common problem for many of my club’s members. Money can attract all the wrong things, can’t it, John?”
But Templeton gets the feeling that Hannibal’s not really listening to her.
“I’ve tried, over the years...but nothing ever lasts.” He looks away. “I travel a lot. And...and... fuck, this is going to sound awful...”
Charisa makes that come-hither gesture of hers. “Just spill it, John.”
“So many men are so one-dimensional...” He looks right at Templeton, looks right through him. “They just want the physical, hands and mouth and...well, you know.” Hannibal sighs, and leans back in the chair. “It’s hard to find somebody that, err, holds my interest, or who stay interested.”
“What’s your IQ?” Charisa asks.
John shakes his head. “142, according to the tests they gave me in basic.”
“How long are you?” Templeton interjects, laconic and smirking, holding out his hands about a foot apart. For emphasis.
“Temp!” his boss squeals, a little horrified. “What the hell is wrong with you!?”
This CEO, on the other hand, cracks up.
Hard.
“I’m serious,” the younger man tells Charisa, and turns back to Hannibal, who’s still laughing. “Look, John, unrealistic expectations can ruin even the best of relationships. For example, with you being a badass multimillionaire, powerful, assertive, most men are probably going to assume you’re...a...”
“Top?” John asks, sobering, and what he says, the way he says it, holds everything that Templeton needs to know.
Heartbreak, yeah, sure, there has to be some of that here. But it’s more than just that. There’s a lot of repressed emotion. A man who’s clearly used to being in control, to being on guard. Hell, the first ten years of his adult life must have been spent sneaking around, lying, hiding. Must have been very isolating for him. Probably gave him a bit of a complex about his sexuality. Not an insignificant amount of uncertainty.
And the more successful he becomes, the higher he climbs, the more men must believe him to be some kind of dominant force in the bedroom and in life, in general. But that’s not what Hannibal needs, conquering some cute little boy, oh no. Hannibal needs to be able to let go, to open up, to trust... Hannibal, Templeton realizes, needs a partner. A real partner, in every sense of the word. Somebody he’s every bit as much in awe of as the other man is of him.
Fuck me sideways, Templeton thinks. What would that feel like?
“What do you want out of a man, John?” Charisa asks again, a little softer this time.
“I’ll be forty-six this year,” the CEO says quietly, hands moving to his lap as he stares up at the ceiling. “I’m not getting any younger, and I just, I...I want to share the rest of my life with somebody.”
The brunette matchmaker nods, smiles. “Well, John, I think you’ve come to the right place. We’re going to help you find that man. You believe me?”
John doesn’t respond to that, just nods back and stands. “So, what’s the process?”
“We screen potential matches for you from our extensive database, select the ones we feel would be good for you, and we’ll set up as many events as it takes, mixers, that sort of thing. You’ll have your choice from there,” Charisa says in that fake-warm voice of hers, rising with him and shaking his hand. “The first should be no later than next weekend. I’ll have Templeton here contact you with the details.”
“Wonderful, ma’am,” Hannibal says, just a little short now, like he’s itching to get out of here.
Templeton can sense that things are starting to get tense, so he pushes away from the wall, and nods to Charisa as he goes for the door. “I’ll show him out.”
“I can find my own way out, no need to worry about that,” the CEO tells them, stuffing his hand in his pockets without a hint of that earlier vulnerability, and brushes past Templeton on his way out.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smith,” the assistant matchmaker can’t help but murmur.
Then John turns that smile on him, right before he leaves. Leans in, just enough, just enough to whisper in Templeton’s ear, “ten inches, kid.”
And leaves him there, frozen to the spot.
Charisa’s trying to talk to him, Templeton knows, trying to tell him to get the hell out of her office and start looking over their files and pulling her a few potentials to review by this afternoon.
But all he can think right now is client, client, client, can’t touch the client...
+++++
Templeton shifts a little on his stool, and one of their interns, cute NYU boy who just goes by his last name, touches him on the shoulder.
“You doing okay, Temp? You need some coffee, mineral water, maybe a rockin’ guitar riff to wake you up?”
Charisa’s looking at him too, now, and the blonde man curses himself for getting distracted. They’ve got at least twenty of these interviews to go through this morning. Stat. “Yeah, yeah, Ravech, I’m just fine. And no Rock Band, guh. Awful...”
“Send in the first batch of guys,” his boss tells the kid.
And on they go.
Templeton’s got no idea why he feels so damn cranky this morning, though. It’s not like they have another option.
It had taken him three hours, fourteen minutes and twenty-two seconds yesterday to determine that they didn’t have anybody good enough for Hannibal. Not on file, anyway.
He had photographs, biographies and personality profiles on something like sixty or seventy self-identified gays. Out of those, maybe half were in the age range Charisa’s going to let them consider for the CEO - nobody over fourty-five should ever, ever date anybody under thirty-five, according to her rules. Out of those, well... he just wasn’t sure.
Hannibal needs...
“So, Temp, what’ve we got?” his boss asked him, hanging on the edge of his office door in those ridiculous pumps she always wears. Fashionable lady, Charisa, but he’d always been the better shopper.
He’d dropped a stack of folders down in front of him. “Maybe five or six guys who could be good matches. Solid, successful, not too young, not too old, flexible...”
“Flexible?”
It could have been a genuine question or a warning, so he just ignored it. “...adventerous, or at least, don’t mind traveling, say they’ll date an older man...Charisa, we don’t have very much.”
“We’ll have to do interviews,” she’d said.
And now here they were.
Charisa likes a nice spread when she’s doing a big mixer, eight to ten, ten max. It gives the client a good amount of choice, and his boss has this whole art to figuring out what kind of personalities she’s going to throw at a client. If somebody’s too arrogant, she’ll throw in a few matches who will challenge them, bite back. If somebody’s too timid, she makes sure she’s got confident, grounded matches in there. For somebody like Hannibal, who doesn’t really know what he wants, just not what he’s dated in the past, she goes for a wide range.
Ravech shows the first bunch in.
And the questions start flying fast and thick, three applicants at a time.
“How do you feel about dating an older man?”
“If you think your nipples are going to impress me in that silk shirt of yours, you’re wrong. And it’s last year’s color.”
“What about international travel, do you do that?”
“He’s a former military officer, so please tell me you don’t have dominance kink.”
“You look pretty young, kid, you sure you aren’t looking for a sugar daddy?”
“What are you looking for in a relationship, fun or love?”
“Are you serious about that combination of plaid that you’re wearing right now, honey?”
“What’s the biggest you’ve ever taken?”
“Monogamy, how are you with that?”
“You’re wearing guyliner right now. That’s a no. Thanks for coming.”
“What’s your ideal date night?”
“I see you lost your job, how’d that happen?”
Templeton taps his pen on his notes while Charisa keeps firing, trying to buy himself some time to think.
Their client, Hannibal, John, whatever he called himself, he didn’t know he wanted, which indicates uncertainty, fear, hesitancy, that sort of thing. The assistant director isn’t sure what that could mean for a good match. What mix of characteristics is going to work here. It’s not like matching women to men. There are similarities, of course, but the nuances are what’s tricky. Hannibal needs somebody solid, grounded but bright, a man who’s going to push on him a little, and invite him to push back. Somebody different, somebody a little exotic, a little exciting but somebody not... gay.
He’s got the distinct feeling that John doesn’t do the gay too well. Poor bastard, and here he is, trying to date in New York...
“Favorite book, movie, band and lube, in the order of importance to you, go,” he sighs, looking up at tall-and-handsome-from-Yale. This ought to be good.
“Crime and Punishment, Leonard Bernstein, Fear and Loathing in Los Vegas and massage oil from this great little place uptown...”
Templeton looks up from the bio the guy’s provided. Grad school, law school, corporate lawyer... “You’re going to lead with a goddamn Russian author?”
“Taught me all the reasons why college is fucking worthless,” the guy laughs.
Charisa clears her throat. “Thank you, but...”
“If I went into your bedroom right now what book would be sitting on your nightstand?” Templeton interrupts. This... this is interesting. “Next to that bottle of massage oil?”
The guy grins ruefully. “Trashy paperback spy novel...”
Templeton looks back down at the bio, and then up. Smiles. “Well, thanks Vance. You’re definitely on our list. We’ll call you by tomorrow at the latest.”
He gets a smile in return, and Templeton’s got no idea, none at all, why that makes him so nervous.
It’s not like he’s in this little...thing... after all.
+++++
Charisa punches Templeton lightly on the shoulder. “Who pissed in your cornflakes this morning, Temp?”
The blonde shrugs. They’re outside one of the upscale bars Charisa likes to rent out for these events, waiting for Hannibal to show up, all their selected men for their client already waiting inside. Charisa just finished giving them her usual advice, the sum of which always seems to be don’t act like a pack of jackasses tonight, boys, and remember, we’re all here looking for that someone special, and probably wasn’t any different tonight. She’s got one of her event dresses on, and a different pair of those pumps, and Templeton really, really isn’t in the mood.
“John isn’t here yet,” he tells her.
She grabs for his wrist and shows her assistant director his own watch. “He’s got fifteen minutes. I’m sure he’ll...”
“A good soldier’s always early, ma’am,” that deep, rich voice says, and both matchmakers look up.
Templeton a little faster than his boss.
And there’s Hannibal. Tall, rich, beautiful Hannibal wrapped in perfectly tailored cobalt blues, cuff-links elegantly understated, and a cologne that Templeton knows for a fact costs over three hundred a bottle. His silver hair’s slicked back, one hand playing with a cigar tube, and there’s a faint smile on his lips as he realizes they’re both sizing him up.
He clearly isn’t worried.
Which means he is.
“No smoking,” Charisa says immediately, taking the tube away and handing it to Templeton. “You didn’t mention you’re a smoker.”
“Enjoying a good cigar every once in a while does not make me a chronic smoker,” John says, and shudders a bit. “You’ve never smelled bad tobacco until you’ve had one of those Army-issue death sticks...”
“Still. No smoking. You can get it back from Temp after the mixer,” she says flatly, crossing her arms. That expression on her face has been scientifically engineered, the assistant director always thinks, to melt even the most intractable of men. He’s seen her reduce several clients to tears before, with that look.
But John just winks at Templeton. “Okay. Let’s get this show on the road.”
He does well.
Better than Charisa or Templeton were expecting.
Mixes with everybody, spending time with each of the men in turn, nobody too long or too short, listens when he should listen, talks when he should talk, and there’s more laughter than they normally expect from something like this.
“Think it’s an act?” the head matchmaker muses, leaning against the bar, sipping at a club soda with a twist of lime. “He’s...”
“Not an act,” Templeton says, watching the tall man work the room. “He’s inspecting them. Can’t you tell? He’s not interacting. He’s evaluating, all analytical...”
“Well, he hasn’t pissed anyone off yet, so there’s that,” Charisa replies with a shrug, and then lowers her glass a bit, smiling. “Ah, and there’s your boy. Looks like he’s coming back to that one.”
And he is, Templeton notices. Hannibal’s stopped moving, right with Vance, and the conversation’s gotten a little quieter, a little more private, the two of them leaning into each other a bit. Not quite touching, although it’s clear Hannibal’s hand wants to come up onto Vance’s shoulder, and, and, and... oh fuck, that hand's on Vance's shoulder and Vance is smiling, and just...
Fuck.
The blonde can’t watch anymore. His stomach’s knotting up, which is probably just because he had falafel for lunch. That’s all it is. It’s not because John’s talking to all these eligible, very eligible, handsome, sauve, eager men. Not because he picked Vance out, knowing the lawyer would pique John’s sensibilities, and look, there he is, doing it. Not because he wishes he was out there, instead of right here, getting a chance, getting an unparalleled chance to maybe, just maybe...
Charisa must have gone to cut Hannibal out of the throng, as neatly and surgically as a collie through a herd of sheep like she always does, because now the CEO’s joining them at the bar ordering his second scotch and smiling a little at Templeton. “So,” she asks, “who do you want for your mini-dates, John? Finding any connections out there?”
“Well, Vance, for one,” Hannibal says. “I thought he was a rather interesting guy...”
“Interesting?” Charisa practically purrs. “This from the man who thought he couldn’t find anyone to capture his interest. Okay, who else?”
Templeton looks away. If he ordered it right now, the boss probably wouldn’t notice if he got a shot of two of vodka in his club soda, her damn rules about no drinking on these nights.
But John’s still watching him.
And Charisa’s watching what John’s watching, so he’s probably not going to get away with it.
Any of it.
Damn.
The night wears on.
And on.
And on.
One of John’s other picks, Rich Mortensen, advertising partner, comes and goes, a slightly confused look on his face as he comes back out, and Templeton watches, a little sick, as the man goes back to a group of the others and laughter ensues.
He lets Charisa pick apart that hairball.
Adam Salinsky, the older test case Charisa wanted to throw at Hannibal, see if he’d go for something a little more boring but a little more stable, just shakes his head and orders another drink.
Templeton doesn’t say anything, even though he’s technically supposed to ask. Find out what John’s doing right, what he’s doing wrong, where they need to readjust, based on the date’s input. But he just can’t.
But Vance...
Vance comes back smiling.
The event’s over after that, everyone allowed to drift out as they want to, the bar’s sleek cherrywood interior emptying out. Until it’s just Charisa and him and John, who’s on his fourth scotch and showing absolutely not a trace of it at all. His hand’s twitching again, and Templeton feels for the cigar tube in his pocket. Man’s worn out. Needs a smoke. Needs time to think. Needs time to process.
But Charisa’s finishing up her post-mixer interrogation. No escape quite yet.
“So, out of the three you had longer conversations with, did you find one you’d like to call?”
“I...look, Charisa, sweetheart, I need... it’s a lot to take in all at once, and...”
She bristles. Fuck, Templeton thinks to himself, watching the body language, and slides off his stool down at the end of the bar. It’s starting.
“Sweetheart? Sweetheart? Let me tell you something, John, I don’t care where you got your start off in this life, but if you continually look down on the people around you as if they’re somehow your subordinates, it’s not wonder you can’t find a man who’s a partner and not some butt-boy who wants to play beta to your alpha. If you think you can find romantic bliss by asserting your authority... I was watcing you out there tonight. You weren’t interacting. You were inspecting those boys like they were your fucking...”
“You mention the word soldier, Charisa, and we’re...”
Templeton gets in the middle of that. His boss’s tirades about people’s personal habits being what they are. Better to just cut it off at the pass. While there’s still time.
“Boss, come on, John’s had a lot to digest right now,” the blonde matchmaker says, tugging her aside, and gives the older man a sympathetic smile. “Let him have a chance to think it over, and he can get back to us tomorow, or...”
“He’s not, Temp. He’s not going to get us an answer unless we pin him down and force him to...”
“Look at him, Charisa,” Templeton urges quietly, nodding back over at where Hannibal was draining that scotch and asking for another. “He’s exhausted and I bet he needs a smoke. Let me talk to him. I think he liked Vance. He’s probably just not sure what to do about it...”
She rolls her eyes, but nods. “Okay, okay, it’s your division, you handle it. But if you let him leave without getting a firm commitment for a date...”
“I won’t.”
“We need to build his confidence up.”
“We will,we will,” he assures her, squeezing her hand.
Before letting go and slotting up next to Hannibal against the bar.
“Hey, big bad CEO,” Face teases, watching the older man’s hands shaking a bit, and holds up the cigar tube. “Why don’t you say we get out of here, talk this over somewhere else?”
A small smile forms in the corner of John’s mouth, and the matchmaker tries not to think about how, all evening, that smile’s been aimed at him. “Take you to dinner?” he asks softly.
“Smoking’s illegal in New York restaurants these days,” Templeton replies, biting his lip, trying not to respond.
Hannibal nods, shrugs, and plucks the cigar out of the younger man’s fingers. “Then let’s go see what the alley looks like, shall we?”
Alley?
As soon as they’re out of the room, into the cool air outside, John relaxes. A lot. And it doesn't make too much sense to the younger man.
Because the alley’s dark and filthy, filthy to the point that Templeton can feel the dirt crawling up the sides of his shoes. His very, very expensive shoes.
Damn.
Oh, the things he does for his clients...
But Hannibal needs to talk, probably knows he needs to talk, and he’s talking. So Templeton tries to ignore the puddles and focus.
“So, that’s the intense Charisa Sosa I’ve heard so much about?” Hannibal’s asking, twirling the tube in his fingers. “Doesn’t seem too bad.”
“Yeah, she’s... well, it’s her way of trying to guarantee everyone finds love. If it makes you feel any better, she lays that unsolicited relationship advice on her employees all the time. I think she’s praticing or...” sharpening her claws, but he doesnt say that.
“What was her advice to you, Templeton?”
The younger man’s brain freezes up at the sound of the CEO, saying his name. There’s something just so...so sensual about it.
Client, client, client...
“That I’ll never be happy until I decide which is better, fucking or being fucked.”
“You’re...”
“Double-hinged? Maybe. Sometimes girls are nice. Does it matter?” He shrugs. “Guess I’m drawn to powerful personalities, really, men and women. I mean, fuck, look who I work for...”
Hannibal sighs. “Templeton, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot, with me assuming you were...”
“Not your fault I’m devilishly handsome,” Templeton says cheerfully, handing over the cigar tube. “I can’t help it that I look this good.”
“It’s not your face, kid,” the older man says, shoving his free hand in his pockets. “It’s got nothing to do with that at all.”
“No? You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure about that.”
“Must be the suit then,” Templeton replies, which gets him a snort from the CEO. “Hey, nothing wrong with a man who knows how to sport the three-piece!”
Hannibal just raises an eyebrow as he taps the cigar out, sniffing it appreciatively before going for his lighter. “It’s a very nice suit, kid, but that’s not what’s so... about you.”
“So what?”
“So you, Templeton. There’s something very honest about you...”
The younger man laughs at that. “Seriously, John, you don’t know me from...look, there’s nothing honest about me...”
“You read people. You know what people want,” the CEO tells him softly, strangely soft, staring off down the street. “And when you give it to them, you think you’re manipulating them, and you probably are, sometimes, but mostly, you’re just trying to do something good for whoever the fuck. So you think you’re a bad person. And you see too much, too fast, so you already know how something’s going to end before it begins, and there’s no point in making the attempt. So you’re alone, trying to enjoy what you can, always afraid of the future that your partner can’t see for themselves...”
It shakes him. Right down to his eight hundred dollar oxfords. Nobody’s ever...he’s never...did John just...after meeting him once...and he realizes his mouth is literally hanging open. “No,” he manages, trying to get himself collected. Hannibal couldn’t have knocked him down harder if he’d used one of those giant hands in a hard left hook. “No, I’ve never...”
It’s Hannibal’s turn to laugh. “You’re a bad liar, kid.”
“I’ll have you know I’m a very good liar, John.”
“Not from where I’m standing,” the older man says, puffing on his cigar and staring up at the smeared night sky of New York, a mere sliver above them. “You’re a mystery, kid, but you aren’t a liar. And you sure as shit ”
“If I’m a mystery, Hannibal,” Templeton challenges, “how the fuck you’d know that about me?”
“A mystery to the wrong person. And I’m guessing it’s only ever the wrong person.” Hannibal nods to himself. “To the right person, on the other hand...”
The matchmaker digests this information for a moment. Fuck, he thinks to himself. They should have screened IQs. The fleshy part of the bell curve isn’t going to cut it for John, not at all, and Templeton despairs for a moment. Where are they going to find this man the man he deserves? The one he needs? The one who’s going to put up with the fact he’s wearing brown socks and black pants, all those cutting insights, the way he looks through things and sees all the whole of all of it...
“Are you going to take that date with Vance?” he asks, needing to get this train wreck of a pep talk back on track. “This is the whole point of the evening, and you seemed to like him...”
“Should I?”
No, Templeton wants to say, but that’s not his job. He doesn’t get to keep this man. Rules. Stupid fucking rules. And he’s not sure if he could stand up to Hannibal anyway. Probably couldn’t. Fuck, he helps rich idiots find girlfriends. What’s he to a man like this? “Yes, you should.”
“Would you?”
He smiles. “I’ll never make enough to be a client here.”
John gives him a strange look. “What’s that mean?”
“You’re paying for more an experience with us, not a service,” Templeton has to answer lamely. “You should enjoy the experience, learn what you can, gain some confidence, figure out what you’re looking for in a man, and...”
Hannibal takes another deep, contemplative drag on his cigar. “What if I know what I’m looking for in a man? What then?”
Is this CEO flirting with him?
“Do you?” Templeton asks.
“Yeah, kid,” Hannibal replies, and there’s a hand on the younger man’s shoulder now, a hand that’s moving around the back on his neck. “I know I want.”
It feels... it feels better than anything he’s felt in a long time, the blonde thinks, and he doesn’t make a move to take it away.
But still. This is completely outside the boundaries. Charisa’s rules. And he couldn’t lose his job with her, couldn’t let let her down, and if he lets this go on...
“I’d take the date, John,” he says. “Never know until you take that chance, right?”
“Guess that’s true enough,” Hannibal says. “What if it doesn’t work out?”
“You say ciao and we start this all over again for you.”
“Sounds like a lot of work for you, Templeton.”
“Oh, I’m dedicated to my clients...”
“Do anything for them?”
“Absolutely.”
“Hmm,” Hannibal says, staring down at his half-finished cigar, and then tossing it away with a slight smile. “Absolutely anything?”
“That’s why you’re paying me the big bucks.”
“I’m not in the habit of paying for it,” the older man muses, and there’s definitely a tease in his voice as he tightens tht hand down around Face’s neck, pulling him close. Hard. “But I think we can say this isn’t part of your job description, then?”
“What isn’t?”
“This,” Hannibal murmurs, so close Templeton can taste his cologne. And now his breath, tinged warm and wonderful from scotch and smoke and something, something deeper, something unique and strong and urgent. And now his lips. And now his tongue, the first light thrust lighting the younger man up like Times Square on fucking New Year’s Eve. The one single thrust, the probing push of...
“Can’t say I paid for that, now can you?”
Templeton closes his eyes and tries not to beg for more. Fuck, that, that, that was...
“Should I take Vance on that date?” the CEO murmurs, running a hand around the small of the younger man’s back and pulling him close. “Should I, mister matchmaker? Or should I see what else you can do for me, off the clock?”
“Mm,” Templeton manages to moan out, feeling the hardness of the other man’s groin pressing in, just above his own. “That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? Finding a man...”
“Finding a mate. Men are a dime a dozen, warm bodies and smooth lips,” Hannibal corrects, eyes twinkling as he slides both his arms down around the back of the blonde’s shoulders. “I’m here to find a mate.”
“That’s what I’m here for. To help you with that.”
“I should say so,” the older man chuckles back. “And you’ve clearly got good instincts, kids. Let’s say I humor you on Vance. What do I get in return?”
“A fun evening...” Templeton tries, desperately needing to get back on top of this thing. This is not the way it’s supposed to work. Not supposed to work like this at all. Isn’t Hannibal supposed to want the nice lawyer he’s picked out? One of the men from the mixer? Anyone but him?
“I think I could show some young man a fun evening,” Hannibal whispers in his ear, and swats Templeton on the ass as he lets go. “Let’s see how Vance likes it, then. It’s all practice, right?”
“P-pratice...” Templeton nods back, nerves on fire. Shit, what it is about this John guy? This tall, rich, beautiful, John? “Yeah, man, practice...”
“Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting, then,” the CEO says,
"Call him tomorrow," the matchmaker says, feeling a little defeated even though he really should feel elated, and opens his jacket, reaching for the inner pocket. "I've got his contact information..."
Hannibal's long fingers dip into that pocket for him, nudging his own out of the way, tangling just a bit as he tugs the small card free. "You've only got Vance's in here," he observes. "And it's typed."
"The rest of those guys were shmucks. He was the one you were going to pick."
"You're sure? That he's the one?" Hannibal asks with that dazzling smile. "You already know me so well, Temp..."
"I know people, John," Templeton says, trying desperately to keep his balance. "It's my job."
"And you're doing fantastic so far," John murmurs, and with that, he’s gone, down the alley, striding away with long, confident strides, waving the card back over his shoulder.
And Templeton completely ruins his Armani as he collapses back against the dirty brick wall.
John is definitely flirting with him.
Why in the fuck is John flirting with him?
John is not supposed to be flirting with him.
John is supposed to be flirting with Vance. Vance. The cute Yale lawyer Templeton’s picked out special.
And if this fucks up their client’s date, well...
Charisa is going to kill them both.
But mostly him.
Definitely, definitely going to kill him for this.
+++++
Templeton pauses in the foyer of the gigantic Pine Street office building to scan the huge directory in its little touch-screen podium. Fuck. Hannibal’s company takes up ten floors, but there’s no listing he can find for which floor, which room, might be the CEO’s. At least it’s somewhere between the start of the business day and early lunch time, so he doesn’t have to worry about people gawking at his stupid self as he scrolls menus and swears quietly to himself.
Dammit, why did Hannibal have to request him here today? Isn’t his date tonight? What the fuck is his problem?
You’re going and that’s the end of it! Charisa had said when the call came in this morning. Get your butt over there now, Temp. Hold his hand, assauge his fears, give him some pointers and help your goddamn client!
He’s mostly just worried that Hannibal’s going to shove him against a wall and kiss him stupid.
Not that he told Charisa about that.
Not that he would particularly mind that again, but...
The matchmaker finds the right room on the right floor, finally, and settles back against the elevator wall, reminding himself of what he’s decided. That he can’t let Hannibal keep doing what he’s doing. The kissing, the looks. It could cost him his job, and worse, his credibility in his chosen profession. And respect is something that Templeton’s worked so, so hard to cultivate. Ever since the orphanage. He can’t lose it, just can’t, to the caprice of some confused millionaire.
Get his head on straight for the date tonight, Peck, he tells himself, sauntering down the hall of the modern, gleaming fifteenth floor. Get out unkissed.
Baracus looks up from a wide desk out in front of a huge door. It’s a little waiting room of sorts, obviously Hannibal’s front office, and the big black guy frowns up at him. “What you want, fool?”
“I, uh, Mr. Smith called me about...”
The CEO’s personal assistant rolled his eyes and stood. “Hannibal don’t tell me nothing no more, swear to...” and he knocks on the big door. “Yo, Hannibal, man! Those dating service people here to see you!”
There’s a muffled thud on the other side of the wood.
“Send him in, BA!”
The big black guy chuckles, and goes back to his chat session with somebody called Flyin’Cowboy269. Templeton gives him one scrutinizing look, and opens the door.
WHZZZZZZTHHUNKKKK
The matchmaker jumps sideways, hand clamping down over his chest in shock, adrenaline coursing out everything, white hot.
“Sorry, kid! Didn’t realize you were gonna...”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Templeton manages, trying to get his lungs to recover from the shock and start breathing again. He doesn’t dare look at it straight on, the thing that just impaled the wall next to him, four inches of flat, thin, quivering, creamy white... “what the fuck is that?”
“Throwing knife,” Hannibal says from across the wide corner office, another one balanced in his hand.
“Why...what are you...throwing knives?”
“It’s quieter than guns, kid,” the CEO says happily.
“Guns? What the fuck do you need a gun f...”
WHZZZZZZTHHUNKKKK
“You may want to move over to the right,” Hannibal calls out.
“I...”
“WHZZZZZZTHHUNKKKK
Templeton takes a deep breath. Seems like the man’s got good aim. Nothing to be worried about, nothing at all. Just another client, trying to freak him out. Happens all the time. Like the guy with the stripper pole in his living room. “Why are they taupe?”
“Taupe? Got a thesaurus in that head of yours, Temp?”
“No, I just...”
WHZZZZZZTHHUNKKKK
“Ceramic blades,” Hannibal explains, hands empty as he’s walking over. “One hundred percent. You can get these little bastards through airport security.”
Templeton pokes at one of the slim little knives. Five of them. Really close together. Make that very good aim. Stuck into deep corkboard, a printed page of a logo he recognizes as another Wall Street firm taped on top. “You do a little international assassination work on the side here, John?”
“I bore easily,” the older man jokes back.
“Yeah, uhh, why not darts?”
Hannibal bumps him playfully with a shoulder as he slots up, a big shit-eating grin on his face, making to pull the first knife out. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“I bet you’re a great guy at the bars, John.”
That gets him a laugh, and then the older man shakes his silver head, and leans into the wall on that same strong shoulder. “Glad you came, kid. I wanted to ask you about...”
“Your date with Vance tonight?” Templeton offers. No way is he falling for other one of his client’s overbearing seduction attempts, surprisingly, inexplicably effective as the damn encounters might be. “It is tonight, right?”
Hannibal looks back to his knives, and starts plucking them free. “Yeah, tonight. 1930, meeting him at this really great steakhouse down in Soho...”
“That’s good. Steak, nice and manly...”
“Temp, I’m not...” and Hannibal turns to him, the hilts all clustered up in his closed fist, blades back, and for a crazy second, the younger man thinks he’s going to cut his jacket or something. “Vance? You really think he’s a good idea?”
Templeton suppresses - barely, barely suppresses - the urge to hit himself in the forehead. Hard. How in the hell can this amazing man be so hesitant to go have a nice dinner with a perfectly nice, perfectly right-for-him lawyer? And then be so goddamn aggresive about a man he’s not supposed to interested in ever? “Look, John, you came to us for help with your love life, right? Right? Do you want me to help you or not? Can you let me help you? Please?”
Hannibal lays his head back against the wall, eyes bright. “Sure.”
“Awesome, cool, so tell me what the problem is, why you’re feeling so iffy on this whole thing. You did say you liked Vance.”
“I do,” the CEO says, rotating back so both shoulder blades are on the wall now. “He’s an interesting guy. But it’s...”
“Yeah? It’s what?”
“Lovers are never a problem, kid. Friends, friends are...”
“Much more difficult?” Templeton finishes with a smile, and reaches out for John’s hand. The one that doesn’t have the throwing knives. It opens for him, larger than his own, cradling it perfectly. “You were doing just fine at the mixer.”
“Kid, you of all people should know there’s a huge difference between talking to somebody and having a conversation,” Hannibal says, squeezing his hand before dropping it, walking back over to his desk and flicking out a little red velvet case, all sewn up with sleeves for the knives. He starts filing them away. “I’m... I’m not so good at the second.”
“I think we’ve had a good conversation or two...” Face says, and then feels his cheeks go hot. “I mean, shit, John... you know what I mean! You know what I mean, right?”
He watches Hannibal shrug, and the man tucks another knife back into place. “You’re remarkable easy to talk to, Temp.”
“So what makes it so easy to talk to me and not him?”
“He’s not you,” Hannibal says. Like it’s obvious.
Templeton sighs. “That’s not an answer, John.”
The CEO looks up from his throwing knives - something that the younger man’s brain sort of wants to rebel from, and something that makes complete sense at the same time. “You’re going to tell me it’s not professional, right?”
“What? Well, kind of not, I mean, I could lose my job...”
“That’s what he said,” Hannibal grumbles, low, under his breath, almost too quiet to catch, and Templeton realizes he must be talking about his old lover, the military man, and wants to ask... but when Hannibal straightens, there’s a teasing little smile there. “I wanted to know if you had any pointers for me, for tonight.”
“Anything in particular?”
“What should I not do?”
Templeton considers this, and nods. “Well, no throwing knives.”
Hannibal laughs. “Steak knives really have no balance to them, bounce right off the target. I think I can control myself.”
The matchmaker tries not to wonder if the older man knows this from experience, or if he’s just joking around. Impossible to know, and he is so not going to ask. “WEll, you can come on pretty strong...”
“Nature of the business, Temp...”
And Temp casts an eye around the room. It’s somewhat spartan, no huge collection of nick-nacks, sleek as a Scandinavian design showroom. But there are touches, hints, of what this man does with his life. Pinned-up photos of jungles and deserts, labeled and marked, construction beginning or mining occurring or trees being replanted. Concept drawings for huge complexes, hospitals and hotels. Stock figures. Graphs. Documents strewn across the wide glass desk, in English and French and Arabic and something that might be Japanese. And a big silver plaque, a diploma, West Point...
“Don’t bring business into a date, John,” Templeton says carefully. “Guys are going to interpret that kind of extreme forwardness as a dominance thing. Just like Charisa told you after the mixer.”
“Is that how you see it?”
“This isn’t about what I think, personally...”
“Be honest with me, Temp.”
The younger man shakes his head and runs a hand across his mouth. “Yeah, I think you’re used to being the guy on top, in all aspects of your life, but you have to understand, that makes you unapproachable. You have to relax, loosen up, let someone in. Let the world see that amazing man you’ve got locked down in there...”
“Amazing, huh?”
And Templeton can just feel his cheeks flaming now. “Yeah, well...man, remember, it’s not about... I mean... fuck, John, it’s... what I see isn’t necessarily what somebody else is going to see right away, and first impressions are...”
“Any specifics on being more approachable?”
“No throwing knives.”
“You already said that.”
“Yeah, well...look, John, it’s always better to let someone get to know you from a common, relatable, shared baseline before...”
“I’m not relatable?”
There’s a bit of hurt in Hannibal’s voice, and Templeton cringes. Shit. Way to kick the man. “No, John, you’re not unrelatable, just...uncommon.”
“Uncommon? Doesn’t seem to bother you.”
“But we’ve talked. I know you a little, I’d like to think, and once you get to know somebody, their unique, err, peculiarities can become turn-ons rather than...”
Hannibal pushes away from his desk. “I turn you on?”
What? Fuck. No, no. Fuck, no. What did he just... fuck. Charisa’s going to kill him. He can already see it. Murder him in some creative way and then the team from CSI:NY is going to have to come solve it... “John, that’s, err, no, we’re...we’re talking generalities here, not specifics about, say, me...”
WHZZZZZZTHHUNKKKK
“Motherfucker! John, you son of a...”
Hannibal’s smirking. “You’re telling me there’s nothing about that you like?”
“Call me tomorrow, John,” he snaps, jerking the door open, desperately needing to not allow himself to rise to that undeniable challenge. “We need to assess how it goes.”
“Will do, Temp.”
Temp...
It follows him out into the lobby, back to the elevators, the word, his name, sweet on sweet lips, sweeter than it's ever been before, and he wonders again if maybe he just couldn’t...
But no.
It's not about him.
And John’s going to need some watching on this whole dating thing, Templeton decides.
A lot of watching.