Too Far Gone - Part One of Three

[sonora_coneja]

Pairing: Hannibal/Face?Murdock
Rating: R
Warnings: angst! And fighting!
Summary: Part one of three for a fill for this prompt over at the kink meme

I recently wrote a tonne of Hannibal angst, and for some reason I need more. Hm.

So heres the idea.

Face and Murdock are together. Lovelorn!Hannibal has been dying to get in on that action but they've not really shown any sign of wanting him. But then, April 1st, they start showing interest. Touching him more than usual, making shrewd comments, driving him insane.

Then bang. April Fool's Boss! C'mon you didn't really think we were serious.................did you?

Ofc he did.

I'll also be happy with this prompt if it's H/F with outside Murdock, but my brain is telling me Boss wouldn't play a nasty prank on his unstable pilot like that. idek.

Hannibal thinks he might have a chance with his boys. But they’re just playing a joke...right?



Hannibal’s comes downstairs that morning to the loud strains of Rock Band, roaring out of the television in the den. Face on guitar. Murdock on vocals. Fuck. Of course they’d be at it already. BA’s off to visit family, so it’s just the three of them.

Which means Face and Murdock do whatever the fuck they want. Whenever they want.

It’s getting harder, listening to them at night through walls too thin to hold out the sounds of their passion, having to see them the mornings after, wondering if this was the time they'd catch him, when he hadn't muffled his own cries well enough, if they'd somehow smell his hastily washed hands and hate him. Hate him for listening. Hate him for wanting to come at the same time. If they'd get pissed and leave. If he'd finally lose them.

You already lost them, John, he tells himself, and his insides twist up a bit.

The whole situation is just not fucking fair, the colonel thinks to himself as he goes for the coffee pot and finds it empty. With a sigh, he makes for the cabinet with the Folgers and the paper filters, filling up the carafe at the sink as he goes.

It’s April first, according to the calendar taped up next to the cabinet. Something he'd forgotten about, so he makes extra-sure to check the grounds as he measures them into a filter. No telling what those three boys of his will get up to on this day. There was that year when Face switched all his cigars out for similar-looking, gigantic joints. Or the time when BA and Murdock disassembled all his office furniture and set it up in the driveway of the headquarters building. Tricky, his boys.

Except... except they aren’t really his boys. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

He’s not sure when it started. He knows when they told him, Face and Murdock, right after the jailbreak the first time around.

You aren’t mad with us, are you, bossman?

I’m, we’re, we’re not just fucking, Hannibal. Want you to know that. We really care about each other. I'm not going to let anything happen to him...

Love you too, Temp...

And the former colonel’s stomach clenches up into a hard, bitter knot , remembering the way their hands had slipped into one another’s, holding and tightening.

Intimate. So intimate.

We thought you should know, boss, but if you need us to stop...

He’d sighed at the look in two pairs of blue eyes and lit up a cigar and told them gruffly he wouldn’t dream of it. That he trusted both of them to be professional, no matter what their lives were going to become, and they’d practically skipped from his little motel room, giggling like the little kids they so often seem to be.

Just in time, too. Because he’d sat down on the edge of the bed and cried like he hadn’t cried in years. Not since the letter in Afghanistan that his mother had died. Maybe harder, even than that.

He’d lost. He’d never said anything and now he’d lost.

It burned that day, setting a fire in him that hasn’t quite gone out since, the realization, the terror, the fucking grief at knowing, just fucking knowing, he’d never had either of them. Not now. Not ever.

And here they were, nearly a year and a half later, and there his boys were, playing video games and laughing, carefree. And why wouldn’t they be? They had each other. The colonel had never begrudged them their happiness, the small pleasure of their relationship. And they’d always been close, always been such good friends... it just made sense.

It makes sense, he repeats to himself now, listening to the TV cut out and the drip of coffee suddenly become loud in the still kitchen. Of course it make sense they’d want each other. Young and beautiful and full of life.

All the things he was not. Especially not since the escape. He feels like he’s aged a hundred years since then. Decrepit and worthless and old, so goddamn old compared to those boys. No wonder they wouldn't want him...

“Morning, boss!” Face says cheerily, sashshaying over to the coffee pot, hips swaying and he bumps Hannibal playfully out of the way, grabbing a mug and pouring himself the first cup of steaming goodness. “How did we sleep last night?”

Hannibal blinks, once, twice, trying to figure out what the fuck the kid was on about, a sudden stab of anger rising up in him as the next few drops of coffee fall to sizzle on the hotplate of the brewer. “Fine, kid,” he says cautiously.

And Face is smiling at him, holding out the now-full mug, sliding the carafe carefully back into place. “All lonely in that big bed of yours?” he purrs, and Hannibal damn near drops the mug, a thumb caressing a knuckle as his gorgeous lieutenant passes it over. “It’s terribly sad.”

“We should get the boss a girl,” Murdock agrees, nodding his head as he comes in behind and starts sorting through the fridge, pulling out eggs and milk and homemade sausage and lots of good things that are going to taste even better in a few minutes.

“You need that, Hannibal?” Face asks, leaning his chin on his hand, elbow resting on the counter, his ass canting up in the air a little. “You want a girl? Or should we go find you a boy? A real cute, sweet boy with a tight ass and big eyes, just begging you to...”

His cock twitches at those words, remembering the first time he’d laid eyes on the kid. Touseled blonde hair, big blue eyes, the best little conman smile, and he’d seen right through it all. Right down to that core, the boy begging for a place to belong, someone to love him, give him everything he ever wanted and always, always deserved... he coughs. “You got a point, kid?”

“Just, you know, you need to get laid,” Face concludes, and walks over to where Murdock’s setting up for what’s probably going to be a delicious omelette. He leans back on his elbows, smiling at the colonel but talking to his lover. “Think we should give him a hand, buddy?”

Murdock looks up, something indecipherable and almost sad passing across his face, just for a second, and then he grins so broadly Hannibal knows he was imagining things. “Mmm, I bet he tastes real good, Faceman.”

“I’d bet so, too.”

Hannibal can’t move, can’t breath, wondering if, if just maybe, if it’s at all within the realm of possibility, that maybe the boys might be serious. He can’t really tell. He wants it. He does. Wants it so fucking bad...

But then Face shrugs and Murdock giggles and goes back to his omelette. “Something to think about, anyway,” the lieutenant says, and comes back over for his own coffee. Dumps a ton of sugar in it and starts bitching about how bitter it is without, and how in the hell can Hannibal drink it without, exactly, again and Murdock starts talking about cane sugar’s effect on the slave trade and the Industrial Revolution.

He watches, sensing things are back to normal, and the colonel forces himself to relax.

Probably nothing to it, after all.

But...just maybe...

So Hannibal decides, against all his better judgment, everything in him, screaming at him not to let himself get hurt, decides that there might be the smallest shred of hope in this situation.

And smiles all the way through the omelettes and coffee and toast, Face's bare foot playing with the edge of his pant hem.

Maybe...

It could happen, right?

And then there is more.

A lot more.

Over the next twelve hours, Hannibal becomes convinced that the boys are flirting with him. It amps. Dramatically. Touches become more frequent. Face keeps stretching out at opportune moments, showing off the flat, hard planes of his body. They both go for a swim, teasing Hannibal in his lounger until he gives up and jumps in in his cargo shorts and an impromptu game of volleyball starts up. Afterwards, the boys stretch out on a towel on the deck, tangling up in each other, kissing, kissing, like they’re doing it just for his pleasure, until Hannibal excuses himself and flees to the safety of his in-suite shower. Murdock rubs his leg all through dinner and is dancing now through doing the dishes, Hannibal’s helping him dry.

Their hands keep touching.

Through it all, the colonel feels that hope growing. It’s insane. It’s completely insane. But maybe they’re finally noticed. Maybe they’re interested too - for whatever reason, maybe they’re interested. He can’t figure out why, though.

He really can’t.

He goes with it, though. Following all those little signs, overt and covert alike, he goes with it. He lets himself hope. Hope's okay, because it’s all pointing to...

But then Face comes back into the kitchen, carrying the last of the mess from the grill, and Hannibal gets his answer.

“Hey, James,” he says gently, palming Murdock’s ass and leaning over to kiss him. “How’s it going with you two in here?”

“Real good, Temp,” he replies, smacking his lips and bumping back a bit as he hands Hannibal the last dish. “But I think John here might like a little of that, too.”

And six-odd feet of hard, lean body slides around Murdock and pulls up against Hannibal. He can feel his blood start to race, hammering fast and hard in his ears, arousal spiraling from the simplest of touches as Face runs a flat palm around the colonel’s back.

“You know what, boss?” he whispers, right in Hannibal’s ear.

He barely trusts himself to speak, but he’s been wanting this, needing this, dying to have this, for the last thirteen years. So he tries. “What’s that, kid?” he asks back, voice grating against the rising emotion.

Face grins, and his lips crash down on Hannibal’s...

...and pull off, far too quick for him to do anything. The colonel’s about to groan, about to grab the kid and force him back into it, a real kiss, the kiss he’s been wanting for so, so long...

“April Fools!” they both yell at once, Face’s hands still around Hannibal’s waist, Murdock watching with that crazy intensity he likes to pull out sometimes. Two pairs of beautiful blue eyes.

Beautiful, perfect, teasing blue eyes.

It’s only a lifetime of discipline that keeps Hannibal from completely breaking down, right here and right now. Today. Goddamn today. April first. Motherfucker, how could he have possibly been this stupid? How could he have fallen for this? It’s always something. Every year, it’s always something...

But those eyes are still watching him, and he’s still their commander, and they still rely on him, so he can’t give voice to the sound of his heart falling out of him. Cold. Dead.

“Ha, very funny, boys,” he says, trying to force his tone into something resembling his normal bemused toleration of their antics, and shoves Face off of him. It’s surprisingly easy. It’s not like all that heat, all that warmth, all the passion he knows lies just under the surface, is for him. “Very clever.”

“Wasn’t it?” Murdock’s all smiles.

“Got me real good,” he says, impressing himself with the way his voice isn’t trembling.

Face nods. “Yeah, I mean, cause we, like, know you’re straight and everything...”

“One-sided gay chicken. Right. You’re a fucking genius, kid.”

And the shit-eating grin falters a little. The two boys exchange a glance. “Wait, boss, we didn’t mean...”

“I’ve got a book I’m trying to finish up,” Hannibal says curtly. “And since you lost and didn’t get my goat, I’m going to call it a victory for me and go upstairs before anything else can happen. You didn’t booby-trap my bed or anything, did you, boys?”

Another look, and fuck them if they’re trying anything else on him tonight. “No,” Murdock finally says. “No, bossman, just the gay stuff.”

“Good, well, that’s settled,” he says, knowing he probably sounds to cheery now, and fuck, he needs to get out of this kitchen before he explodes or implodes or just disappears altogether. Everything’s churning. He wants to break down. He wants to break the kid’s nose. He wants to throw up. He wants to grab him and kiss him senseless and make him see fucking reason. He wants to do a dozen things, a hundred, that he just can’t. “See you both in the morning.”

“Okay, Hannibal, ‘night...” Face says vaguely, and they’re holding hands again.

He flees as quickly as he possibly can. Given the situation. And those two little bastards leaning against each other on the marble countertops.

The colonel makes it as far as the door, and just barely manages to get it closed behind him, before the tears come.

And won’t stop.

Hannibal’s not sure how long he’s there, weeping for the loss of something he was never truly being offered in the first place, weeping until his sinuses ache and he can’t hardly open hs eyes, when he hears the conversation coming up the stairs, pausing a little ways down the hall

“... I tol’ you it was a mean thing to do...”

“...oh, come on, Murdock, how the fuck was I supposed to know...“

“...bossman ha'n’t gotten laid in months, Face...”

“... he’s not into guys...”

“...he was upset...”

“...yeah, I saw that but it doesn’t make any goddamn sense...”

“...what if he is into guys? What if...”

“...James, baby, we’ve talked about this...”

“...you want him too, so don’t give me that bullshit, Face...”

"...it's not bullshit, Murdock, I've been dealing with this for fucking ever, believe me, it's how it works with him..."

"...like your joke went all right, huh..."

"...you agreed to it, don't you dare lay it all on me..."

"...fuck you, Face..."

A door slams and Hannibal lets the back of his head hit his own. He lets out a long breath, not even realizing he was holding it, and bangs his head back again. Fuck, the boys already had their little joke. Why bother to keep it going? How fucking stupid did they think he was? Like he was going to fall for it a second time or something? Just because it’s still April first? They’re going to just squeeze all the blood from this stone, are they?

...we’ve talked about this...you want him too...

And then his blood freezes. Do they know? Do they know how he feels, how he wants to feel, how he once felt? Are they playing off that?

Would they go that far, just for a joke?

“Fuck them,” he tells himself, and somehow gets off the floor, stumbling over to bed. “Fuck them.”

But he can’t sleep, not for a long time, and it doesn’t exactly escape his notice that they don’t have sex that night.

Not like he cares.

Not like he’s ever going to care again.

Hannibal can promise himself that.

+++++

He doesn’t want to get out of bed the next morning. Not at all. But he’s an early riser, old Army habits and all that, and Hannibal needs a cigar. Bad.

He moves through the quiet house with as little noise as possible, noting the lack of things. The lack of sound. The lack of smell, no coffee or breakfast or anything right now. Huh. The boys must be sleeping in, he figures, celebrating their victory from last night.

Motherfucker, he groans to himself, remembering how it felt, Face holding him like that, so close to what he, to what he used to want.

No more, though.

That little moment's ruined it forever.

He scrambles for a packet of matches in the silent, dark kitchen and pushes the glass slider open, going outside. He really can’t be in here right now.

The butt of his cargos on cold concrete, bare feet in the wet grass just off the patio, Hannibal bites the end off a cigar, spitting it over his knee and away. He strikes a match and cups his hands, making to light the thing, but he can still hear them in his mind.

...what if he is in to guys? What then...

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid of him. All those years in the military, nobody after Russ, unable to say anything, unable to be who he is, the years ticking by, each lonelier than the last...and Hannibal, still raw from last night, feels that stinging in his eyes, the precursor to tears. All the quick, anonymous fucks he’s had since then. Never able to be with anyone. Never able to have anything for himself.

And now, now the one thing he’s wanted more than anything, is gone. A joke. A fucking joke. That's all he's ever had. Not hope, never hope. Just the universe, playing some cosmic game, one he's just utterly and irrevokably lost.

“Hey boss,” he hears behind him, and only barely manages to hold back the groan.

The match is dead in his hands, so he flicks it away and lights another one, puffing the cigar awake as Face, unbidden and definitely unwelcome, settles down next to him. A little too close, and what’s that about? Joke’s over.

Hannibal looks the younger man up and down. “You look like shit, kid,” he finally says, and Face does, he really does. His normally perfectly-mussed hair is just a rat’s nest this morning, still in the same clothes from yesterday, albeit far more wrinkled. He’s got bags under his eyes, like he didn’t get much sleep, and the colonel really doesn’t want to ask. He doesn’t want to know. Fuck him if he thinks there’s going to be concern after...

“Slept on the couch last night,” the kid admits, nodding a little to himself for some damn reason Hannibal doesn’t care about. “Murdock was kind of pissed at me...”

He can do this. He can get through this. He has to. For the sake of the team. For the only thing he’s got with them. “Why, kid?”

“He, err, he thought we went a little too far with the whole April Fool’s Day thing this year,” Face says softly, and lays one of his hands on Hannibal’s knee. “I’m sorry, boss.”

“For what?” he asks blandly, focusing on his cigar and not on that hand. What’s the kid playing at here? They already made it pretty damn clear they don’t give a shit. He’s touchy, though, Face is. Always so touchy...

“For... for... I guess, insinuating that you’re gay or something,” Face laughs weakly. “It really wasn’t cool of us, I mean, it’s not something you should just go around assuming about people, and you seemed pretty pissed about it, so...”

“Wasn’t pissed, kid. Irritated, maybe, but I wasn’t pissed,” Hannibal manages to say around the end of his cuban.

“Oh, okay. Good. Because Murdock was kind of worried.”

“You boys got in a fight over a joke and then you slept on the couch because Murdock was worried you’d hurt my feelings?” Hannibal asks sharply, remembering that look the pilot had in his eyes last night, like he wasn’t quite certain... but no. He’s not going to think about this. There’s nothing here. Never was. Never will be. “Jesus, kid. You two couldn’t get more...”

“Look,” the younger man says, hopping up, hurt sounding in his voice, and where the hell did he get off thinking he had a right to that? “Look, I know we’re... whatever, boss, but come on, you don’t have to start making generalizations and stereotyping and...”

Oh, fuck that. He was going to say immature, something like that. But if Face was going to start throwing his own gayness around as some kind of shield against what they’d done...just fuck that.

“I’m not the one who decided to turn my sexuality into a goddamn prank, kid, so don’t you dare put that on me.”

But the kid’s on a roll. Pissed or upset, Hannibal can’t really tell, and he doesn’t exactly care to try right now. He can still see the flailing hands though, out of the corner of his eye. “It’s not easy, Hannibal, fuck! I’ve been dealing with this since I was sixteen, and the Army wasn’t exactly friendly to, to, this, and I couldn’t hurt... couldn’t hurt Murdock by getting involved with and now we’re out, now we can be together, and you’re going to sit here and accuse me of...”

“Stop the bitching, kid,” Hannibal growls, biting down on the cigar just in time, Face’s words echoing his own thoughts from earlier, and fuck, what he wouldn’t give to be able to put voice to it like that, so easily. So freely.

“I’m just saying...”

“And I’m just saying that I’m not the one out here having a hissy fit over my lover spurning me for the night,” he mutters, stomach clenching again at the thought of those two, together, kissing, loving each other, right on the other side of his wall. It’s so stupid; if he was either of their positions, he’d had forgiven the other man. He’d be there. He’d understand. He wouldn’t get angry. He’d work it out. He'd whisper all the right words, make sure his lover was okay, that they were okay, that they'd never jeopardize what they had together.

But he's got nothing. So whatever's going on between the two of them, he can't repair. Doesn't want to, really.

No, no. Not at all. Let them deal with it, he tells himself, feeling hollow inside.

“You’re an asshole,” Face snaps. “I come out here to apologize...”

“For what, exactly, Face? For implying I’d be interested in either one of you? For the fact you almost kissed me? For calling me gay like it’s a fucking insult?”

“Hannibal...” and it's almost pleading.

Almost.

Not close enough.

“Face, if you’ve got problems over you and Murdock being together, take it up with a priest. I’m not here to baby you through your emotional issues. And I’m sure as hell not here for you to hang them on,” he sighs, and finally looks over at his lieutenant. “You hear what I’m saying to you?”

Face looks, well, Face looks crushed. His own damn fault, though. He’s the one who’s insulting himself. And if he’s really worried about the whole gay thing... fuck, Hannibal thinks. Only two days ago, he would have done anything to fix that. Kissed all those insecurities away. Showed him there’s nothing wrong with loving who you love. Given his boy everything, taken all that pain away to replace it with only good things, only ever good things for his sweet boy.

But now...

Now Face is standing up, fists balled, clenching a little, in and out, against his thighs. They stare at each other for a moment, and then the kid nods. “Yeah,” he says, voice thick. “Yeah, Hannibal, I hear what you’re saying.”

The colonel doesn’t even bother turning around, blowing a smoke ring into the cool morning air instead, as Face disappears back into the house.

And, well, if a tear falls down his cheek after that, it’s okay, because he’s alone.

There’s nobody at all around to see.

Hannibal doesn’t see either of them again for the rest of the morning.

Which is absolutely fine with him.

Absolutely fine.

Except the house is silent.

Errily silent.

And Hannibal actually has to resort to pulling up the iTunes playlist Face made for him a while back - soft jazz, classic rock and those weird Bach pieces, everything you like, boss - in order to calm himself down. Well, the music. And a big glass of sun tea from the fridge. And maybe half a sandwich. And a cigar. Yeah. That’ll do it. He doesn’t have to think about how empty everything is right now, how absent it all feels...

He digs into work.

Silence is usually a bad thing.

But work is good, the colonel knows, and absorbs into the processes that have become a comforting routine over the past year or so. Review the message boards, check emails, verify information, research issue... there’s a Chinese-American couple in San Francisco having trouble with a local gang, that one sounds interesting, and BA might get a chance to lecture some inner-city kids about responsibility and not acting like damn fools. Hannibal chuckles for the first time in almost thirty-six hours, just imaging the way the big guy’s going to...

“Hey bossman,” interrupts the soft voice, and the colonel’s insides clench up.

“What is it, Murdock?” he asks, not exactly icy, but not exactly friendly. No telling what his insane pilot’s take on this whole thing is.

“You okay, bossman?”

The colonel lets his eyes flick up

Murdock’s leaning over the counter, right on the other side, one of those ringer tees on, the Spanish Perdona Me just visible above where his chest is resting on his arms.

And back down. Murdock never does deal very well with tension in the house. That’s probably what this is. Although, really, he is the one who kicked Face out last night, so it is kind of his fault for how fucked up things are today... Hannibal shakes his head and goes back to his email.

“What difference does it make, Murdock?”

“Well, uhh, Hannibal... sir, I jus’ wanted to say...I mean, yesterday was...”

“What about yesterday?” Hannibal sighs.

“I, err, I mean Face, Face really wanted to see how’d you’d...”

He clicks up a few of the news links from the email. Basic stuff. Dumpster arson. Theft. Maybe it is just bored kids... “Murdock, are you here to tell it was all Face’s idea and I shouldn’t be mad at you because it’s not your fault?”

“Hannibal, c’mon, you know I didn’t... I mean, I don’t... didn’t know you was goin’ to be that upset about us...”

“Playing a gay prank on me? No, Murdock, I’m not mad at you.”

“You ain’t?” And his pilot’s voice is happy, surprised and happy and hopeful.

He’s really not in the mood with Murdock, either. Even with Murdock. He was there, playing right along, and if he thinks he can pull his cute and innocent act right now, he’s got something else coming. “I’m not mad. I’m disappointed.”

“Dis...d-disappointed, sir?”

He sounds crestfallen. Good. Those two need to grow up sooner or later. “Yes, Murdock, disappointed. You two know better. You know better.” He pulls up another news story. A knifing. Bad. A waitress almost died. Maybe potential for a secondary screening here. “Turning your own goddamn relationship into a prank? Not respecting what you two have together, clearly not respecting me? Yes, Murdock, that’s disappointing.”

“Boss...” Murdock pleads.

And although Hannibal’s only dimly aware of the captain’s slender hand reaching out for his, he notices it clearly when that hand hits his iced tea.

Spilling it everywhere.

The colonel yelps a little as ice cubes and cold liquid splash down into his lap off the edge of the granite countertop, soaking his jeans, and it’s by the barest of margins that he’s able to save his laptop from the loosed tea, jumping off his stool in the process.

“Goddammit, captain!”

“Oh, shit, boss, geeze, that wa’n’t suppos’d... here!”

Then Murdock’s right there, scrambling over, kitchen towel in hand, and it takes Hannibal a moment to realize what he’s doing, standing in front of him like that.

He’s got the kitchen towel right over his crotch, pressing hard, rubbing a little, stammering apologies about oh shit, sir, didn’t mean to do that and it’s gonna come out of the denim, right, because it’s denim and denim does that, and Hanniba’s too stunned to bat it away.

“Jeez, boss, let me get that...”

“Murdock...”

“No, you’re all wet ‘n’ it’s my fault, sir...”

“Murdock!”

But the pilot’s not stopping, getting into one of those obsessive-compulsive things like he does sometimes, and Hannibal always wants to grab him in these moments, hold him, kiss him, give him something strong and sure to focus on instead.

“No, no, boss, gotta get it out...”

His mind’s filled with the sudden, wonderful, unwanted image of Murdock like this, palming him through his jeans, lean body pressed again his, murmuring in his ear about how much he wants him, how much he loves him, how much he wants to see the colonel come, to feel it, Hannibal’s own hands grabbing hair and kissing the pilot, kissing him with everything he’s got...

Can’t have them, don’t want them, Hannibal tells himself sharply, wondering if this is the pilot continuing the joke. He knows, somehow, it isn’t, but if they really cared, they wouldn’t have done what they did.

Right?

He shoves Murdock away almost before he can stop himself. “Captain, stop it this moment!”

The normally fluid younger man’s caught totally off guard, or Hannibal used a little too much force, and he hits the floor. Hard. Wincing as he takes the brunt of his weight on a wrist and his ass, but those eyes are still awash in confusion.

“Hannibal, I, I wasn’t tryin’ anything, I swear...”

He looks down at the mess of his pants, at the pilot’s Converse sneakers, and realizes the pilot’s starting to sniffle. Which always, always affects him more than it should, and no less so now. The captain’s still his responsibility, still one of his men, still one of his boys, even if he isn’t, never will be, his boy, and Hannibal closes his eyes. This isn’t how he treats his boys. Not ever.

“Captain...”

“Sorry, sir.”

“It’s just iced tea, captain. It’ll,” and he tries to laugh, “it’ll come out.”

“Not sorry about the tea, sir. Sorry about the tea, too, but I meant...”

There’s a long, long pause, and Hannibal almost feels himself pulling his heart away, trying to hide the damn thing before it gets stabbed again.

“Murdock, look...”

“No, no, I get it, sir,” he sniffs, wiping his the tears shining right on the edge of long lashes and smiling a bit. “You... you’re not...and we don’t get’ta...”

“It’s okay, Murdock. It’s really okay.”

Hannibal holds out a hand, offering to help Murdock off the floor, but the captain shakes his head, shakes his wrist, and falls back, staring up at the ceilng, singing to himself in Russian. There’s a frownie face on his soft t-shirt.

Hannibal really doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what he should do, what he can do, if he should, but the tea’s beginning to get cold and clammy against his skin, and without another word, he heads up to his bedroom to change his pants, and then back down. Work a bust, he stretches out on the sofa in the living room with a fresh cigar, telling himself the quiet’s a boon to finishing up his latest book, falling into it until the light starts to fail and something kicks one of his outstretched feet.

“Why those two fools sittin’ on the kitchen floor?”

Hannibal sighs. Just fucking figures, doesn't it?

“It’s not even worth discussing, BA,” Hannibal sighs, and goes back to his book. Some damn Clive Cussler novel. But it’s not really helping any. Because if Dirk Pitt and Al Giordino aren’t fucking...

“What ain’t worth discussin’?” the big black man asks sharply, and jerks the book out of the colonel’s hands. “Why Face got Murdock cuddled up agains’ one of the cabinets?”

“BA...”

“What’d you two do to the fool while I was gone?”

He knows that tone BA’s using. That’s BA’s deadly serious tone. That’s the tone he uses when he’s threatening to put somebody down. It’s the voice that comes out when he finds one of the kids at that gym he runs using drugs. It’s the corporal’s no-shit tone, and the big guy’s like a pit bull when it comes to his friends...

...but he’s still the boss, goddammit. And he’s really not in the mood. “Give me the book back, corporal.”

BA’s eyes narrow. “And why ain’t you in there, tryin’ ta help?”

“BA. Book. Back. Now.”

“Fuck that. What’s wrong with Murdock?”

And BA, true to form, is completely ignoring him. Pit bull, and Hannibal shakes his head. One way or another... “the usual stupid fucking April Fools joke, BA. Nothing more complicated than that.”

“Didn’t they swap out all your uniforms one year for Navy shit?”

Oh, there was that. Hannibal remembers that one. He’d been so pissed off, but getting to walk into the Tuesday intel brief in a seaman’s blues, the look on Morrison’s face, had been almost... “yeah. So?”

“Or that time we, uhh, deactivated every humvee on post and Murdock was drivin’ a damn plane down...”

Yeah. That. Morrison had very nearly had Murdock thrown back in the hospital for that. It had cost him a massive number of favors, stopping that from happening, something Hannibal had been more than glad to do, even if it meant Face was the one who got the relieved kiss at the news... “yes, BA. I remember that.”

BA sits down, right next to him, book tossed gently away. “What could be worse than the time those two dressed up like Afghanis and nearly got...”

“BA! I know! Jesus, I know! I know every stupid thing those two have ever done on April First. Everything. Fuck...” he grumbles, and reaches over BA’s lap, grabbing for the book, long fingers barely catching it, and amazingly, the corporal doesn’t try to stop him.

“It ain’t like you don’t know it’s comin’, ‘s’my point,” the big guy says softly. “So what gives, boss? Why it so much worse this year?”

Hannibal thumbs at the pages of the book, feeling the slide of old paper against his skin, and fuck, it feels good. It really, really does. He wants to dive back in, forget about this conversation, about the conversations yesterday, Face trying to rub it in, Murdock trying to dodge out of all the damn guilt. “Just was,” he grunts.

“Boss...”

“That’s enough, Baracus!” the colonel snaps, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. “Leave it alone.”

“What they do, boss? You ain’t never been pissed off at them before,” and BA lays a hand on his commander’s leg. Something he never does. “What’d they do?”

Hannibal shakes his head, and puts the book down, considering flicking the corporal away, but it’ll involve more yelling. He’s really fucking sick of yelling. So, before he can really stop himself, he’s saying it. But he can’t look over at BA right now. Doesn’t want the other man to see. “They spent the whole fucking day coming on to me...”

“Like...”

“Coming on to me, Bosco, what the fuck do you think that means?” He huffs. “Face even fucking tried to kiss me.”

Next to him, he can hear BA sucking air.

“And then they didn’t stop there. No. They have to fake a goddamn conversation, right outside my door, about how they both want me, and today they’re both trying to fucking apologize...” and, heart too heavy to go any further, Hannibal just stops. “Both of them, like goddamn five year olds.”

BA’s perfectly decent about it. Doesn’t say a goddamn word. Just listens, like he always does. Gets up, pushing away, leaving...

And then, he just has to say...

“Fakin’, boss?”

Hannibal looks up, at where the big guy’s standing next to the couch, picking at something on the back cushion.

“What?”

“Why you think they was fakin’?”

He tries to laugh. “Bosco, I’m not a mind reader...”

“Don’t lie ‘bout it, boss.” BA’s quiet. Very, very quiet. But it seems loud. Given the topic. “Don’t bother me none. And I get it if you don’t want either of those two fools, but you should tell ‘em. Let ‘em know that, so they stop tellin’ me...”

“Telling you what, BA?”

The corporal looks uncomfortable. He’s even twitching, a little, but still. Twitching. Nervously. But he’s a perceptive one, BA is, and always has been. Quiet, sure, gruff, but he always seems to know what’s going on. With any of them. “Jus’... look, boss, before those two started hookin’ up...didn’t you ever, with Face? I mean, you two, I always thought you’d maybe...”

Hannibal has to close his eyes. All the little moments. The awkward encounters in the showers, that one mission where the entire team was freezing and he’d had to spoon the kid, every time he walked in on Face with a girl, with a guy, with more than one... “No. Never.”

“Why...”

He fingers his paperback again. It would be so easy to just pick it back up. Block all this back out again. “Does it really matter, BA?”

The big guy shakes his head. “Not ‘less you wanna say.”

“I’m not... I was, am, his commanding officer and I’m sixteen years older than him and he never seemed to, I never...”

“What about with Murdock? I mean, way you was lookin’ at him in the hospital”

“Doesn’t matter,” Hannibal says, and stands too, picking the book up and clapping BA on the shoulder. “Don’t now. And they seem to think it’s big fucking joke anyway, so...”

“Boss...”

“It’s okay, BA. It’s really okay,” Hannibal says, and tries to move past him, out of the living room, back up to his own, upstairs, where he can lock the door and just pretend like all of this is going to go away.

The corporal’s eyes are soft, but his arms are crossed. Pit bullish, Hannibal thinks to himself. “No it ain’t. Murdock still on the floor, man.”

“I can’t do anything about that,” he says, shrugging.

“Won’t.”

“Can’t.”

“You could tell ‘em, boss, you know, that’s you’re...”

And that, that little half-formed suggestion, is exactly what Hannibal wants to avoid. What he’s always wanted to avoid. Because what BA doesn’t seem to understand here is that Face and Murdock have each other. Each other. And they’re perfect for each other, they really are. Young and laughing, strong and ready and always, always so eager... no. He’s got no place in that. No place with them. No place in what they have, in that closed loop of theirs. Fuck, Face has even been talking about maybe making an honest man out of Murdock, even if it’s just symbolic, and... Hannibal feels his stomach tighten.

There’s no place for him with them. Things are just too far gone for him to reverse any of it now.

“No, BA, I really can’t,” he says, and, leaving his somewhat confused corporal behind, pushes upstairs and away.

About an hour or two later, maybe three, Hannibal’s not really sure, there’s a knock on his door he doesn’t answer.

“Boss?” Face calls through the wood. “Uhh, Murdock’s making that chili you like and cornbread and, uhh, we were wondering if...”

But he doesn’t answer that either. Not even for cornbread. It’s childish - he knows it’s childish - but the boys can fucking deal with it. And he has work to do. He brought his laptop up with him, after the iced tea incident, so at least he’s got that as an excuse. Back to emails. Back to that couple in San Francisco’s Chinatown, and he has the sudden urge to accep the job, if for no other reason than to hit the bars down in the gay district. Something hot and fast and anonymous...

Not like it’s going to help. Not with this. But fucking anything right now, something he can just pound through the damn bed, a pulse again his own, sounds really, really good. Whether it’s one of those damn boys or not.

Preferably not.

He can’t sort out what’s going on inside him right now, and trying to complicate it up with emotions, messy, sticky emotions, his feelings for two men who don’t reciprocate in kind, is just going to make the whole fucking mess that much worse. No, he needs something fast and hard and dirty. A back alley sound nice, right now now....

Another knock. “Look, Hannibal, I know you’re pissed at me, I know I piss you off a lot, but come on, man. Murdock’s going to be so upset if you don’t...”

Of course, his thinks bitterly. It’s about Murdock. Not him. Murdock. So he doesn’t even bother looking up from his keyboard as he yells back, “go away, Face. I’m busy!”

“It’s chili, boss!” Face replies. “Black bean and chorizo chili!”

Yeah. That’s his favorite. His absolute favorite. Especially when the cornbread’s at the bottom of the bowl and there’s big handful of that cojita cheese Murdock likes to use, right over the top. Still, though. “Busy!”

Hannibal holds his breath, wondering if the kid’s going to knock again, or pick the lock like he’s been known to do, or say something, actually apologize this time instead of half-assing it. Waiting for the slightest little hint that he cares. It’s not fair and he knows that. Still, though.

But then Hannibal can hear the footsteps, trailing away again, back downstairs, leaving him alone.

Alone and in peace, he tries to tell himself, and goes back to the inbox.

He’s already thrown out four potentials and opened up two others for closer inspection when there’s another knock, about half an hour later.

“Face, goddamit, I already said...”

“Hey, bossman,” and it’s a soft Texas drawl, Murdock, answering him now.

Hannibal sighs and shuts the laptop. He can’t work like this. He can’t. When are they going to just fucking stop? And he pinches the bridge of his nose as he answers. “Captain, I’m sure your chili’s fine, whether I’m eating it

“Know you don’t wanna come down, but you gotta be hungry and...don’t you want sumthin’ to eat?”

“Murdock, I’m in the middle of something right now!” he yells back.

There’s a pause, so long Hannibal thinks his crazy pilot might have scampered off again. But no. He’s still there. “But it’s your favorite, sir.”

Something about that, maybe the pleading tone, the little hint of loss, starts the sting up again, the one in his nose, the threat of...moisture... and Hannibal finds himself shaking his head against it. “I can’t come down right now, captain. I can’t...”

“It’s okay, boss,” Murdock says. “I understand...”

And then, he’s gone too.

Hannibal feels exhausted, drained, empty, even though he hasn’t done anything all day. Maybe if he starts over, looks at this fresh in the morning, gives himself the night to just sleep, forget the stress. It almost works, too, the former colonel losing himself in some old and familiar dream where those two boys come running in his room some bright, sunny morning, crashing down on his bed, Face behind and Murdock in front, hands roaming, lips seeking, little whispered love you, John, love you...

It's enough. For a dream, anyway.

+++++

But in the morning, it all comes crashing back down, the cold reality of his empty bed, the one that’s really too big for just one person yet barely long enough to accommodate his long body. Early. Well before any of the boys should be up, and Hannibal manages to drag himself out of the sheets and into something that’s not yesterday’s clothing, sour and wrinkled. Something that’s good for a run, actually, because a run’s exactly what he needs right now, the colonel thinks.

Until he opens the door and sees, almost stumbles over, the tray right outside in the hallway. The one with the separate bowl of cheese and now-congealed chili and the bigger, flatter one, with the big piece of cornbread right in the middle. A uncapped Corona, lime slice still in the neck, the fuzzy gold liquid long since flat.

None of it edible now, Hannibal thinks with not a little regret. He picks it up and carries it downstairs, back to the kitchen and the sink and the garbage disposal. It’s going to hurt the pilot, he knows, hurt him bad, no matter what the motivation, if he knows his cooking got left on the floor to spoil. He feels horrible. Hurting Murdock is one thing he’s not in the habit of doing. Something to be avoided, actually. At all costs, avoided.

“Finally found it?” Face asks, dropping into the same stool that Murdock spilt tea on yesterday. The lieutenant looks to be about in the same state as yesterday, too. A complete mess. And pissed.

He looks very, very pissed.

Admitting to Murdock that he’s sorry is one thing, but telling Face... “he should have told me he was leaving dinner,” Hannibal grunts, and upends the smaller bowls into the sink, turning on the water and the disposal and watching his shame slide down the drain. “I wouldn’t have left it out there.”

“He was trying to do something nice,” Face says accusatorily.

“Let me guess,” Hannibal snaps back, “it’s my fault you slept on the couch again last night? That terribly hard on you, Face? Not being able fuck Murdock for one night out of, oh, this entire month so far...”

“Fuck you. Sir,” Face says with every ounce of sarcasm he can muster. “Don’t know why I ever fucking tried with you, Hannibal, jesus, if you’re going to act like this about it, fucking rubbing it in...”

Hannibal’s not really listening. No. He’s trying to decipher something. Staring at the top of the cornbread, where part of the crust is a bit darker than the rest, like Murdock put butter, or honey... definitely honey, out of the honey’s squeeze bottle. A pattern, like maybe he drew a star or a stick figure or a smiley face like he does sometimes...

And it could be a smiley face. Or a heart, maybe, all rounded at the top and pointed at the bottom. Definitely, probably, maybe, a heart. On his cornbread.

He looks up to ask Face about it, about why Murdock would do that, unless... but his lieutenant’s already gone. Stormed off or something. Figures. He really is a fucking child sometimes.

There’s more chili in the fridge and an entire cake pan extra of cornbread, Murdock’s leftovers being in just as high demand as his cooking about here, and Hannibal looks at both in turn, wanting some, wondering if he should , if he could cut a piece of golden goodness out of the pan and put his own heart on it and take it up to Murdock in bed, apologize for missing dinner last night, ask if maybe, if just maybe he feels...

Then he shakes his head, chiding himself for even thinking such a thing. No reason to humiliate himself like that. No reason to stick his neck out, put his heart on his sleeve, any of that.

So, instead, Hannibal turns the water on the hapless piece of quick bread, stuck to the stoneware. No help for it now. There’s nothing else to be done.

Even if Murdock, yawning in his Lion King pajamas, does heat them both up a bowl in the microwave when he finally emerges from the room he normally shares with Face. Hannibal’s probably imagining the hand squeeze, as Murdock offers it over, the soft look in those sea-green eyes.

“Sorry, boss,” the pilot says quietly, and smiles a little. “It’s always better the next day anyway.”

Even if Hannibal nods back and Murdock breaks out into a dazzling smile, sitting down right next to him to busily slurp down his own.

Even if the pilot’s a little too close. If their thighs are touching. If Murdock tries to touch his leg.

All of it, none of it... it still doesn’t mean they want him, Hannibal knows. He knows this. He does.

“We’ve got a job offer in San Francisco,” he says thoughtfully around a spicy, delicious mouthful. “How’s that sound, captain? Nice, relaxing town with...”

“Whatcha sayin’, Hannibal?” the pilot asks softly, digging out a big piece of chorizo, balancing it on the tip of his spoon.

Hannibal wonders again about the cornbread and the honey. If that would be okay. If it could work. If... but no. He's not falling into that trap again. “I’m not saying anything, Murdock. Except that it would be nice to get out of the backwoods bullshit for a while.”

And Murdock, after a long, long moment, nods back.

+++++

The drive up the coast to San Francisco is almost unbearable the next day.

Hannibal’s stuck in the back with Murdock. Murdock, who has apparently decided he’s not speaking to Face, at all. Or something. Because Face is in the front passenger seat with BA, and Murdock’s in the back with him. Not trying to touch him today. Not trying to do anything. Just curled up with his crossword book, nothing being said.

By any of them.

And yeah, it’s pretty fucking unbearable.

A sign flashes off the 101, pointing to a gas station, and Murdock, amazingly and without windows and without looking up, announces he needs to take a piss. BA’s eye roll is almost audible, but off the road they go, up to the chaos of the parking lot. The pilot hops out. The rest of them stay.

For a moment.

“Face,” BA says brusquely, “need a snack, man.”

“What about the no-eating-in-your van rule, Bosco?”

“No you-and-Murdock eating. I need a snickers.”

“Get it yourself.”

But BA glares at him. Which usually ends arguments for all of them, and today’s not going to be an exception, Hannibal thinks. Until. “You can have one, too, man...”

“Fine,” Face huffs, and hops out, slamming the door behind him.

Hannibal’s just about to inquire as to what the fuck that’s all about, when BA makes it perfectly, perfectly clear.

“You tell ‘em or I’m tellin’ ‘em for ya.”

Oh. Right. Of course. And... no.

Hannibal makes a show of pulling out his phone to check emails. Good. Got another from that couple. Pre-screening tonight, a disguise and a fake meeting point, and he’ll be able to slip out and away from all this bullshit for a few hours, maybe even... but he can feel BA’s angry stare. It has to be answered. Nothing to make life miserable like a pissed-off NCO. So he has to look up. “Tell them what, corporal?”

A big, dark hand’s braced against the back of the passenger-side seat and those dark eyes have a n almost pleading look to them. “Tell ‘em you in love, Hannibal.”

He shakes his head and goes back to his phone, not really looking at it but needing to avoid that gaze. “BA, I... I’m not.”

“They was probably tryin’ to get you to say it.”

“I don’t love...” but that’s not convincing either of them, and Hannibal knows it. He sighs. “Look, BA, they’ve already got their own thing going on and I...”

“What?” the big guy says, cutting him off uncharacteristically. Which means he’s probably pissed. Which is confirmed by the way his fingers are biting down into the seat back. “You think you gonna fuck things up worse than they are now?”

“BA...”

“You hurtin’ Murdock right now, and that ain’t okay with me, man.” And then he straightens. “Tell ‘em or I will. Crazy white people...”

That last part’s grumbled, but it still gets a bit of a smile from Murdock as he forces the door open again. “Did I miss anything, gents?” he asks in that accent he probably pulled from too many Monty Python reruns, hands on his hips. “I believe we have apologized for our actions in Africa during the Boer War...”

“Too far, man, too fucking far...” BA groans a little, and the pilot grins wider at his own joke, that wonderful lopsided grin that, even now, pulls Hannibal’s attention, makes his stomach flip over, his heart skip a beat.

“Stop teasing the corporal, captain,” Hannibal chides, not serious at all, like he usually would, like there’s nothing wrong, wondering how in the hell they’re going to be able to get through this job if they’re all at each other’s throats.

That grin broadens, broadens to everything. “Yessir!”

And Murdock scrambles in at that, still grinning, tripping a little over the edge of the door, and Hannibal can’t stop himself from lunging forward to catch him. He ends up with a lapful of suddenly serious captain, sprawled out over the top of him on the floor of the van, so close, so wonderfully close...

“Sorry, sir,” Murdock murmurs, but doesn’t really move away. No, if anything, he crawls up a bit, his hands pressed close to the colonel’s biceps.

It’s awful, terrible, amazing, this contact, the way Murdock’s dark head is pressed against his belly. Almost, almost, as if they were, if they could... and Hannibal licks dry, dry lips, wondering if he’s been had. Wondering if Murdock’s really trying to say something. If he could say something back.

Or if this is just some kind of reaction. Murdock upset that he and Face aren’t really together right now. If he just wants comfort. If...

If it would really be so awful to give that to him.

“Son, I...”

But anything Hannibal might have said is lost, because right then Face saunters up, clearly visible through the open door. Over’s his lover’s shoulder, right into Hannibal’s line of sight.

To his credit, he doesn’t react. Or say anything. No. He just slides the back door shut and hops back in the front seat and hands BA a little bag, grabbing one himself in the process. Buckles his seat belt and doesn’t talk.

BA pulls out the biggest bar for himself. “You want one, fool?” he grunts, not looking back at all.

Murdock’s off Hannibal in a flash, throwing himself around for a candy bar, too. BA holds the bag out to him automatically as he throws the van into reverse and then into drive and heads back out on to the freeway.

“Hey,” Murdock protests, looking in the little bag as he settles back into the seat next to Hannibal. “You didn’t get Hannibal one, Face!”

“Hannibal doesn’t do candy, James...”

True, Hannibal realizes. And since when does Face know that about him, anyway? Probably just from years of skimming supplies. He probably knows what they all do and don’t like.

“Well, you could’a gotten him som’thing else, like, like, I don’t know...” Murdock says and frowns, looking at the yellow-wrapped candy bar in his own hand. “You want half of mine, bossman?”

It’s earnest. Really, really earnest, and Hannibal can still feel Murdock’s body on his own. Literally, truly, feel it. His nerves are still singing, and how pathetic is that? He looks away, going back to his cell phone, wondering just how long this is going to take tonight and if he’s still got time to go to that one place he likes, where he usually goes when they’ve got a San Francisco job and he’s sick of listening through the walls.

“Oh, okay,” Murdock says softly, and just pockets the thing. If Hannibal knows his sweet captain at all, which he likes to think he does, that candy bar isn't going to get eaten now. Ever.

Face tears open his own and leans into the door glass, forehead first.

“Crazy white people,” BA says again, to no one in particular, and on their way they go.

But Hannibal doesn’t realize how totally, utterly, completely screwed he is until they get to the safehouse Face has scammed up, until he’s got his own stuff in the master bedroom, until he’s staring aimlessly at the small suitcase that has all his disguise stuff, the prostetics and the fake beards and...

And it jumps up off the bed a bit at him.

He looks up.

“Hey boss,” the lieutenant says with a yawn, his own bag tossed against the headboard, a lazy, inscrutable expresison on that handsome face.

He blinks. “What the fuck are you doing, kid?”

“There are only three bedrooms, Hannibal, and I am not sleeping on the sofa again,” he says, as if this makes perfect sense, and shrugs. “And it’s your fault Murdock’s pissed at me right now, so don’t even think about bitching about it.”

Hannibal groans internally, but steels himself on the outside. He’s going to be gone most of tonight, all of tonight, if he can help it. Acts like it doesn’t affect him, like it won’t, having Face sleeping twelve inches away. Like he doesn’t care at all. “You sleep above the covers, kid. Don’t want you mistaking me for the captain or something in the middle of the night...”

“Like I would,” he snorts, and starts pulling out clothes, shaking out and hanging up.

Yeah, the colonel tells himself, going back to his own plans for tonight. This could be a very, very, very bad job.

+++++

One of the nicest things about San Francisco, Hannibal muses as the bartender pours him his second Jameson of the night, is how there’s something for everyone.

Gay bars in LA are decent, nice, perfectly serviceable. They are. And he’s got a few that he prefers to frequent. Not enough so the bouncers know who he is by sight, but just for that every once in a while when it’s just way too fucking much back at their house. But up here, where it’s one of those things that’s just a part of the fabric of the community, the bars tend to be a little more specific.

Like this one.

It’s quiet, which is nice. Jazz music, some nights of the week, which is also nice. They don’t have any ban on smoking, at least not one they enforce, which helps tremendously. Caters mostly to an older crowd, which makes it a bit of break from some of the meat markets he’d normally find in Los Angeles, like that place he knows Murdock and Face go to sometimes...

“This seat taken?”

He looks around as the whiskey appears, clinking in its glass with the ice that needs to melt down, just a little bit.

The kid, and he is a kid, this one, mid-twenties, one of those clothing combinations that says he’s trying a little too hard on a college student’s budget, is blonde. Blonde and soft and cute. Big blue eyes. Hands stuffed in his pockets, smiling just enough.

A mostly older crowd, anyway. A mostly older crowd that tends to like it younger. Like this.

Hannibal thinks about this for a moment. He always feels like a bit of a bastard when he comes here, but everything’s consensual, everybody’s carded, and he honestly would rather a boy this young come somewhere with him than someone else, because at least the colonel at least knows he’s going to make it good, not take advantage.

He ignores the voice in his head that tells him he already kind of is doing that. Taking advantage. Being here. Not just manning up and waking that damn brat of a lieutenant, probably asleep in his own space right now, not going down the hall and kissing his sweet captain on the cheek, telling them both he...

He ignores the voice in his head that tells him this kid looks like Face used to, back when he was still a fresh-faced thing straight out of ROTC.

He ignores the voice telling him to go home. Where he belongs.

The ice clinks again as he moves the glass to his lips. “Feel free,” he tells the younger man, who’s smiling a little more as he scoots into the bar stool next to him and starts asking him about his job. Coy. Very coy. And very, very cute.

It’s a game, Hannibal knows, one he’s no master at, not like Face is, but good enough for his own purposes, and smiles back, his disguise from earlier tucked into the briefcase at his feet. Thinking about how confused BA was earlier when he told the big guy he’d take a taxi back.

Not thinking about the ultimatum. That second you tell ‘em or I will he’d gotten on his way out the van door.

Not thinking about how nice it’d be to be able to say something.

Nope, not thinking about any of that. Just the cheerfully adequate young man next to him. And how good it’s going to feel.

The boy, it turns out, is from Portland, visiting friends, and Hannibal actually springs for a decent hotel room near by. Not thinking about Face at all, all the things he’d wanted to do to that beautiful boy in lieutenant’s fatigues who’d walked into his office almost fifteen years ago. He takes it slow, making sure it’s good, painless, sweet as it should be, pulling the young man in his arms up that steep slope right along with him, bringing him off at the same time, together, his head pressed to the arch of that smooth, slender neck, smelling the damp of another man’s sweat, holding him for a few moments more.

“That’s what I like about you older guys,” the kid says wistfully, sleepily, right before falling off into soft sheets. “Always such romantics...”

But when he tells the kid, whose name he never bothered to learn, “you deserve some romance, honey,” Hannibal’s not really sure who he’s talking to. The kid or himself or Face...

Not Face. He knows that. Not Face at all. Because Face is there when he gets back at nearly 0300, curled obediently up on one tight side of the king-sized mattress, on top of the duvet, wrapped in a quilt he found somewhere. Hannibal strips to his briefs and crawls under the covers, as far away from Face as he can get without rolling off the bed himself.

But he finds himself turning around on an elbow, despite himself. The edges on Face’s blanket are coming undone, Hannibal notices, and the kid’s naked underneath, buck-ass naked, everything just a touch away. So, so close. And so, so far. Still, he can’t have all that...exposed, and still be able to sleep, so he tugs up a free corner, back over the kid’s open, sprawled body.

“Boss?” comes the sleep-stained whisper. Hannibal, still a little cloudy from orgasm, realizes he’d left his hand on his lieutenant’s shoulder as it moves beneath his palm. Blue eyes meeting his in the darkness. “Everything okay? We waited up...”

Oh, right. The job. The reason he got away tonight. The Chinatown job. They’re going to take it. He’d already decided that the second he saw the fear in the woman’s eyes, the helpless little twitch in the husband’s hands. It’ll be a good job, a paying job, something worthwhile. The boys’ll love it.

He’d almost forgotten.

“Go back to sleep, Face,” he says.

The kid’s nose crinkles up. “You go out or something? You smell...”

“Met the clients in a bar,” he sighs, mentally kicking himself for not showering first. And that boy tonight had been wearing a cologne that was definitely distinct. Of course Face would pick up on that. Observant little conman that he is. But still. It’s not his place to ask something like that. Like they’re lovers and he’s got every right to know where Hannibal is, what he’s doing. Making it sound sad, like he’s worried...it almost pisses Hannibal off. Almost “Nothing’s wrong.”

“You sure?”

“Go back to sleep,” he says again, with as much finality as he can muster. “And wear some goddamn pants tomorrow night.”

And Hannibal rolls over on his side, ignoring any breathy little protests, his hand leaving his boy only with the greatest reluctance, and he lays there in the dark, waiting for the breathing next to him to slow and steady and deepen into sleep.

But it doesn’t come for Face, and it doesn’t come for him, and Hannibal’s still remembering the way that boy felt earlier, pushing back into him, long and deep, little cries, little whimpers, and his only consolation is that he didn’t use his real name.

So he doesn’t have to listen to his brain echo John, John please back to him in Face’s voice as the night wears away and the sun comes up and he finally takes that shower that washes it all away.

For the moment, anyway, he knows, watching the soapy water swirl down the drain.

Cause tonight, it’s going to have to be something with dark hair and sea green eyes.

Not like Murdock, though. No. Nothing to do with Murdock. At all.

He doesn’t want him anymore.

Not now.

Not ever again.